#implied miscarriage cw

[quartergremlin]

who thought i was going to do a follow-up on the future timeline bc it wasn't me

[clonerightsagenda]

renegadeshroom said: i am imagining an old timey propaganda poster in central which reads “AMESTRIS needs YOU to FUCK your superior officer TODAY!” while roy is standing 2 meters away from it agonising over whether or not its appropriate to perform truly the tamest romantic gesture imaginable

Staffer: So under this same policy are we also encouraging maternity leave

Father: What. Why would we do that

Staffer: Human children aren't immediately self-sufficient

Father: WHAT

[dead-dove-orchid]

Ven’s little sister Kat!

[princetorn]

⋆  @enreality // cont.

To be dead was to drift somewhere between memory and the waking world.

It had been the sheer weight and presence Sandra’s heartache that roused him, that dredged him out of that sleepless, shapeless, soundless plane. Hers was a sorrow that clawed at the walls, that wailed across dimensions even as she stifled the sound of her sobs, muting her grief in the manner of one who wished she could deny or override or explain it away.

Royce had never been one to express himself through tears. To weep would have been to be dubbed a sissy, or to have invited the lick of his father’s belt. For boys like him, feelings were best bottled in glass, only examined in an abstract, stoic way – to not care was to be invincible, to be cool. But he did care, he always had, and he never failed to be moved by a woman’s suffering. Shrouded in melancholy as oppressive as Sandra’s was now, his mother had retreated to her bed, often leaving spots of blood in her wake, blooming on the bathroom floor like red carnations. From beneath her blanket she whispered domestic instructions in bleak, tear-ripe monotone. There was no need for his father to know it was his son who had polished the tiles clean, who set out the cutlery, who saw dinner on the table that night. Mothers and their sons were built to bear the burden of secrets.

Caged no longer, Royce tethered himself to Sandra, anchored in a way he found strangely comforting. She was what was familiar to him now, in this place far from home, far from the glass-walled mansion that had brought them together. He haunted her, gently.

Manifesting at the foot of her bed, he flickered in an out of paltry existence. His voice had that faraway quality, as if spoken from the bottom of a well – or from beneath the fresh-tilled soil of a half-filled grave. Sandra wasn’t okay, even if she said so, even if she pawed at her face, quick to wipe away tears.

“Sure will, toots.”

Mustering his strength, threading together the tenuous fibres of his essence, Royce made a concentrated effort to materialise more solidly before making his approach, sitting weightlessly on the edge of Sandra’s bed. Time meant little to him, but given that the night pressed its dark, jealous face to her window, he guessed that it was late. Whatever constellations hung in the sky could not compare to those stars that stippled the flood of darling blue eyes. A terrible thing, to be unspeakably beautiful while heartsore and despairing.

Slumber might help, but Sandra was coiled tight, a whale-eyed hare held in a hound’s jaws. Royce reached for her, stroking skeletal fingers through her hair, tracing the helix of her ear with bony tips, in a gesture intended to soothe.

“What’re ya workin’ on?”

Industrious, restless, clever creature. Sandra devoured the printed word, always expanding the borders of her mind, always learning, always chasing the next story. Her appetite had been what brought her under that strange collector’s roof – and brought them together. An uncanny tilt of his head allowed Royce to skim the piles of paper, to catch a glimpse of his own obituary. It gave him pause. If only for a moment, if only because he saw himself intact and whole and alive. A young man with everything to play for, both on and off the baseball field.

He wished he could give her that now. Warm, intact flesh. The promise of a future, of a life well-lived. A complexion flush with blood that remained on the inside. A body to love, a body that would age. Arms that could hold her and would never waver. Ruined though he was, a shade of what he had been, fondness still radiated from Sandra, her adoration undiluted. That was enough for him. It was enough that she could look at the horror of his road-wrecked face and not flinch. It was enough that she did not recoil from the corpse-cold touch of his fingers.

[lesservillain]

inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

When your 7th grade class is selected to participate in a prison pen pal program, you're unexpectedly thrust into the mix when the number of inmates is more than students in your class. After a bit of persuading, you take on a pen pal yourself. Little did you know that accepting that offer would change your life...for the better.

series cw: FLUFF, ANGST, SMUT. eddie and reader are implied to be around 28/29, implied drinking problem (reader), descriptions of domestic abuse towards reader, reader is divorced, reader was in an age gap relationship, talks of miscarriages and infertility, protected and unprotected sex, blood is mentioned at times. each year has it's own content warnings.

1994

1995

1996

1997 (coming soon...)

One Shots and Blurbs

Bear

[hanafubukki]

CW & TW: Blood, some gore, mentions of miscarriages I'm wondering... Since Lilia's 700 years old (which is pretty old in Fae years and for his supposed species), would he have complications getting someone pregnant? Also, I've been thinking about Y/N having complications getting pregnant due to easily becoming stressed and because of some medical conditions that had been inherited in Y/N's family. How do you think he would feel about that? But despite those things being against them, Y/N happens to become pregnant. HOWEVER, they would have to have a healer or a medic from STYX and from Briar Valley collaborating together, watching the pregnancy almost 24/7 just in case the creation is miscarried. But as luck would have it, before the creation is miscarried, the magic that is used to save the child ends up working. Because of this, the child ends up being a miracle child. Y/N is shocked to see that this has happened since their dream of becoming a parent had been dashed a long time ago; those times were filled with despair and agony, their body having rejected many a creation before this one. Yet through the technological advancements of medicine and fertility magic combined had brought about something that nobody could predict: a half-Fae, half-human child who was born healthy and without much complication. You don't have to reply if you don't want to since these themes can be hard to talk about, but if you do, then I think you'll be great at it! Besides, there's (in my opinion) nothing stopping them from being accepted regardless by the Diasomnia fam!

Hello Faye 💞🌷💚

If we follow some general fae lore 🤔 it’s harder for faes to get pregnant and, depending on the species, it’s rare to have children? Though, none of this is ever mentioned or implied in twst lore.

In some fae lore, that’s why having children with humans are easier because humans are more fertile. 👀 This is also not mentioned in twst lore but given that the only half fae and half human we know of right now is Sebek who has older siblings…it might be true?

But there isn’t anyone to compare to as of right now nor do we know enough about BV culture and fae lore. Absjsjshs I know I went off topic, but I was very curious lol.

I don’t think Lilia would have ever considered having children before meeting you. He’s already has Malleus and Silver. He helped train Sebek.

For him to want kids? Especially with you? I feel it would be something he would gradually want. a little piece of you and him. I think he would feel sad if he couldn’t have them with you but even more so, he feels for you. That he couldn’t give them to you. Whether it be a you or he health problem or combo.

Either way, you’ll always be loved and welcomed in Diasomnia family lives. You being you is what they have always adored. Not being able to have kids has anything to do with that at all.

If you do get pregnant despite all the odds, I won’t put it past Lilia to be by your side or one of the boys being near you always. Especially since it’s a high risk pregnancy.

I think with the combination of STYX, fae knowledge, and the history of Mrs. Zigvolt; was any of this possible.

This is your baby. Your miracle baby. Yours and Lilia’s.

Through the support of friends and family, your baby was born. Your precious baby.

