#implied miscarriage cw

[quartergremlin]

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

[chinchillamajor]

It's Dandelion's first birthday!

And you're all invited!

------

(oop-- forgot the first Golbaby here hasn't been publicly revealed yet! My bad!!)

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So today, I lit a remembrance candle for IRL Dandelion's Nope Day, last year.

And then I sat back and was just... *so happy.*

I honestly never thought this would be a day I'd be celebrating.

Much less, doing it surrounded by the friends I've made through a spark of an idea like "See this fictional old man? I would like to see him pregnant, and here's how I think it would happen."

Thanks to @mushroomnoodles , @cottagedeer , @masculinemiracles , and all the other folks (and their respective Golbabies) I've met, thanks to this particular sandbox we've all been playing in, this past month or two.

I keep saying it, but that's only because it keeps being true: y'all have brought a candle-flame of joy to my life that I didn't have, this time last year. And I think that's just *cool.*

Thank you. All of y'all.

Now if you'll excuse me, this Star Simon's gonna go enjoy a slice of cake. :3

[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

[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

[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.

[hp-fearfest]

The spooky season may *technically* be over, but we here at HP Fear Fest HQ refuse to pass on to the other side just yet. We're like that super discounted, leftover bag of candy that got lost behind all the winter holiday decorations at the supermarket. Terrifying.

Find the 31 Days of Fear Fest Masterlist below the cut! Thank you and congratulations to everyone who created something for this year's challenge, you've ensured that we will be sleeping with the lights on for the foreseeable future...😱

If you created something for the fest and don't see it listed here, send us an ask or a message and let us know asap!

Until next year, you little gremlins! We'll be watching you 👀 -The HPFF Mods 👻

Daily: 

🎃 Day 1: Body Snatchers–Heart

👻 Replaced by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | T] 👻 it was the only way to save him by @cavendishbutterfly [Drarry | 50 | T] cw: mild body horror, open ending 👻 reverse psychology by @vivantesopales [Tomarry | 364 | G] 👻 [ART and Drabble] Heart by @xgardensinspace [Neville/Ron | 97 | T] cw: blood and gore

🎃 Day 2: They Never Suspected a Thing–Trapped

👻 He Did It by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | T]

🎃 Day 3: From the Deep–Buried

👻 Restoration by @chamomileteafuel [Drarry | 240 | M] cw: implied necromancy, character death, illness, gore, grief 👻 Drowning by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | M] cw: MCD

🎃 Day 4: The–Changeling Soul

👻 Hissing by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | T] 👻 outside over there by @chamomileteafuel [Drarry | 430 | M] cw: implied miscarriages 👻 rené by @vivantesopales [Tomarry | 392 | T] cw: blood

🎃 Day 5: Ghost Story–Haunt

👻 still life by @cavendishbutterfly [Drarry | 50 | T] cw: ghosts 👻 Hide and Seek by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | M] cw: MCD 👻 A Ghost's Funeral by @lumosatnight [Cedric/Fred, G, 1.1k]

🎃 Day 6: Cursed Artifact–Possession

👻 Tethered by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | T] cw: illness

🎃 Day 7: There’s Something in the Attic–Scream

👻 Inheritance by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | T] 👻 Bury the Sound by @vivantesopales [Tomarry | 303 | T] cw: distorted reality, self-imposed isolation

🎃 Day 9: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night–Cold

👻 Outage by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | T]

🎃 Day 10: The Shivers–Agony

👻 Orion’s Will by @phoebe-delia [Drarry | 353 | M] cw: mcd, illness, curse, grief, unhappy ending

🎃 Day 11: Don’t Look Behind You–Rot

👻 the new generation by @cavendishbutterfly [Drarry | 50 | T]

🎃 Day 14: A Seance–Silence

[ART] by @xgardensinspace [Ginny] cw: body modification, injury

🎃 Day 15: Cult Activity–Poison

👻 A Seaside Picnic by Slashaholic666 [Sirius/Severus | 1.7k | G]

