#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

[i-love-love]

And on the reverse, making it a valid and normal option for girls to never want kids means that if they end up deciding they DO want kids, they’re much more likely to be sure about that decision!

I grew up in the type of household where my brothers’ futures were talked about in terms of “if he has kids” and my sisters’ in terms of “when she has kids”. My mom started childbearing at 21 and didn’t stop until 33, at which point her previous two pregnancies had been near-deadly and her obstetrician banned her from further reproduction. When I was a teenager I grew horrified by every new thing I found out about the process of pregnancy, birth, and babyraising. This was furthered by watching my older sister have a few kids: there were a lot of loud noises and bodily fluids involved between pregnancy and age 5, and I was very solidly Not Interested. I went to a Baptist high school— I wasn’t a Christian, and didn’t believe in capital-G God (a classmate literally burst into tears and had to leave the room to collect herself when I told her this), so I was already something of an oddity to the community, but my revulsion towards one day becoming a Godly Fruit-Bearing Bride made it worse. Every single person who heard about my desires for childlessness felt the need to inform me that my mind would spontaneously change one day and I’d be absolutely desperate to tear my vagina open for an 8 pound, screaming, poop-covered worm. Contrary to their desired effect, this did nothing to infect me with a craving for babies.

Then, my freshman year of college, the third time I’d ever had sex in my life, my hyperfertile boyfriend accidentally managed to knock me up through not one, not two, but THREE simultaneous methods of contraception. He and I were not the type of kids teen pregnancy was “supposed to” happen to— it shouldn’t happen to any kids, but everyone who’d ever met us would’ve been floored at the news. We came from upstanding families! I had secretly obtained birth control pills from the health center! We were honors students! The kind of infinitesimal odds involved in this happening genuinely made me reconsider my stance on a higher power. At ages 17 and 18, we knew that our lives were Basically Over, but there was no way for me to get an abortion since it was a red state and I was still a minor. We didn’t feel right about giving the baby away if I’d gone to the trouble of carrying and birthing it, and so decided we’d keep it, face the disappointment of our parents, and ultimately make the best of things.

I got attached.

And I miscarried.

Gotta say, it’s a weird thing to happen to someone when she’s 17 years old. There was pretty much no good outcome. Despite my politics, I’d have felt guilty over an abortion; empty inside with an adoption; my life completely derailed with a baby in my arms; traumatized by the eventual end result. I’ve heard my fair share of “well, that was for the best, right?” which is a horrible thing to say to someone whose baby died. (She has a name; she’d be 4 this fall; I celebrate her would-be birthday every year and get shitface drunk on the anniversary of the loss— these things are not relevant to the story, but it’s important to me that these facts exist out in the world, that I’m not the only one who knows of her.) The quantity of grief I was feeling made me start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, some small part of me might actually want to have a child one day, when I was older, when I could be ready.

So I researched incessantly. I took child development classes. I took an internship volunteering with babies at a low income daycare to get hands-on, slobbery exposure. I became so fascinated by pregnancy and childbirth that I started taking coursework to become a midwife (a plan which got derailed by chemistry class and health issues kicking my ass, but which I intend to return to later in life!). I’ve been reading a huge spread of parenting books in my spare time for years. I volunteer with the Girl Scouts to practice being around children.

I happen to be someone who did change her mind about having kids— sometimes it does happen. In my case, if it hadn’t been for the exceptional circumstance, I probably never would’ve changed my mind and would’ve gotten my tubes tied as soon as I possibly could. But now I know, for absolute certain, that I want to go down this path. If I’d gone along with the expectations placed on me as a little girl unquestioned, I’d have been going into parenting almost blind— there’s a great chance I would’ve regretted it, and not only would I have suffered greatly from that, but so would the kids!

It is ONLY because I was so certain for so long that I didn’t want kids that I felt the need to really interrogate all parts of the process to determine whether it’s something that’ll be right for me. I can make an informed choice about the whole thing now, which isn’t possible if you don’t even know you can view kids as an optional situation.

stop telling your teenage daughters who say they don't want kids that they'll change their mind

[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.

[eoieopda]

the one with hoseok and the teapots

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Type: Drabble, Hurt/Comfort Word Count: 1K CW: AFAB!Reader, established relationship AU, implied miscarriage/pregnancy loss (not described). A/N: I received a special request from someone (who wishes to remain anonymous,) going through something heartbreaking. They asked me to write something to help them “cry it out” but find comfort, too. I hope this drabble can give them a piece of that. This is not something I have personal experience with, so please take that for what it’s worth.

Standing in the doorway, Hoseok can’t think of a single thing worse than the image before him.