The one love beyond any measure even before their birth. 💞🥹

[duvall-adjaniblog]

CW!! blood, implied miscarriage and implied suic1de

Anya mouth washing, im so sorry. (I think about how she miscarried the baby after death a lot.)

[apollodarling-writes]

What about Yandere Levi finding out reader is pregnant by someone else

yandere levi with a reader who’s pregnant by someone else hcs

cws : yandere themes, murder, noncon, kidnapping, confinement, humiliation, mind break implied, torture, miscarriage, slight gore, forcing the reader to commit murder, reader is put in the basement with the body and watches it rot, reader is knocked up by levi, dead dove: do not eat.

— yan! levi would be furious with both you and the man who knocked you up. he would be in a blind rage, demanding answers from you and once he gets a name, he’ll lock you in a room and leave to find the man who stole his love.

— yan! levi wouldn’t care if he was messy with it. he just wanted the bastard to suffer as much as he was in the moment.

��� yan! levi would knock the man out and drag him back to his cabin, chaining him in the cellar and putting a gag in his mouth. once the man wakes up, the torture would begin.

— yan! levi would spend weeks making this poor soul suffer, only giving him enough food and water to survive. by the time you see him, the man is a bag of bones.

— if you loved the man, yan! levi would take you in front of him, his thrusts harsh and calculated as the pad of his thumb circles your bundle of nerves. levi wouldn’t care how much you screamed and cried and begged for him to stop, he wouldn’t. even while he’s sobbing himself, he would fuck you until he’s satisfied.

— yan! levi would drag your spent and used body over to the man who impregnated you, gripping a knife in your hands and forcing you to drive the blade through his chest over and over and over.

— yan! levi would then drag you to the bathroom and harshly tell you to clean yourself up, watching your every move so you don’t inflict harm upon yourself.

— yan! levi would be a lot meaner and more strict after that. he’d drag you back to the basement and leave you there while the body decays.

— while you’re locked in the basement, yan! levi would occasionally bring you food and water, not thinking about the baby and more about punishing you. eventually, you’ll miscarry.

— yan! levi never really intended for you to miscarry but when he finds out, he can’t help but feel relief… and worry for your wellbeing.

— yan! levi would kidnap a doctor and force him to treat you. once your treatment is done, he’ll force you to kill him too, saying something about you cleaning up your mess.

— yan! levi would only bring you back up when he feels like you’ve learned your lesson. whether the lack of social interaction has driven you to near madness, or whether you truly promise to never leave him, you’ll be stuck in there until he’s satisfied with your state.

— yan! levi, once bringing you back up, would be more gentle with you, but wouldn’t trust you in the slightest. you’ll be with him at all times when he’s home, and if he’s out, you’ll have a chain attached to your ankle so you can reach the bathroom and the kitchen.

— yan! levi would still dote on you and give you the occasional affection, but he’s still very very hurt by your actions. he’ll be a bit short with you at times when he’s reminded of your “cheating” but he won’t put you back in the basement unless you really piss him off.

— yan! levi will eventually cave and try to knock you up himself. he’ll fill you up over and over, day and night, until you start showing signs of pregnancy.

— yan! levi is over the moon when you test positive, rubbing and kissing your tummy (after you left the doctors office) and will make sure you have all the nutrients you need. he’s softer, more lenient with you since he doesn’t want you to lose another baby… even if the first one was his fault.

[saphira-approves]

OKAY time for some meta thoughts

CW: I’m discussing death and, essentially, miscarriage-adjacent topics, but for baby dragons. Figured I’d add a warning about it.

So, dragon eggs, right? In the Vault of Souls, Eragon and Saphira are told that eggs that don’t hatch for a very long time come out “strange”; we’re not given more detail then that, so let’s lay out some options.

1. Strange—this could just mean they are weird in terms of personality. Saphira says she remembers when Galbatorix spoke to her in the shell; this implies that an unhatched dragon, though not growing, is somewhat aware of itself. Can you imagine spending the first hundreds of years of your existence in a tight, cramped egg? Not growing, not changing, not developing, and yet Alive, and Aware? How long would it take for you to believe there is nothing else? How much would it mess with your mind to finally hatch, and be faced with a world SO different from what you’ve known for centuries? Yeah, they’d probably be a little bit off.

2. Deformity—it’s possible that spending too long in the egg could also result in physical weirdness. It might screw with their bone density or wing size, making them unable to fly; it might make their scales too soft to protect them, or too heavy to easily move with; it might mess up their internal organs, make them unable to breathe fire, or delicate and susceptible to illness.

3. Magic—this one is kind of out there tbh, but I want to cover it. Spending too long in the egg, unable to physically interact with the world around them—well, the dragon inside may begin magically interacting with the world around them. They may reach out psychically, or enact their will on their surroundings; they may actually learn to control their magic, better even than an Eldunarí ever would, because an Eldunarí has a frame of reference that the unhatched dragon simply would not have, because it has nothing to compare to. And then, if these magically weird dragons do hatch, what is the result? Eventually, a fully-grown dragon with control over its own magical abilities, possibly capable of weaving spells beyond the capacity or even imagination of normal spellcasters. They might even be physically affected by this relationship to magic, almost elemental in nature instead of a living creature. (Side note, I have so many OC ideas right now.)

4. Inert—similar to the petrified dragon eggs in Game of Thrones, spending too long in the egg may just… snuff them out. It may petrify them, turning them into gemstones the same hue as their shells, a la firestone in the Memoirs of Lady Trent series; or else their consciousness may simply fade away, leaving an empty shell within a shell.

Let’s explore this fourth and final idea, inspired by a post by @glbtrx. If a dragon in the shell psychically dies, somehow, leaving a body with no mind… well, hypothetically, if the body itself doesn’t die, you could just… stick another mind in there, right? An Eldunarí could essentially be reborn as a new dragon—or even a non-dragon, perhaps a dying Rider or other magician, could leave their body behind and claim a new, empty one? A powerful one?

Hm. I have many ideas now.

[ivymarquis]

AhhhHHHHHH my brain gave me a new idea this is cursed lmao it’s also sad so Imma put it under a cut. CW Character death (implied? 👀👀👀) + miscarriage

Today’s mood is sad as hell lmao

Price is wounded. Evac isn’t going to be able to get to him in time, and he’s separated from the rest of the 141 + anyone who would be able to help him. He is certain that he is about to die.

Even though it breaks all sorts of regulations, he calls his girlfriend. He knows he’s a bastard for doing this, he’s selfish and he’s going to traumatize her but he just wants to talk to her one last time.

His girlfriend is not having a good day. Been sick the last few weeks, goes to the doctor to see what’s going on. The lab results come back and she was pregnant but a drop in some of her hormone levels indicate that she is in the middle of miscarrying.

While trying to deal with the whirlwind of emotions of processing losing a child she didn’t even know she was having, and what the hell she’s going to tell John (does she even tell him?), she gets the phone call.

He’s apologetic and they’re both sobbing the entire time. He tells her there’s a ring for her in his sock drawer and he wants her to know he had it and was going to give it to her when he got back. He tells her about his proposal and how he was going go do it, and apologizes for the fact that he’s going to be leaving her all alone.

She panics and lies by omission. He’s bleeding to death hundreds of miles away. She tells him she’s pregnant (still technically true), that he’s not leaving her alone. That she loves him and it’s okay. She knows he did his best.