🎃 Day 16: Disembodied Voices–Hidden

👻 The Manor by @kittycargo [Drarry | 1.2k | T]

🎃 Day 17: Blood Suckers–Hunt

👻 undone by @moonstruckwytch [Drarry | 100 | T] 👻 prey by @dracopetal [Gen | 799 | M] cw: blood and violence cw: dismemberment  👻 [ART] by @xgardensinspace [Ron/Neville] cw: blood and gore

🎃 Day 19: Dark Fairytale–Forest

👻 The Three Ravens by Sniper_Jade [NottPott | 9.4k | E] 👻 no stranger by @vivantesopales [Tomarry | 614 | M] cw: MCD, semi-graphic description of death by hanging 👻 [ART] Fairy Kings by @necromanticnoir [M] 👻 The Chase by slashaholic666 [Sirius/Severus | 1.8k | E] cw: rape/non-con

🎃 Day 20: B-Movie–Omen

👻 Deathly Design by slashaholic666 [Severus & Sirius pre-slash | 5k | T]

🎃 Day 22: Legend Has It–Harvest

👻 The Corpse Spouse by slashaholic666 [Lily/Severus, Sirius/Severus | 200 | G]

🎃 Day 23: Blood Magic–Family

👻 A Drop Will Do by slashaholic666 [Sirius/Severus | G | 986] cw: forced bonding

🎃 Day 24: Don’t Let It In–Nightmare

👻 Don't Let It In by brit_girl/@drarrysworlds [Gen | M | 8k] cw: torture, blood, posession

🎃 Day 25: Feed the Beast–Hunger

👻 Loveliest by @vivantesopales [Tomarry | 182 | M] cw: blood rituals

🎃 Day 28: Necromancy–Undead

👻 Bait by slashaholic666 [Severus/Sirius/Regulus | G | 516] cw: zombie 👻 Matter of by @vivantesopales [Tomarry | T | 100] 👻 Death and Undeath by @lumosatnight [Fred/George | 3.1k | E] cw: MCD, incest, sibling incest, necromancy, necrophilia, graphic description of corpses, human sacrifice, poison, kidnapping, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

🎃 Day 29: I Know What You Did–Curse

👻 as if i'll ever know how by @vivantesopales [Tomarry | T | 100] cw: unhealthy relationship, codependency, mind-kidnapping

🎃 Day 31: The Darkness Answers Back–Alone

👻 Strays of the Night by Belladonnalee [Albus Severus/James Sirius | 3.8k | M] cw: incest, sibling incest, mentions of blood 

🎃 Ongoing:

👻 In the Garden of Shadows by @alexandra-emerson tumblr ao3 [75.4 k | M] Prompt(s): Doppelganger–stranger Ship(s): Dramione Warnings: violence, dark themes, and sex Summary: When Draco was a boy, he tried to catch the sun. He lined a basket with small mirrors and praised his cleverness as he watched the light dancing in the trap he’d made. Then, the sun set, and the night stole his prize. He tried again and again, but never managed to hold the light for longer than a day. Sometimes he feared it was the same with him and Hermione. That it was just a matter of time before the sun set for them, leaving him in a world of shadows. That he'd be stuck weeding a field of endlessly growing dark thoughts until they finally overtook him. A story about running from the past, and what happens when it catches up…

👻 the echo of an axe by luminae [19.7 k | M] Prompt(s): Chapters correspond to the daily prompts Ship(s): Drarry Warnings: Dubcon, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death Summary: Draco gets attacked on his way home. He doesn't remember much, but it was scary and he desperately needs it to happen again.

🎃 Completed:

👻 you'll have to take the long way down by @theheadgirl tumblr ao3 [22,4k | T] Prompt(s): Chapters correspond to the daily prompts Ship(s): Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood, Percy Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Audrey Weasley/Percy Weasley, Audrey Weasley/Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood Warnings: self-harm, claustrophobia, murder, injury, blood, torture (check for more tags!) Summary: 31 days of fear, as experienced by Percy, Oliver, and Audrey. New prompts posted daily. Tags are for the whole work. Please be mindful of triggers. I tried to tag as much as I could but, fun fact, AO3 limits you to 75.