You spent months whirling around this room like a hell-bent hurricane, oscillating through paint swatches at the speed of light. You’d settle on one shade just to think better of it seconds later. As you moved through your indecision, his t-shirt fluttered over your busy body. Flecks of mint green were covered with a corrective white — then delicate yellow — then white again — then soft, blue-toned grey.

Once you’d finally gotten the walls the way you wanted them, you went on to second-guess the angle on every single item you placed between them. You’d gently shift him around, too, keeping his input in mind and his body out of the way. Your partner became your independent contractor, compensated with giddy kisses in exchange for his consultation.

It started with the chair in the corner, first too exposed to direct sunlight — what if it hurts their eyes? — then too shadowed — Vitamin D is important, isn’t it? — then just right.

Next was the humidifier, shaped like a thick tear drop, that glows like the Northern Lights when it sprays cool — not hot, though, because that can be drying and it defeats the whole purpose, I think — mist from the corner near the closet. Not too high up on the floating shelves that its moisture traps itself in the ceiling, but just enough to escape the threat of spills.

Then you moved on to the rug, which ended up tucked at the edge beneath the dresser; itself stabilized by dutifully-placed brackets. He held the hammer and you held the nails next in line, kissing his sore thumb when he got distracted by your smile and missed his target. A few little bruises were worth your sigh of relief; and the reduced risk of tripping in the dark when your feet were more awake than your brain. 

In the present, you’re sitting on your knees on that rug. There’s no giggling, no singing to pass the time; just you, packing away sheets too small for any other bed, in a house too big for just the two of you.

Now, Hoseok realizes: he can’t think of any sadder scene because there isn’t one. 

It’s all too heavy on his shoulders to keep standing there, but he hasn’t been able to step foot inside that nursery for fifteen days. It feels offensive, even the idea of entering. Like it takes audacity he can’t muster to bring his grief over that threshold and exist with it inside those walls.

Those walls were painted with broad-stroked joy, he thinks, but where is that joy now?

Hoseok doesn’t know, but love is at his feet, struggling to smooth out wrinkles in a folded, fitted sheet.

He lowers quietly into the space behind you. One leg on either side of your weary frame, he leans forward to wrap his arms around your waist. Gentle, irrationally fearful that if he blinks too hard, the physical misery you only recently shook off — that kept you curled up on the living room couch for days — will seep back into your bones. 

You lean back against him, though, dropping elephant-print fabric into your lap so that your hands can cling to his forearms. It’s still quiet, but your fingers beg him to hold on tighter. He does. 

He will.

Hoseok will stay like this forever if that’s what you need. Career be damned, he’ll sit on this floor, holding you, until that suffocating fog eventually clears. And it will, he knows, somehow. Enough time will pass and some day, this room won’t be empty. All of that untapped, unconditional adoration will compound interest in the meantime, until there’s a new tenant to spend it on.

You’ve both been at an uncharacteristic loss for words lately. So, Hoseok does what comes naturally: he presses his lips to your temple and keeps them there. For a second, a minute, an hour, he isn’t sure —  until he hears your voice.

All cried out, your signature softness sounds like sandpaper.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You continue in a voice that’s a little bit louder, more than a little wobbly. “The logical part of my brain knows that this happens and that it’s not my fault. I do know that. I just — I feel so fucking sorry.”

There’s no apology needed where no blame exists. He’s glad you understand that, but wishes that there was any better way to describe this feeling. Anger doesn’t fit; there’s nowhere to direct it and no use for it, anyway.  Disappointment is too small. 

Hoseok isn’t sure what’s big enough, but he’s fucking sorry, too. He says as much, voice thick. He swallows hard and it hurts.

Sorry that he couldn’t be the one to go through it instead. Sorry for the guilt you still feel, even knowing that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong. Sorry that wanting something so badly couldn’t guarantee the outcome.

He kisses your temple again. Once, twice, three times.

There’s a crack when you say, “I wasn’t sold on the elephants, anyway.” Then a shaky, shallow breath as you tilt your head to look down at the sheets, “They look like teapots.”

Hoseok drops his chin onto your shoulder to see what you see: white blobs on rustic blue. There’s no way to know which end is the trunk and which is the tail — if the little points are either one of those things.

“Kind of,” he hums in agreement, “Ducks, if you squint.”

That little noise you make has nowhere near the power of your usual laugh, but it’s something.

More than something —  it’s the prettiest song he’s heard in recent memory. One that sounds like a step in the right direction; like dust shaken off a back that’s been knocked hard to the ground. Rusty, sure, but not beyond repair. 

Still good, still you.

It sounds like hope.

[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