She stays on the line with him until he doesn’t answer anymore, and stays on the line still. She can’t bring herself to end the call.

And this is too fucking sad most likely there’d be a dues ex machina type shit where he survives by the skin of his teeth and then the fallout resulting from that because GOOD GOD this is heavy even for me lmfao

[satanic-saint]

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: M/M

Fandom: Homestuck

Relationship: Jake English/Dirk Strider

Characters: Dirk Strider, Jake English, Jade Harley, Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde, Roxy Lalonde, Calliope (Homestuck), Caliborn (Homestuck)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, toxic to healthy relationship, Miscarriage, Trans Dirk Strider, Gender Identity, Mental Health Issues, S##cide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Self-H#rm, Violence Pre-Relationship, Fluff, Sm#t, Shameless Sm#t, Healing, Recovery, Mental Institutions, Dissociation, OSDD, Dirk Strider has OSDD, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Fist Fights, Autism,More than half the homestuck characters are on the spectrum

Summary: Dirk and Jake go out for a walk around the island. Fisticuffs ensues.

Notes: These men are going through it!!! CW: Consensual fist, fighting, light description of bl##d and injury They're young men, let them brawl!!

[lya-dustin]

All is Bliss

Chapter 28

cw: attempted murder(possibly really just regular murder), depression, suicide, suicidal thoughts, Aegon’s post Rook’s Rest injuries, mentions of past sexual assault, implied ritual sacrifice, infanticide

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @darylandbethfanforever9 @watercolorskyy @ewanmitchellcrumbs @aemondx @sweethoneyblossom1

Gif by @barbieist

No one save for the maesters, the queen mother and the lord hand are allowed to see him.

Aemond is kept out of there because they doubt his loyalties, Aemma is too unwell, and there have been instances where a servant or two has tried to off him.

“In the case of King Aegon perishing from his injuries, what would be the course of action?” Wylde asks the question the rest fear asking in front of his mother.

“I will wed his widow, open talks with the rebels and share the regency with lords of their choosing as well as with the boy’s mother until he is of age.

Should the boy die with no issue or his mother suffer a miscarriage, the succession will be secured as I am next in line and unlike my brother, have no issue stopping me from impregnating my future wife.” His words are met with a scoff from his lady mother.

“I raised no son, I see, I raised a vulture.” She comments and he tries his best not to roll his eye at her.

She always took his side, when he bullied him, she’d allow it so long as it happened behind closed doors.

He loves his mother, but her love always felt conditional.

Like she might stop loving him if he ever rose against his brother.

“Men with such injuries often perish or take their own lives, your grace, it would not hurt to be prepared.” Tyland Lannister says in his defense. “Prince Aemond must be prepared to secure the succession without giving time for the rebels to install Queen Aemma.”

“Princess Aemma, she was never crowned as his consort.” His grandsire corrects, but refuses to speak more than that.

His reputation and ego suffered quite the blow when he was dismissed and his replacement won them the battle.

“Had she been crowned as it was her due, perhaps this would have been avoided. Most believe she rebelled because she was ignored and the king’s whore paraded about in her place.” Grand Maester adds, in defense of Aemma and perhaps because he was known to harbor sympathies with the Blacks.

He and Beesbury had been opposed to the usurpation, only Beesbury was not so important as to be kept alive.

“She rebelled because we killed my half-sister by crowning Aegon on top of the humiliations my beloved elder brother had already heaped on her.

Even if we could crown her, it would not fix anything. Her supporters know her claim is greater than all of ours combined.” Aemond shook his head.

“The babe killed your sister, your sister who is the reason you have no eye and had no justice from your father that night.” His mother reminds him.

It was her bastard son who did it, he’d like to correct.

Bastards she protected the way I now protect mine.

Now that he is to be a father, he came to understand why Rhaenyra said and did what she did.

Because he would do the same.

“The babe was covered in dragon scales, with no heart and filled with maggots. If I remember my history correctly, Tyanna of the Tower poisoned Maegor’s wives so all the babes would be born like that.

Prince Daemon claims it was the work of a witch, and I am inclined to believe him.” Aemond hates the turn this has taken, but he needs them to find who hired Alys to kill Rhaenyra.

He suspects his mother.

Her sudden closeness to the witch that called him the One-Eyed King once made him suspect her of Rhaenyra’s murder.

While he hated his sister, he loves Aemma and he would imprison his own mother to keep her and the babe from dying.

What is your mother to your own son, after all?

“Everyone knows Maegor was cursed for kinslaying.” Cole says in defense of the queen.

Knowing damn well the only two people here who could have hired the witch was her half-brother and the queen she now serves.

But Cole thinks mother a goddess like the Seven Who Are One, the Mother and the Maiden rolled up in one.

A woman who can never do wrong.

A woman who could never kill another even for a what she believes may have been an honorable reason.

“Lady Laena died the same way, the babe was malformed and described the same as its half-sister, the Triarchy boasted of having hired a shadowbinder from Asshai to kill her and weaken him.

As Lord of Harrenhal and head of House Strong, I would hand over our prime suspect to the Faith and prevent such misfortune falling upon King Aegon’s only heir.” Larys finally speaks up, hardly speaks unless it is of great importance or offer a sordid deal.

It shouldn’t surprise him, House Strong had been whittled down to Larys, his elder sisters, Ida and Ada, and the cause of their family’s extinction and the burning of their seat: Alys Rivers.

“No, you cannot. Alys merely miscarried the babe the night the king died. Prince Daemon still has many enemies, any of them could’ve done it.” His mother dismissed it as madness and sought to change the topic.

But she has never been subtle even when not backed into a corner, and now they have the confirmation they needed for it.

She hired Alys to kill Rhaenyra and make Aegon king.

Alicent the Pious loved her children more than the gods themselves, she would do anything to save them.

No one could fault her, she was a mother after all, her council especially, she was a mother after all and gave them the power they so desperately wanted.

But his mother was becoming a liability.

She may be the reason her cause had something to rally behind, but her job was done when Aegon was made king.

It won’t be long before they turn against her and use Alys to kill two birds with one stone.

The state her beloved son is in breaks her heart every time she sees him.

Aegon woke up towards the end of the second week and cursed foully when shown his new reality.

The left side of his body burnt beyond recognition, steel of his armor still in whatever skin is left on his arm, his ribs and hip broken and left leg injured beyond repair. It was a gruesome sight.

“Let me die, gods-damn it.” He shouts at the maesters and her who denies him that mercy.

It is clear what she must do.

Aegon cannot live like this, her golden son cannot be this for the rest of his life.

For days she ponders whether it is worth whatever is left of her soul.

She asks the Mother for guidance, for strength to turn away from this, but the Mother does not respond.

The Crone does, silently telling her it is the only way.

“What must I pay to save him?” she asks her witch one morning while they watch little Ellyn Waters pray for her father in the Sept.

“I think you already know the price, your grace.” The witch answers and gestured to the nearly three-year-old girl at the feet of the Mother.

Ellyn Eversweet, called like her famed namesake and for the sweet smiles that look so much like the ones Aegon used to have when he was her sweet little boy.

Silvery golden waves like her and blue eyes so innocent it feels like a knife to her ever-blackening heart.

Any mother would do the same if they had the opportunity, the queen begins to tell herself as she asks her lover and curse for a solution to her son’s problems.