👻 Wormwood by @ghaniblue tumblr ao3 [13.6k | M] Prompt(s): Chapters correspond to the daily prompts Ship(s): Gen Warnings: psychological horror (check for more tags!) Summary: [...] and a great star fell from heaven, blazing like a torch, and it fell on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water. The name of the star is Wormwood. A third of the waters became wormwood, and many died from the water, because it was made bitter. (Rev 8:10–11) or, the life and death of Regulus Black.

[arosebyanyother-name]

Sometimes When I Get to Thinking pt 7

4643 words

This fic is mostly smut, so you’ve been warned. It also contains choking and restraints. I hope you enjoy! (+ sorry it took so long to write)

Also cw for a slightly implied miscarriage. Please take care of yourselves!

gif credit @godzillawillsaveus

You’re lying on the bed you and the doc share, your head comfortably resting on two downing pillows, and your wrists bound to the intricately carved bed head by your own stockings. The doc had tied you there an hour ago, right after you both finished dinner, in fact you were both in such a rush to get into bed that your dirty dishes and pot of food are left abandoned in your kitchen. Clean up can surely be left for later, you both think. There are much more pressing matters to be dealt with.

So, for the past hour the doc has been ‘playing’ with you. He enjoys being a tease, and likes to work on you slowly whenever he can stand it. You squirm, pulling your silky restraints tighter around your wrists as your back arches, as if against your own will. A debauched moan escapes your mouth, one of many, as the doc fucks you tantalisingly slowly with two fingers of his right hand, choking your neck with his left. Being choked is a feeling you very much enjoy, and he knows it. Amos intermittently releases your now tender neck from his grip, allowing you to catch your breath, and for your pooling blood to reach your brain once again. He chokes you until your ears ring, but never too hard, and never for too long. His medical training has made him the perfect breath play partner. Choking was not something he’d tried before he met you, but your enthusiasm for it makes him like it just as much as you do. His ability to give you orgasm after orgasm is more addictive to him than any drug in his possession.

So, he releases you neck once again, leaving you panting between moans. He holds eye contact with you constantly, surveying your reaction, ensuring you’re alright, that you can take what he’s giving you. He takes his role as love maker and pleasure giver just as seriously as he takes his role as doctor. His fingers curl up inside you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, your moans becoming louder.

“Please, fuck me Amos... fuck me with your cock!” you beg, still panting, and although your eyes are closed you can still feel the docs eyes on you. The way he watches you turns you on to no end. 

“Uh uh,” he denies you. “Not yet honey, not just yet,” he says as he pulls his fingers out of you, and inspects your egg-whitey wetness on them before he enters you again with three. 

“Oh god!” you cry out, your eyes flying open. His face is so close to yours, and he’s red and sweating. You let your eyes wander down his body, pulling at your restraints to try to get a clearer look at his unclothed cock. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, a loud sigh exiting your lips. He’s hard as a goddamn rock, and the precum escaping him tells you he’s more than ready for you. The restraint he must have to keep himself from fucking you senseless is absolutely unfathomable to you.  You want his cum... no, you need it.

“Careful, you’ll break the skin,” he comments, gesturing to your lip. You release your lip from your tooth’s grip just as he takes your neck back into his grip once again, squeezing good and hard. Your legs rise and wrap around his hips as he rocks his fingers in and out of you, entering you as deep as he can.

“God. I can feel your cervix,” he comments breathlessly. He’s concentrating hard, eyebrows furrowed, and although to some his words may sound oddly medical, you know how much it turns him on to enter you as deep as he can possibly go. He’s been edging his fingers higher and higher since he first entered you an hour ago. 

The pleasure is becoming too much for you. You’ve thought that same thought so many times during this lovemaking session, thought that ecstasy would finally take over your body, leaving you trembling and sopping wet, and your husband wholly unsatisfied. Sure, you can take multiple climaxes in a row like a champ, but you know how much Amos loves the feeling of your pulsing cunt squeezing around his cock after being teased by him for so long. You need him to cum inside of you, and you know that stimulation or no stimulation, if you cum whilst his cock is outside of you he’ll cum anyway. 