“She is a child!” she whispered in outrage at her own thoughts.

“His child, he gave her life and now she must give her his. It is the only way to save him.” The witch said as she lit a candle at the foot of her patron goddess.

“Do you think I would not have given my life for mine and my brother when you ordered them killed?”

“There has to be another way.” The queen tells herself and rejects her solution.

When she sees the chambermaid suffocate him with a pillow, Alicent knows she has no choice but to kill the child to save hers.

“She’s only a bastard,” she tells herself when she carries the sleeping girl and places her beside her dying father.

Aemma is better than she has been in this past fortnight.

She comes alive as her mind replayed those moments when Aegon stopped thrashing under the pillow as she and Enola the Chambermaid held it over his face.

He was dying, the guards had been alerted by Alicent’s presence in the other room and for her safety, Aemma was told to run.

It had come too easy and before the guilt over her first murder set in her bones, Aemma takes advantage of this sudden spark that ignites the fire in her blood.

Aemond is utterly oblivious as to what spurred this on.

He could never know.

He must never know.

She cannot take out this feeling on an opponent, but there is another way. Aemond was always hard as oak after a spar or an execution.

She needs him badly, so bad she cannot wait until dawn for this.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asks but does nothing to stop her. He does not mind being woken up this way, enjoys it or so he’s told her after.

“I couldn’t sleep, wanted to go for a walk, but then I remembered we never got to finish what we started that afternoon, would the prince regent like to finish what he started?” she lies with a sultry voice and a cunny wet enough to sell the lie.

Aemma has not been intimate with him since the Cargyll twins killed themselves. It has been little more than a fortnight since that afternoon and so much had happened.

It had taken a week to leave Dragonstone under capable hands, keep Aegon stable enough to return home and have the dead dragons prepared for travel. Four days and three nights because the wind and current disagreed with them and nine days and nine nights to devise a plan and execute it.

Her courage had nearly failed her, until she saw a chambermaid hiding a knife with the same objective as her.

He raped Dyana, she whispered and the queen nodded in understanding.

There was no going back after that.

In the end, Enola the chambermaid, took her knife, slit her own throat open and the truth died with her.

“We did not.” He gives her a groggy smile before helping sit on his gloriously made face.

Between the pleasure and the thrill of her first and final kill, Aemma feels the clouds leave and the sun shine again.

It all comes crashing down the next morning.

“The king is awake.”

[plasma-studios]

princes in a pauper grave (ao3: x)

Two Princes, vying for the throne. There's always been a rivalry between them, really; Nightmare with his words and books, and Error with his sword. It should come to no surprise that they've committed to a fight to the death for the crown.

But they are not just Princes. They are brothers too.

OR: Prince!Nightmare and Prince!Error run away, rather than duel each other. Word count: 3.8k

cw/tw: major character death, minor character death, war as a plot device, implied revolution/coup, kingdom setting, mention of stillbirth

Inspired by My sworn enemy, brother mine by sircantus

“I don't want to die.” Nightmare couldn’t say anything after that. Error stared at him. He saw his reflection in his eyes. ----- Prince Error was conceived on an autumn night. It would be one of the colder autumns, with the winter chill beginning long before its season. Yet the news of a Prince-to be brought new warmth and life into the Palace grounds like its own spring. But he was born, and he was strange. Not so strange as to have mysteriously disappeared after birth or apparently passed on in a miscarriage, but strange enough that it was noticed.

He was born with strange, mismatched eyes, but not so strange that it was unheard of. His voice was strange, so nearly unintelligible, but not quite. He did not do well with touch. He was often hostile. 

For the mistake of his nature, he was named Error. But his name also served as a reminder that he could be corrected, that he was not a lost cause.

He was not what a good Prince should be. But he was the only Prince, and that was its own blessing for many Kingdoms and Empires had fallen to the simple issue of succession conflict. He was not a good Prince, but he was a decent one, and as the years went on he learnt to channel his aggression into combat.

He excelled at combat. He was better than the sons of Generals.

Then the Queen conceived again. This time it was a long labour, and soon they discovered why: the Queen had bourn twins. Or should’ve, for one of them was still-born. Just one twin remained, and he was named Nightmare for the agony that was his birth and the pain of the tragedy that it was.

This wouldn’t have been an issue had Nightmare not been simply exceptional. As he grew older, it grew apparent. He was— almost, everything a good Prince should be. The opposite of his older brother. He had weaknesses, yes: he couldn’t wield a sword for his life and a shield even less. But he was good with words. He was polite, possibly diplomatic in the right circumstance. He was observant, clever. He would be a good ruler. 

But he was not the eldest. Error was older than him by years, not even months, and for as long as he remained alive he would be the one to take the throne once he came of age. Nightmare could challenge him, but he would need to wait years to come of age too, and by then the Kingdom’s decision might well be made and set on Error.

Nightmare was not a fool. If he wanted to be King, he would need public approval too. He had half of it now: the crowds did speak of his wit, his intellect. But they also spoke of his brother’s fight, his strength. Some canary in the crowd sings. Or pleads. Or begs. There will be war soon, they whisper. War is coming. War is coming. 

Nightmare knew this, of course. He had watched his father sign the declaration through a crack in the door. It should be a bad thing. It would prioritize Error’s strengths. He knew it to be a bad thing. He could feel it from the sickening squeeze in his stomach and thickening saliva in his throat. He did not know why, however, he snuck out of his room and quietly tiptoed to Error’s. He did not know why he waited there. He did not know why he quietly whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

Silence. That he could understand.

But he did not understand why the door opened a crack, Error’s yellow pupil looking through the gap; “What do you want, Nightmare?” He had always been good with words. So why did they fail him this time? Error’s yellow pupil seemed luminous in the empty hallway. Then, quickly—

“Quiet.” And the door opened just enough for him to enter. Past him, Error’s eyes flickered back to the hallway. It was thankfully still empty, so the door closed without a sound.

Error’s room was dark. Nightmare’s vision took some time to adjust; he was used to the candlelight of which he wrote by at night or even the dim moonlight spilling through the window when his candles burnt out. There was no candle lit in Error’s room.

“What do you want?” The voice was harsh, but it was still a question. Nightmare didn’t know how to answer. What did he want? “There’s a war coming.” It slipped out like water through a crack. “Dad signed on it. It’s coming.” Error looked at his younger brother. There was a pause. “I know.”

Something stuck in Nightmare’s throat. “Oh.”

Then, quite strangely, Nightmare’s eyes moved off to the side. Away from Error. They landed on racks of daggers, stands for swords, armour—

Nightmare, suddenly, felt the threat of danger lodged in his throat blocking his voice from reaching his teeth. Error watched him, silent. “He talked to the Generals before. That’s why I know.” And he looked at him strangely, as if saying how do you know? and Nightmare could say nothing in his defense. Had he thought his dad’s decision to be on a whim? Surely not.

“Error.” “What, Nightmare?” Nightmare didn’t know what.

“I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Then he turned and stepped to the door. Quietly, “Don’t get caught.” The door opened. The I won’t stuck in Nightmare’s throat. Then he was gone. 

Error’s gaze was on that door for a long time. Then he looked away and went back to sleep. ----- Error was waiting. 

The knock came past midnight, and he had been awake waiting.

He got to the door and opened it. He hadn’t locked it tonight. His brother was on the other side. “Error,” He said softly. “Error.”

“Night.” Error did not beckon him in, but he might as well have.

That was the day the King died. Less than a month after the announcement of war. That would be the last night Error would be sleeping in the furnished rooms of the Palace, for without the King to lead them, the armies needed the next best thing. His son. 

Especially one as excellent in warfare as Error.

By the day after tomorrow, Nightmare would have no family left at home. But that night, Error held him, and those arms felt warmer than the hearth. ----- But it could not last. ----- Nightmare’s oldest memory was being held. Maybe it was memories, not memory. In all of them, in it , the haze of delayed realisation, of transition between dinners and luncheons, his head was buried in someone’s chest. Sometimes he would be crying, but not always. The day the Queen died, he had crawled into Error’s bed and wept. That was a long time ago. Long before Error was sent to the borders for the war. Even longer from before he snuck to Error’s room to tell him about the upcoming war. He had been, what? Four years old? Five? Error had been so much older. ----- The days before the King’s death, the brothers had taken to eating meals together. Error had a sweet tooth. Such a sweet tooth. Nightmare wanted to gag everytime he smelled Error’s sweetened, too-sugared tea. Error, in response, said Nightmare was a food masochist. Why insist on spices if you can’t handle them? Perhaps you should start bringing a goblet of milk to each meal.

It was a farce of familial conversation. But it still felt like family.

“I’m sure one of us will be dead by adulthood,” Error had remarked one day over lobster bisque. There was no lie in it. It was a possibility. The same garish, dry humour Error delighted in, his substitute for hostile remarks. Nightmare did not forget. ----- Nightmare filled the role of ruler well. He had not come of age yet, so he was ruling in everything but name. His politeness had indeed developed into diplomacy, though using it against his own advisors would’ve been unseemly if he hadn’t done it well. He was a good Regent, a good to be-ruler, a good Prince. He was incredibly favoured by public approval, and less than half of it was pity for his orphanhood.

It was quietly known that he would be the next King. It was mere days to his turning of age. 

In the years of his, much of the public forgot about his brother. When they spoke of the war, it was with hushed cursing and distressed worrying. Of if they would need to ration food soon, of if they needed to worry about their livelihoods. It was not about the Prince-turned-General. 

At least, not till Error returned with the war won. ----- Two Princes, both of age, with different claims to the throne. A rivalry long forgotten by the public thrown back into public debate and gossip. The older Prince, heir by birthright, yet strange. Undiplomatic, blunt; strange eyes, strange voice. A good warrior, though; but a King is not a warrior first.

Then the younger Prince. Younger by years, yet more intelligent. Clear voice, good face, and oh so good with words. A good ruler, too, as one could see from his unofficial reign. Yet he wasn’t the oldest, and the sword was his weakness. 

(And, some whispered, the older Prince did win the war. Wasn’t that proof of his ability?) After all, they were a weakened Kingdom recovering from war. There was always the chance of the neighbouring Kingdoms taking it as an opportunity and launching war once more. It was possible.

In such a scenario Error was most definitely the better choice. A King could be a warrior, but only a warrior could win wars.

But nonetheless it should’ve been Error crowned once he returned from the front lines. Shouldn’t it? He was older after all.

The Princes had different claims to the throne, but each could only have been made King upon the previous ruler’s decision. Claims equal in legitimacy, because the previous King never declared either one of them heir before his untimely death.

So, what did the rules dictate?

It was a primitive tradition, from primitive times so long ago. 

In the event there was no ruler to appoint the heir apparent, they would have to battle it out for the throne. True battle, with blood and weapons and everything that ever came of them.

And at this, how the people talked. It distracted them— focusing on the conflicts of the elite, and perhaps the heat of conflict would distract them from the coldness in their homes; winter was coming.

Both brothers were of age, and a date was set for the battle. ----- Error had forgotten Nightmare’s face, but it was so easy to remember when he saw him again. He hadn’t changed at all.

Error happened to see Nightmare on his second night back. Happened to meet in the hallways, eyes stuck to each other like moths to flame. As if nothing had changed and everything had in those years apart. Because really, hadn’t the change been when Error returned? Nightmare, because he was better with his words, spoke first.

“I don’t want to die.” Nightmare couldn’t say anything after that. Error looked at him. He saw his reflection in his eyes.

Error said nothing and turned to walk away. Nightmare did not follow him. ----- “I don’t want to die.”

Just because Error didn’t want the throne did not mean he wanted to die. Nobody wanted that. Nightmare certainly didn’t, so why handicap himself? Error was not a noble person. Nightmare would make a better King. Error knew it to be true.

But tradition had put a damper on Nightmare’s chances of survival and increased his. Nightmare would not make a good King if he was never crowned, and he could not be crowned if he was already dead.

Tradition, tradition. He silently thought it primitive, to have them fight to the death for a measly reward that should’ve been their birthright anyway. Was the crown worth the blood? The betrayal? There should have been no betrayal. They should’ve never been family. Nothing to betray but the shared blood in their veins that meant nothing now.

He did not want to kill Nightmare, but he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want the throne either.

He would much rather be— forgotten. Be left alone. Be left in peace. But he was born as a Prince.

Error knew if it came to it, he would have to kill Nightmare. ----- They did not continue sharing meals. Nor sharing company. ----- Nightmare began training two weeks before the day. Since the day he got back, Error never picked up a sword. ----- Error missed Nightmare more than he could say. No one else would indulge his dry humour. All the soldiers that got the humour (they were always the good soldiers) had died in the war. The homesickness that should’ve come for him during the war instead came to him now, in the form of lonely dinners. ----- Nightmare did not let Error in when he found him outside his door. The anger-grief-pain had long smoothed out at the edges, so he didn’t say anything. He merely waited. “Do you know how the King died?” Error spoke quietly. The words dug into Nightmare, searching for anything to hook on but they were nothing to him. He still said nothing. “He died of his allergies.” There was a hint of sardonicism in his words. “Nut allergy, if you would believe that.”

Nightmare looked at Error. Something in Error smoothed over. Something in Error broke. Something in Error shifted.

“Can I come in?” If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said his voice sounded hoarse.

Nightmare didn’t know how his dad died. Now that he thought about it, it was really strange. Why had none of his advisors mentioned it to him, if only as a reminder to be cautious? Even if he’d blocked out his father’s death, why would they have allowed it? “Go away.” The words came before he realised they were in his throat.

Error blinked. Then, he smiled slowly. A slow, sad smile. “Nightmare.” “Error,” He said dryly. 

Something in Error broke. Something in Error broke. Something in Error broke. “Night,” He said again. Pleadingly, almost. “Let's pretend? Till the sun rises?” “Why haven’t you been training?” The question slipped out before he could clack his teeth shut. “Are you that sure? That confident that you’ll kill me and win?”

Error looked at him strangely. “I don’t want to kill you, Nightmare,” He said honestly. “But you will.” It should’ve been an accusation. It was a truth.

“On the day, yes,” He said— softly? Quietly? Painfully? Regretfully? On the day. There would only ever be one day, and that was that. But it would come to pass soon. There was a terrible joy at that. Perhaps it was not joy at all. ----- Nightmare made mistakes in his training. So many mistakes. Approaching his death felt like a slow death in itself. He trained, still; as if preparing an act. As if preparing for the spectacle that that day would become.