“Please Amos! God, doctor please! I need your cock! I need it! I need i-“ and before you can say another word his hand is removed from your neck, his juice drenched fingers are in his mouth, and he’s readying his cock to enter you. Teasing your clit first, he lets out a soft low grunt as precum spills onto your vulva. Not much, just a few drops, but it’s enough to wet your appetite. 

“Are you... you ready for me?” he asks, slightly apprehensively. Despite his facade of confidence, and despite your unyielding begging, he’s still slightly unsure of himself. He’s often like this, both in and out of the bedroom. You think it might be a symptom of his time serving as a doctor in the war. He has told you of his time there, vaguely, and often in abstractions, but you understand. More than once during the war he had to make decisions regarding his patients health that ended up killing them, not saving them. Of course you could see that he had never been at fault; he had done the best he could, he had followed his Hippocratic oath to the best of his ability, and between the shooting and the noise and the blood... well no man could have done any better than your husband, not matter his training, but he still blamed himself, and as a result second guessed himself still. He’s a stickler for consent. 

You nod in response to his question, giving him your last gesture of consent before he enters you, slow but firm, and intentional. He rests his forehead against yours, both of your eyes closing as you savour the feeling you’ve both been craving all day... and suddenly you hear a voice cry out, a mans, Johnny’s in fact.

“Don’t answer,” you find yourself whispering to the doc. It was certainly not an ethical request, but you truly feel that you’re more desperate for a fucking climax than any man could possibly be for medical attention. Johnny calls out for the doc once more.

“Goddammit!” the doc exclaims, opening his eyes again. “What?” he yells out to Johnny, awaiting his answer. The doc pulls out of you slowly, beginning to untie your wrists when he hears your disappointed sigh. 

“Someone’s been shot at the Gem, one of the whores!” Johnny replies.

“I won’t be long,” your husband whispers to you, running his ringers lovingly through your hair before he gets up from the bed and begins to dress. You rub your sore wrists as you sit up (it’s a feeling you somewhat enjoy), and the doc gets up. He begins to dress frantically, huffing in anger the way he usually does. You find it awful endearing.

“I’ll get dressed and meet you at the Gem in case you need a hand,” you tell him, fastening his shirt buttons. He tries his hardest to position his cock in a way that will hide his erection in his pants, and is mildly successful, however to you it’s still slightly obvious. As he takes his hat in hand you kiss him on the cheek. “Be safe,” you say. You know your husband always does his best to be safe,  I mean he knows how to mind his own goddamn fucking business, but your request to him serves as a little reminder of what’s waiting for him at home as he goes about his stressful and often dangerous business. He nods in reply, and thinks that tonight he will be extra careful... he knows what’s waiting for him.

“I’ll make this up to you,” he promises, furrowing his brows as he grabs his medical bag and heads out the door, leaving you alone in your house once again. This, you think, is an exemplary example of what it’s like to be a doctors wife, but somehow Amos always makes every moment you spend alone seem worth it. 

You can hear Johnny and the doc talking softly as they walk down the thoroughfare towards the Gem, and you begin to dress. You don your corset, then your dress, no bloomers or stockings. You want to give Amos easy access. You put on your boots, purposefully leaving the left untied, and fix your hair before grabbing your cane and a shawl. You head out of your house only to see Charlie waiting for you, leaned up against a tree across from your home.

“Did Amos put you up to this?” you ask him as you walk towards him. He takes your shawl from your hands, wrapping it around your shoulders snugly. 

“He ran into me, asked me to escort you over to the Gem,” Charlie replies. As always, he’s a complete gentleman, and takes your free arm in his as you begin to walk. Not having the most affectionate father figure growing up (to put it lightly), you imagine having a loving father might be something like your friendship with Charlie. He’s loyal to a fault, caring, protective. You love the man, and you hope he knows it. 