He knew the people, in all their whispers and rumours, were growing unruly. Growing frustrated. 

He wondered if it was a coincidence the King died so soon after declaring war. He wondered how many of his advisors he could actually trust. He was not stupid. Undoubtedly the neighbouring kingdoms had a hand in stirring dissent in theirs. Was he really a good ruler? Or was he just a good pawn?

But, in his despondency, he found he could not muster the ability to care. ----- Error did not want to kill Nightmare.

But now, Error did not think he could kill Nightmare.

Not even as Nightmare snuck into his room, quiet but to Error far too loud to go unnoticed. And he has a knife in hand. 

“Hello, brother.”

The words stayed in the air for a long, long time. Nightmare did not flinch. He held the knife like it was a flower. 

“Error,” He said softly. Quietly. Painfully. “Error, I need to tell you something.”

“Well,” Error said slowly, as if gauging the risk. “Have you come to kill me?”

Nightmare dropped the knife. He stared at it as it fell. He stared at the knife against the floor before dragging his eyes back to his brother.

“No. I need to tell you something. I— It’s okay, if you kill me.” The words came far too easy, slipping through like breath. “I just don’t want to die in the duel. I don’t want to die being watched by, what? Tens? Hundreds? I want to die alone, or if I can’t, die with you.”

Error let out a breath.

“Nightmare."

“It’s the truth,” He retorted. “I want out of this. I want out. I don’t care anymore. This Kingdom is going down and I’m ready to jump ship and drown. Kill me and fake my suicide.”

Error’s fingers tightened into a half-fist, then he let out a soft chuckle. A painful chuckle. An angry chuckle.

“You’re an idiot. Everyone will suspect me. A knife? Why don’t we use the sword I used in the war? Might as well not waste their time,” he spat, the words escaping through clenched teeth. Childhood hostility returning; no, it had never really left. “Error, please.” 

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Error, kill me.”

"Fuck off.”

“Error—”

“For fucks sake, if you’re too scared to fight then run away!” Error hissed. A silence.

“What?” Nightmare was actually bewildered. Error was actually pissed. “For fucks sake, just go! Sure they’ll blame me, but what can they do? If you don’t want to fight, then leave!” Nightmare’s mouth was open. “I can do that?”

“Yes?!”

“But I wouldn’t know where to go. I don’t know anything beyond the walls of this Palace. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t know anyone. And—” His face stiffened. “There’s a coup coming.”

Error stiffened. “What?”

“There’s a coup coming and the King’ll be dead in less than a year anyway. I— I thought you knew.”

Suddenly they were back in Nightmare’s room years and years ago when he’d tried to warn Error of the war. 

Suddenly they were brothers again.

“Error.” His voice quivered like he was a child again. “What will we do?”

Error’s biting laughter (oh so bitter) cut through the air. “Either way, we’re fucked.”

“We could run away,” Nightmare murmured. “Or— abdicate?”

“We’ll be killed anyway. The people,” He paused. “ Our people, they are angry. I didn’t think there would be enough people high up to constitute a coup, but our people? They want revenge. If we abdicate the throne, there will always be eyes on us. We’ll still be a threat, just powerless. We’ll die the same way father did.”

Nightmare knew, then. Their father did not die of illness. He had been assassinated. It was a stupid thing. Obvious. Nut allergy that got him in the end? It was so— stupid. “So, Nightmare.” Error had a strange look in his eyes. “What do you want?” Nightmare thought, and thought.

He remembers, then. A long, long, long time ago, they had snuck bites out of their mother’s pastry. It had been a fun game then, seeing how much they could eat without her noticing. The night had ended in feverish heat and bitter medicine. 

They had almost died that night, the two of them. It was a bitter night. He had not wanted to remember it, but he remembered all the same now. The pastry had been made with nuts. Just like the birthright of a claim to the throne, they had inherited the deadly allergy from their father. There, his answer. “To be free,” He said, oh so softly. “Even if just for a time before they catch us.”

“Maybe they won’t catch us,” Error said carefully. “If we plan.” He was contradicting his own words from earlier. Yet he was so sure in it.

Nightmare guessed what he was thinking. Perhaps he was right, perhaps not. And yet, he did not care. ----- There would be no duel, because the Princes would go missing the night before.

They would not realise till the morning of. And the brothers would have been long gone. ----- There were stalls along the narrow, winding streets. Nightmare nearly tripped over his feet to make it to one that sold paintings; his gaze was fixed on one in particular, a painting of a yellow bird on a branch of the Hesperides Tree. The vendor noticed him and chuckled. “Can I help you?” Nightmare flinched and looked up. “Uh— um, no, it’s fine. I’m just— looking.” “Took a liking to that one?” He prompted. He was not that much older than Nightmare, really; perhaps the same age as Error, who was cautiously watching a few steps back. “It was one of my favourites to paint, you know. All that fancy imagery, you know?”

“Oh, you— painted this?” Nightmare blinked, surprised.

“Mhm! You can see my name in the corner,” He nudged in its direction. “But in case you can’t make out my handwriting, it says Ink. ”

“Ah, I see it. Fitting name.” Nightmare let out a small laugh. It was so small, yet it felt— real.

Error stepped in and started to pull him away from the stall.

“Ah, goodbye then, friend!” Even as they left, Error did not glance back at Ink. “People are looking, ” He whispered. Nightmare did not have to nod, they both knew it. They both noticed it. The lingering gazes, the whispers, the second glances; they know they were going to be recognised soon. That they didn’t have much time left.

They still had one stall left to patronize, though. They had barely brought any gold with them; just over enough to purchase a few pastries. ----- It’s a local dessert, made of nuts. ----- Nightmare realises he’s crying. 

Error holds him to his chest the way he did when they were kids. “Quickly now,” Error whispered, softly, as if he was holding a dead thing. Soon he would be.

What if he’s lying? What if he doesn’t eat it too ? It was the way Nightmare was taught, to suspect everyone and everything, his only family left most of all. 

He, however, found that he did not care. Let Error take the throne, then. He was aware, though. Both of them. The next King would die not too long after. The people wanted blood for the blood spilled. An exchange. A justice.

Tomorrow or in many tomorrows, the townsfolk would find two bodies under the bridge, already decaying. If they were lucky, they would be dragged out, or perhaps even carried, to their very own pauper’s grave.

Perhaps that artist, Ink, was it? Would be the one to bury them.

If they were not lucky, they wouldn’t be buried at all and perhaps found by the King’s Guard. But even when the Monarchy fell, even when revolution was brought to the Palace doorstep, there would be nothing that could be done to the two brothers. For they would be long dead.