“Why don’t you come over for breakfast tomorrow Charlie? Or dinner? Or both!” you ask him with a smile. “You know our door is always open.”

“I might just do that (Y/N),” he tells you, smiling back. You reach the door to the Gem, and now in better lighting than in the dimly lit thoroughfare, Charlie’s eyes zero in on your neck. “I hesitate to ask... did someone hurt you? Did Doc Coc-“ Charlie begins to speak, but you stop him, talking over him.

“I’m going to confide something in you Charlie, as a friend, in the hope of putting your mind at ease,” you pause for a moment taking a deep breath, your eyes falling to your feet. “I enjoy when the doc chokes me. I-I know it may sound strange to you but in the throws of passionate lovemaking my body finds it very agreeable, and god only knows why I enjoy it, with all the men who have choked me out in my lifetime, without my consent. Now, you know the doc could never hurt me, he could never hurt anyone for gods sake,” you look up to your friend, your cheeks reddening when you see him looking to you with shock every so subtly written on his face. This is a conversation neither of you are particularly comfortable having with one another. “So please don’t worry yourself over me Charlie. Please don’t. Now, I’d better find the doc. He may need my help,” your take his  hands in yours, letting your cane hang off your left wrist. Lucky for you the lace on the end of the sleeves of your dress cover the marks on your wrists, for you’d hesitate even more to explain your proclivity for being bound, or how much you enjoy having all control and autonomy stripped from you. “Thank you for being my escort, and I hope I’ll see you tomorrow, even after my little confession,” you say with a shy smile and a nervous laugh. Charlie nods his head, an intense look of understanding on his face. He knows better than to pry any further, and he gives your hands a firm and affectionate squeeze before letting them go. 

“Goodnight (Y/N),” he says, gentlemanly as always, and tips his hat before leaving you in the doorway of the Gem, a building you’d spent more time in than you ever imagined you would.

Walking in now you make a bee line to the whores recreation room, past the bar. You pause once you get to the hallway, spotting your husband attending to one of the whores in the closest room to your right. She’s alive, thank god, and getting her wound closed by the doc. You love watching him work, and in a strange way his care and concentration turns you on, wetting your cunt all over again. As much as you want his concentration to continue, you can’t shake the thought of doing something slightly provocative, of catching his attention despite the chaos of the saloon. There’s a wooden bench where you’re standing, just as you had planned. It’s now time to enact your rather devious idea. You lift your left leg, letting your foot rest on it languidly, and lean your cane up against the wall. Reaching down you begin to move your flowing skirt from between your legs, lifting it up to give you better access to your boots, and revealing your unclothed cunt. Lucky for you there are no Johns in the hallway, otherwise god only knows how many men would have gotten a glimpse of your snatch, for free no less! You clear your throat, finally drawing the docs attention to you. He looks up over his glasses, then moves them up with the back of his left hand, needle in his right. He lets out a flustered cough, face turning red. This reaction may have been a remnant of his sickness from consumption, which thank the lord he was able to overcome, but you’re almost sure it isn’t. Your husband can’t take his eyes off of you, and he squirms in place a little, trying to make his painful and straining erection more comfortable no doubt.  Lucky for the two of you that the poor whore, Sara you’re almost sure her name is, is in too much pain to notice the doc has even stopped attending to her, let alone notice the bulge in his pants. You finally tie the laces of your boot and pull your skirt back down again, just in time for Al to come between the two of you. Amos clears his throat, turning his attention back to the injured whore. He takes a moment to compose himself before tying off his suturing thread.

“You come here to help the doc or are you just looking for new employment?” Al asks, taking no time to start shit stirring you. You take your leg down from the bench, getting your balance again with a little help from your cane. 

“The doc seems to be handling the situation well on his own, so I guess you’d better find me a few eager men to fuck,” you reply playfully. The doc, in his transparentness, can’t help but look to you when he hears you say the word ‘fuck’.

“I can think of someone,” Al comments, looking in on the doc. You hit Al’s arm, only half playfully.

“Watch it mister,” you warn. “So what happened to the guy who shot her?”