[unhingedselfships]

YakKimi Kadokura-verse Masterlist Pt2

Undated (I can provide where they fit if asked, but its largely irrelevant in most cases)

Kadokura 'shoots' Kimi, for medical reasons aka arthritis sucks

Touching up the dye job

Kimi's bad parenting part one of many

Mio loves her Uncle Kenshi, and also knives

Mio coerces Kadokura into a zoo trip

Cherry Blossom Festival cuteness

Kimi talks about one of the worst nights of her life (cw:grief, discussion of reaction to death)

Kimi talks about a different terrible night in vaguer terms (cw:past CSA mention)

Kimi just really hates seafood

Why Kenshi wears turtlenecks

Kimi can't temperature regulate for shit

When the pain hits 10

Kimi is needy when sad

Not the first loss (cw:pregnancy loss/miscarriage)

Kimi has some food related trauma (cw:eating disorder mention)

Affair accusations are common, and unfounded

Kimi is stubborn and will use windows as entry points

Kadokura is not amused with the girls antics (NSFT/Smut)

Kenshi killed someone Kimi knows

Kimi's filter vanishes when sufficiently drunk

Kimi is pregnant and why yes her hair is more important than you

Kimi is pregnant again and yes, she is still more important

The kids see Kenshi all messy and Kichi has questions

Yayoi actually goes to bat not exactly for Kimi but kinda

Kimi is really a terrible parent

Kimi believes in soulmates

One should be careful when handling a fanatic

Dumbass got herself shot (cw: gun violence, blood, dissociation)

Kimi thinks of impossible things and gets sad

The marriage thing is complicated ok?

Kimi says something about Airi that was meant to be left unsaid

Kimi really likes how Kenshi looks in red

Kenshi has weird coping mechanisms and Kimi helps (cw: choking)

Kimi also has weird coping mechanisms and also knows other people (cw: choking)

Pigs will eat anything, be wary of pig farmers (cw: death)

Kimi has body issues and Kenshi can be sweet in his way

Kenshi really likes Kimi's body in his own odd way

Kimi is jealous and fussy

Kimi cannot hold her alcohol for shit

Phe hates Kadokura but she wants Kimi to be happy

Kimi forgets that she is into some rough shit and startles Kenshi (cw: implied consensual rough sex/kink)

Kimi gushes about Kenshi to a random party goer

Teenage Airi is an absolute shit, we love him for it

Kimi has a dirty mouth and dirtier thoughts (cw: explicit discussion of smut)

Kimi dreams about a wedding that she believed would never happen

This girl is absolutely smitten, its almost gross (NSFT/smut)

Kimi gets drunk and nippy

Making up stories about Kenshi's scars

Main timeline Kimi has a dream about Yakuza Kadokura and yeah (cw: kinks)

Kimi was dumb, got hurt, and tried to hide it

Kimi's only real form of exercise

Kenshi has a very vivid dream and wakes up needy (NSFT/Smut)

Kimi gets drugged and freaks out (cw: involuntary drug use)

Kenshi gets tired of Kimi being horny all the time

Kimi was planning that wedding for ages

She worked very hard on a dress she never thought she'd wear

AUs

Chibi-hime and Mommy-chan (Sagawa lives somehow AU)

Kimi maybe dies and its very sad

YakuKura-Verse, Kimi is autistic as hell

Daigo has a different answer to the affair rumors

YK- Kimi learns she has a kink

YK- Kimi learns she has another kink (NSFT/smut)

YK - In which Kimi was a virgin (NSFT/smut)

YK- Kimi goes fully unhinged in a jealous fit (cw: blood, death, dissociation)

YK - kimi is possessive and unhinged and yakuza!kadokura is ok with that Majimemegoro Exclusive!

YK - Kimi goes fully unhinged in a protective fit (cw: gun violence, death, blood)

YK - Kimi goes fully unhinged because she has just lost the plot (cw: gun violcence, gang violence)

YK - Kimi gets a new knife, and shows it off

MASTER LIST PT 1

[toxic-mothers-tourney]

Round 1: Match 14

Fleabag's Godmother (Fleabag) vs. Dorothy Walker (Jessica Jones)

Godmother

- The show repeatedly hammers in that she tries to wield control over everyone else in her life, forming relationships solely to feed her own ego. Literally the Worst - she belittles and humiliates her stepdaughter/goddaughter - she isolates her from her father, calls her self-centered/says she ruined dinner by having a miscarriage, treats her like servant, and implies that she will never be loved, all while acting all sweet and smiley. a really nasty presence in the show. also she acts very pleased on the anniversary of her new husband's late wife's death. in front of the husband and children. ugh

Dorothy Walker

CW: disordered eating - pushed her daughter into becoming a child actress, completely controlled her life and career, physically abused her including by forcing her to vomit cause she gained weight, and pimped her out daughter without her consent or prior knowledge to get her a fucking role in a big movie, like jesus. also adopted another recently orphaned teenager purely for publicity - nightmare of a stage mom, purely to get wealthy off her daughter's talent

mod notes: some characters on here I enjoy because they're fun or nuanced or complicated, but not these. I hate these bitches. NOW BITE EACH OTHER'S DICKS OFF

[myfairstarlight]

Chapter 4: An Issue

Length: 7k

CW: implied miscarriage

Summary:

Marriage has always been a vague concept to him — after all, he was merely twelve when his father died, and by the time he was old enough to even consider such a life, he could not remember how his parents behaved as a married couple, and his older brothers’ distaste for it did not help either. It was simply an idea, a new branch that extends from the family tree, connected but reaching for the outside. With Miss Thompson, the idea had no shape, nothing was planned. They would have eloped and then… she would be safe, and he would be free. He did not care that she loved another, she still chose him, and he had accepted that the marriage would have no love for him, but it would be comfortable… or dull… But then he can picture it so clearly, a future with Penelope.

A Lover's Quill

AO3 Link.

Rated: M

Length: 2k

Pairing: Colin Bridgerton x Penelope Featherington

Canon Divergence

Based on my own post here, s1 AU in which a love letter is written instead of a scandalous gossip column...

This will be a multi-chaptered fic, but this first chapter can be read as a standalone. The whole story is already planned out! I'm not sure I will post every chapter on tumblr yet, but I will update on ao3 frequently as long as my life allows it.

Summary:

Dear Colin Bridgerton, As I understand it, this must be a farewell. Penelope’s fingers shake as she wraps them around her quill. Her eyes slide towards the crumpled pieces of paper scattered at the foot of her desk, wondering if such unrequited fantasy is even worth her tortured ink. Or. A s1 AU in which instead of a Whistledown column, Penelope writes a letter to Colin the night before he and Marina plan to elope.

*additional notes on ao3.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

Dear Colin Bridgerton,

As I understand it, this must be a farewell.

Penelope’s fingers shake as she wraps them around her quill. Her eyes slide towards the crumpled pieces of paper scattered at the foot of her desk, wondering if such unrequited fantasy is even worth her tortured ink.

I wish I had the courage to tell you what I am on the brink of revealing to your face, so forgive my cowardness for hiding behind a quill instead. These past few weeks have been full of agonising feelings, and ones I had to fully come to terms with before I could share them with you.

She pauses as she hears commotions outside her door. Servants are running up and down the estate in their haste to gather Marina’s belongings.

I must apologise, for my meddling regarding your and Marina’s courtship. It was not my place to dictate what either of you should do or should feel, even in my misguided belief that I was helping. I do believe that if one is lucky enough to be in love, well, one should declare it as loudly and fervently as you have done, claiming Marina’s hand in front of her many suitors.

She has shared with me your plans to elope to Gretna Green, I hope you do not fault her for divulging your secret. That way, I can wish you all the luck and happiness.

Penelope takes a deep breath. She knows the next words to be the hardest to put into paper and her fingers start to shake once more.