“You don’t want to know,” he tells you, looking over to the bloodstain on his hardwood floor. Your breath hitches slightly. Despite knowing the reality of Al, and this town, and all the goddamn wrongdoing people in it, murder sometimes still shocks you. You keep your eyes on the blood, almost captivated by its morbidity as you begin to speak again.

“Make sure you let Amos look at the man before you feed him to the pigs,” you say absentmindedly. You’re brought out of your stupor by Amos entering the hallway, medical bag in hand. “How is she?” you ask him, almost in a whisper. She’s lying down now, passed out.

“Just a flesh wound, she’ll survive,” he replies, his eyes never leaving yours. They beam with love and adoration for you.

“Good,” you say, breath hitching. In moments like this you truly believe that his gaze, and his gaze alone, could make you climax. The pulling in your stomach is becoming unbearable now. You’re barely able to stop yourself from touching yourself, right there for all the towns men to see.

Al begins to speak again, a slightly annoyed and teasing shit eating grin on his face at the sight of your obvious romanticism. 

“Would you two like to accompany me to my office?” his voice is sarcastically inviting.

“We can’t tonight Al. Another time-“ your husband begins to make excuses, which you thank god for, but Al is adamant. 

“Tonight. Now,” he states firmly. “I need to talk to the fucking both of you.”

So the two of you concede with a disappointed sigh, and Al makes his way up the stairs in front of you, the doc walking next to you, a supportive hand on your lower back. As you ascend the doc lets his hand stray lower and lower, earning an amused warning look from you. Once in Al’s office the three of you sit, but you can hardly sit still, and the doc is fidgeting a little too.

“Drink?” Al asks. “If anyone needs it it’s the two of you.” “Will you just get on with the goddamn business Al?” Amos demands, rocking in his seat, hands rubbing his knees. You place a hand on his thigh in an effort to placate him, but it only makes his cock twitch. 

“Jesus Christ! I’ve never seen you two so fucking antsy,” Al comments as he pours the drinks. As you both down your shots Johnny bursts into the room. 

“Tolliver’s just walked through the door Al. Looks mad as all hell,” he relays, urgency evident. 

“Alright then. Fucking stay here and wait for me, and don’t think of thieving. I know what’s in this room.”

You roll your eyes at Al’s tired fucking joke, and he walks out, closing the door behind him. Turning to your husband now, you see such urgency in his eyes. He’s bouncing his leg up and down, and eyeing you like an animal. You know what’s about to come, and you couldn’t be happier about it. You stand, and suddenly the doc is pushed up behind you. He bends you over Al’s desk, and begins to fiddle with his belt eagerly as you rush to pull up your skirt, letting the plumes of fabric gather around your waist.

“I’m ‘onna fuck you (Y/N), okay?” he asks, now with his bare cock readying itself at your entrance. You’re absolutely sopping, dripping, and he half thinks he may not be able to wait for your reply. 

Even through your daze of arousal it still amazes you how commanding and unsure he can sound in one breath. A walking paradox, your husband could sometimes be, and any man would find it evident how much you need to be fucked... nevertheless you reply.

“Amos, please. I need you! I need you! I need,” and he enters you, eliciting a relieved and pronounced moan from your lips. He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut as he begins to thrust. Neither of you are going to last long, but with the two of you fucking in Al’s office and all that’s probably for the best. The doc moves your hair to one side and leans over you, laying lustful kisses on the back on your neck, and you push your ass further back into him, trying to get him to penetrate you deeper. The doc takes the hint, and bottoms out inside of you. He hits your cervix and exhales deeply, pausing there for a moment, savouring the sensation. He loves to fill you. 

“God Amos! Don’t stop don’t fucking stop!” you yell, sounding almost angry in your desperation. Your husband hushes you and starts up again, giving your bare ass an affectionate tap. He holds onto your hips firmly as he fucks himself into you, good and fast. You know that people in the saloon must be able to hear your screams and moans, and you’re just hoping that with all the other sounds of debauchery coming from all the other rooms no one will be able to say for certain it was you and the doc making those noises. Amos begins to grunt breathlessly, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“Honey... honey, god! Fuck!” he exclaims, and you can feel from his rhythm that he’s just about ready to burst. “I’m ‘onna cum in you, I’m ‘onna cum so deep!”

“Oh god Amos!” you yell his name before you can even stop yourself. Your climax is approaching quickly now, and his thrust are becoming erratic. He’s losing control of himself, fucking you as hard as his body physically can after a long day. The way he fucks you is goddamn euphoric. So deep, so skilled, with such care for you. His stomach is pushed up against your back now as he tries desperately to stay upright whilst his climax plummets towards him.

“Gonna cum... gonna cum in you, gonna cum,” he whispers to you in that rough gravely voice of his that you find so arousing. He puts his arm underneath your right shoulder and grips onto it, his left hand grasping onto your waist, and within seconds he explodes into you, plumes of steaming potent cum entering your pulsing cunt. This sensation, coupled with your husbands irresistible moans, and his desperate moans of your name, sends you climaxing. You scream out, trying to grip onto anything you can, your hand landing on the docs hand on your shoulder. Your body shudders, every part of you shaking, and your walls clenching around your husbands cock, milking all of his cum from him. Your ears begin to ring and your sight darkens. For a moment you truly believe that coming this hard is going to make you pass out. He fills you, god he fills you so fucking good. The doc begins to kiss the back of your neck again, leaving little red marks where he bites and sucks on it. Between kisses he begins to speak again. “You like feeling my cum in you, don’t you?”

“I love it,” you reply breathlessly whilst he’s still speaking. “I goddamn love it, I love it. I love you.” 

Your body begins to relax now, and your legs turn to jelly. The doc slowly pulls out of you, standing up straight as he does, and you almost fall to the floor, but he catches you, lowering you down carefully onto your chair. When you turn to him, and sitting in his chair now, you notice that his glasses have fogged up. You’re both sweaty and red in the face, panting feverishly. The doc takes his glasses off, then points to your chest with an amused smile on his face. You look down, noticing that both your tits are now situated outside of your dress. You laugh lightly, looking to your husband in sweet euphoric adoration as you begin to tuck them back into the bust of your dress.

Suddenly Al walks back in, swinging the door to his office open. You jump, and fix yourself quickly, but you realise hiding your sinful deed is futile once you begin to look around the room. Al’s desk has been pushed back, and is crooked, and his whiskey bottle has toppled over and is rolling around on his desk (no whiskey spilt though, thank god). You look from the desk to Al, then to your husband. 

“Jesus Christ!” Al says in a sing song voice. He’s beyond amused.

“Shut the fuck up Al,” you say deadpan, your voice slightly horse. You clear your throat, and the doc tries to smooth your ‘just been fucked’ hair a little. Al begins to fix his desk up, moving it to its previous position. This is a grace he has decided to afford you (most others he would make fix the room up themselves), because despite your teasing and shit talking you are good friends, and he is friends with your husband also. He pours all three of you another shot, which you all drink, and within moments it’s back to business.

“You need to stop visiting my whores,” he tells you, and your mouth opens, shocked.

“Sorry?” you ask obstinately. 

“When the doc comes for his weekly visit stop fucking accompanying him. You’re filling their minds with stories of ancient societies run by fucking women and ideas to leave my fucking employ,” he explains further.

“I’m trying to enrich their lives Al. All they do is fuck and get high on dope! They know nothing of the outside world! I can’t see why it’s such a bad thing to educate them a little on arts and culture.”

“That’s my girl,” the doc chimes in, winking at you. 

“Oh so you agree with her doc? I’d remind you that without my whores you’d be out of a job.” “And have any of them left Al?” Amos points out. Besides Trixie none of them have, and her leaving  was a turn of events you had no part in. 

“With the girls living conditions to boot I would have thought my accompanying the doc would be a welcome change. Surely high spirited women fuck better Al... that has certainly been my experience. Until the end of goddamn time there will always be women willing to fuck for money. It’s called the oldest profession for a goddamn reason. They like me Al, and they like the stories I tell them! I’m not gonna stop accompanying my husband to his weekly visits, and that’s fucking that!” you end the argument.