I must, once more, beg your forgiveness for my cowardness as I cannot bring myself to say those words in front of you. I truly do wish for your happiness, and yet I know the words would get lost between my heart and my mouth because there is another truth I could never speak into existence, for I knew it to be a meaningless affair.

I love you, Colin. I have loved you for many years before either of us even debuted in society. Perhaps from the moment we met, it is quite embarrassing really.

Nothing would ever come out of it, I was aware. But you deserve to know, and perhaps I also needed to admit it, to put it into the world, so I may now move on and seriously consider my prospects when I had been fighting them all season. I hope I can find a match that ignites the fire that bursts within your heart with Marina. I hope I will be as lucky one day.

I bid you farewell, my dearest friend.

Yours Truly,

Penelope Featherington.

To her surprise, the tears she feels building up in her eyes do not fall as she carefully folds the paper and seals the letter. When the wax solidifies, Penelope drops a kiss over the butterfly design.

She thinks of the ironic accuracy of her family’s symbol. Just like her heart, a butterfly will not live long once it takes flight, but at least it is free.

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

Sneaking out to Bridgerton House is a familiar affair, Penelope is pretty sure Mrs Varley purposely looks away every time, a part of her cannot believe she truly is that invisible. The letter safely tucked in her bosom, she easily finds John, who looks at her with surprise and worry.

“Miss Featherington you should not—” he cuts himself off as Penelope thrusts the letter in his hand. “Ah. For Miss Eloise?”

“Mr Bridgerton,” Penelope corrects. “Colin, that is,” she clarifies, though John would know she barely ever speaks to Benedict outside of polite conversations and would have no reason to write to him. “Please make sure he receives it first thing in the morning. Is Eloise…?” She points towards the garden.

John nods, carefully putting the letter away. “Is everything alright, Miss?”

Penelope takes a deep breath. “You are aware of his plans, correct?”

“Indeed. I am to drive the carriage to the port.” A beat of silence. “For all that is worth, Miss, I do not think he is making a wise decision.”

She is not quite sure why, but servants have always felt comfortable gossiping in front of her, and even to her. Penelope will not complain, however.

“Well, it is not our place to say.”

“Is this letter not about that? Mr Bridgerton has always keenly listened to you.”

Penelope chuckles. “You flatter me, John. I do not think anyone has ever listened to me.”

But the Ton will gladly consume her every word, as long as it is put on paper. It would not have been worth losing Marina’s trust or breaking Colin’s heart, she thinks.

Although, a treacherous voice whispers in her mind, is it truly for the better, to keep silent? Though Colin believes himself in love, would it be enough to bear the burden of another man’s child? To feel the humiliation upon realising he was but a means to an end? And would Marina be able to live with herself? She has a good and kind heart, Penelope knows that to be true, but even the most beautiful souls can be pushed to cruel means when no other solution is within grasp.

Ultimately, Penelope thought, a couple of hours earlier when she decided against using her greatest weapon in Whistledown, this matter did not involve her. Marina is her cousin, Colin is her friend, but this issue only concerns them. Penelope has tried her best without breaking anyone’s trust, and she is at her limit. She cannot keep being the messenger.

And therefore, she has one more secret to divulge.

Curtseying in front of John — although she is aware she does not need to since he is a mere footman, she thinks it is still polite to do so — she ventures into the garden, to immediately find Eloise sitting at one of the swings. Their eyes meet, but Eloise does not move, nor does she scream at her to leave. So Penelope sits on the other swing.

“El.”

“Pen.”

The use of nicknames makes her smile.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“I’m sorry for not listening to you.”

A pause.

“However," Eloise huffs, "you were so wrong because you’re really pretty, Penelope, if only your mother did not have the most horrendous taste in gowns. Never speak of my best friend as such ever again!”

And just like that, they are friends again. Penelope could cry.

“There was another reason I did not wish to discuss Whistledown with you at the time,” she confesses. Eloise makes a questioning noise, a hand reaching for Penelope’s arm. Penelope squeezes it. “It is because I am Whistledown.”

There is a moment of silence as they stare at each other. For a moment, Penelope worries she won’t be believed. Who could imagine sharp and cunning Whistledown as the petite, two-stones-too-heavy Featherington girl? Eloise's grip has gone lax on her arm before suddenly the brunette girl brightens up.

“Of course!” she exclaims. “It makes so much sense! My best friend, the cleverest woman feared by the Ton!”

Penelope blinks, taken aback, before giggling at her friend’s pure excitement. “Eloise! You exaggerate.”

“Oh, you must tell me how you managed such a fit! And do I get the exclusive before anyone else now?”

Penelope smiles and nods enthusiastically, holding Eloise's hands preciously between hers.

If she must say goodbye to her love, at the very least she will always have Eloise and frankly, it is as good, if not better.

“But say, is it still true? Do you wish to marry even though you have such a gem within your hands?” Eloise asks, her voice gone soft. “You could be entirely independent, you do not need a man.”

Penelope lets out a forlorn sigh. “I still wish for it, although I very much doubt I ever will.”

꧁༺࿅ིཽ• –– •❈• –– •࿅ིཽ༻꧂

John has never been one to care for his employers’ affairs. When the other members of the staff start to gossip, he tends to turn his head and not listen, out of respect. This season has truly tested his limits, however, between Miss Bridgerton, now Duchess of Hastings, debuting, and Mr Bridgerton, the youngest — bar little Gregory — getting so unexpectedly engaged.

And of course, the now notorious Lady Whistledown who rose from the shadows seemingly out of nowhere, stirring up society for being such a bold and yet secretive woman. Gossip had become an inherent part of everyday life, more so than it already was. Whistledown held up a mirror in the Ton’s face to heighten the whispers, and so the Ton speaks even louder because they love to look at themselves.

All that to say, John cannot help but be curious. Miss Penelope’s letter feels heavy. Not literally, of course, but the metaphorical weight of it feels monumental. It is as if he failed to deliver it in time, the world would not be turning on its axis any longer. There was a quiet resignation on the young lady’s face, so far from the warmth she usually bears. In truth, when he heard that Miss Penelope had debuted early and that Mr Colin Bridgerton was courting someone, John, much like the rest of the staff, had assumed she was the one he was courting. There was obvious affection between them, of a sweet and innocent kind, rare in its beauty, and everyone believed they would follow the path Lady Bridgerton and her late husband followed, finding true love at a young age in each other. Alas, perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

And again, it does not concern John, he is merely the messenger — or the driver.

Even so, he decides he would rather not wait. He is aware most of the family is still awake, including the very Bridgerton he is in search of. He finds him brooding in the library, a likely place for him to be, fidgeting by the window.

“Sir,” John says, startling the young man who almost drops the book he was holding. “A missive, for you.”

“A missive?” Colin repeats, intrigued and wary.

“From Miss Penelope, sir,” John clarifies, giving him the letter. He sees the moment Colin's shoulders relax, and his eyes bear a spark of happiness at the sound of her name.

Ah. Foolish youth.

“Right. Thank you, John.”

John nods, bows, then takes his leave. It seems this social season, although coming to its end, will still be full of surprises.

And if it prevents him from waking at the breaks of dawn the next day, he will not be complaining.

(A mere hour later, he catches Colin sneaking out of the house and running across the square. John suspects a new scandal shall befall this family in the morning.)