“Staunch fucking cunt,” Al says under his breath, and the doc glares at him.

“You know I’m fucking right Al. You know I am,” you begin to tease him again, the mood lightening. Al thinks for a moment, before reluctantly conceding your point.

“Well no fucking tales of women leaving their pimps or the like, or I will murder you where you sleep,” he threatens, but you know his threats are hollow. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

“You’re a sore looser Al,” you say and stand with a grunt. You look down, and see a small puddle of fluids forming between your legs. “I think I just leaked cum on your floor Al,” you tell him, and your husband stands also, passing you your cane.

“You’re not the first,” Al replies, leading the both of you to the door. 

“What did Tolliver want to see you about anyway?” the doc asks Al, and you both pass him by. 

“That, doc, is not a story that should grace a woman’s ears.”

Walking out of the saloon you smile to the whores and Jewell, then you and your husband enter into the cool night air, finally relieved of your fiery arousal, and wonderfully satisfied. Your arms are linked, and as you look both ways down the thoroughfare you spot Charlie, leaning up against a building with a whiskey bottle in hand. He tips his hat to the two of you, and somehow you just know he had waited for you, to make sure you made it out of the saloon okay. You smile to him, and think of what a loyal friend he is. Walking off leisurely towards your house, you begin to speak again. 

“Well that was my first time fucking in a brothel Amos. Was it yours?” you ask, amused, and in reply all you receive is a coy smile from your husband. His silence speaks volumes. “A story for another time I gather...” you laugh, and pause for a moment, your satisfied smile growing even larger on your face. Your voice turns to a whisper. “And don’t ask me how I know this doc, but I think you may have just impregnated me again.”

The docs smile grows also, and you finally reach your home.

[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

[chamomileteafuel]

outside over there

________________________________________________________ For the @hp-fearfest prompt - Changeling || Soul Rated M | 430 words | cw: implied miscarriages ________________________________________________________

There was a story he read when he was much younger, back when he tucked himself away in the back corner of a public-school library. With ill-fitting clothes slipping from his shoulder he had read about a young girl, not much older than himself at the time, who had braved a new world full of magic and strange creatures, all to reclaim her brother, stolen away from his crib and replaced with another. The image of a wax child melting in her arms when she had gone to hold him had frightened Harry, the coloured illustration imprinted in his mind well beyond his childhood. He doesn’t believe Ginny would have ever been unfaithful, not just by knowing her character intimately, but also in the ways she shared his bewilderment whenever studying their child. James shared his dark locks and complexion, and that is where all resemblance stopped. He does not carry the brown warmth of his mother’s eyes, nor the green depths of his father’s. His eyes are dark pits, too intense, far too knowing and horribly observant for an infant. Harry had always wanted to be a father. He had always fancied himself as the type to raise a small army, if Ginny had been so inclined, he had been so eager to create a large family where he could never feel alone again. But after struggling to conceive, and after sharing too many tears over little souls lost in the process, they had chosen to pour all their love into James. He loved his child, truly he did. And James? Well, he just happened to show his affection in different ways, that’s all. Protective, Harry would say while Ginny paced their kitchen, the scent of burnt hair wafting over a forgotten roast, singed scarlet still smoking. Possessive, Ginny would spit back, body quivering under the weight of it. Maybe if he had listened to his wife’s concerns with open ears, unfettered by the young voice hissing into them, perhaps then Ginny wouldn’t have packed her bags one night and left without a word. James grew into a handsome thing, cold and sly and far too clever, his dark eyes taking on a suspicious glint. He started to create even larger rifts between their family with softly forged innocence lacing his demeanour, neatly crafting an isolation that eventually gave Harry pause, caused him to contemplate the life he had created. It’s only when he found the shoebox filled with stolen items, small trophies, and dead things, that Harry truly started to wonder if they had been too hasty in naming the child. Perhaps they should have called him Tom.