#tw: marital troubles

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"Battle Scar"

Type: One-Shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary:

In the aftermath of a battle on Mandalore, Din is confronted by a distraught Omera as she is further acquainted with a reality where her own authority is as revered as the Manda’lor’s, as his spouse and co-ruler. Amidst the chaos of miscommunication, Omera has been forced to issue a command out of duty which nearly cost Din’s life, and Omera was not happy at all. Arguments loom, and so do regrets. (TW: One-sided marital spat)

[Written for (extended!) Mandomera Week 2022, seventh prompt: “Forgiveness”]

Read here or on Archive of Our Own

"Battle Scar"

“Mand’alor, I was told that the Lady Omera was not at the debriefing,” Din Djarin’s aide-de-camp informed him as Din limped into the modest rooms he shared with his wife. 

The Sundari Royal Palace remained grey and bleak, unpolished from debris and dust in its slow recovery from the ruin brought about by the Great Purge. The Purge was but a dreadful scar in Mandalorian history, remedied by the grueling work of reunifying clans and creeds until all arrived at the same page, and unequivocally under Din’s rule.

The Palace had only partially been rebuilt, with its construction relentlessly interrupted by reports of impending enemy attacks. Din could count past his ten fingers the instances he needed to cut quality time with his family short. Omera would be the one left to govern the Palace while Din stormed into the battlefields with his fellow seasoned warriors.

Omera had continued to coordinate with Din and his officers while she remained at her post in the Palace’s headquarters. These incidents of prolonged joint command happened more often than they thought was ideal. There seemed no trouble at first when Omera willingly learned the various forms of leadership required of Din as well as her. She was taught the necessary protocols and directives in the event that her husband could not issue them himself, for any grave reason. 

For a long and arduous streak, Din was leading the charge most of the time; Omera assisted, sometimes becoming her husband’s aide as she fastened the armor on him. That ritual had transformed into stolen moments of spiritual intimacy between them. With every component of the beskar’gam she placed upon him, their gazes would lock, intense and sublime, and little words were exchanged. Tension would always follow—and suddenly Din was off with Bo-Katan Kryze or the Armorer or Paz Vizsla into war, his cape billowing behind him like a rallying banner, the Darksaber clipped to his side. 

Din couldn’t remember the last time he had properly shared the marriage bed with Omera since their wedding night. He was always away, awake, busy… and sometimes Omera would be awake with him, would join him in briefings if only to feel his warmth at her side. The only other way she found to compensate for these growing times apart was when she made dinner for him. Even then, it was hurried, and conversation was sparse.

This most recent battle could have been the last straw, and yet it was a victory which concluded a crucial campaign, thanks to Omera’s impartial and quick thinking. It was as if all her training culminated to this one victory, and she was ready to keep to the shadows, out of everyone’s way.

And as the aide reported—Omera had opted not to attend the debriefing. To date, this only happened once, and only because she needed to see Grogu and Winta off as they were transported to safety through their Jedi ally, Master Skywalker. Din, at the time, was in the middle of the most decisive battle yet—the one to capture Sundari, Mandalore’s new capital and epicenter of authority before the Purge struck.

A knot of worry formed within Din as pain bloomed like searing coals all over his body. This latest maddening fray to recapture Keldabe, Mandalore’s ancient and former capital, had sapped him of his strength. He sustained some debilitating injuries that were treated on the field and after, in the secure confines of the med-centre tent.

He had spent an entire week away from Omera, and months away from Grogu and Winta, capped by the wars that poured themselves unto his lap one after another… Yet, in spite of it, Din kept his resolve sharp and his spirit from falling into shreds. 

But tonight, he was more than bone-weary. He was utterly exhausted, and all he wanted to do was be in his wife’s arms, hear her soothing voice, feel her soft caresses as she inspected the medic’s work. The medics may have done their best… but Omera, she would always find ways to make it better, for the wounds to somehow close faster and his pains to fade away which bacta couldn’t mend. It was not sorcerer magic, but Omera was gifted in her on way. That was why Din had always been so drawn to her.

Tonight, he was met by an empty hallway as the aide left him to his privacy—no wife to greet him or to walk astride him from a debriefing as they entered the chambers together.

Din limped further in; he looked around—the lamps were lit, the heating was on (Mandalore had cold nights this time of year), and… to his relief, the dinner was set.

No wife, however, graced the table.

Din groaned in relief as he gingerly took a seat at one end of the table. His side burned; he kept his hand there, already shed of glove and vambrace, and waited for the brief rush of agony to subside. He grimaced, closing his eyes. He leaned upon the seat’s headrest awhile, letting the harrowing memories of Keldabe melt away. Paz had offered to clean up; Bo-Katan and Fenn Rau (whose revived Skull Squadron offered air support) remained at the debriefing. It was at Paz’s urging which led Din to return to Omera halfway through the meeting. If she hadn’t shown up from the beginning, she wouldn’t do so for the rest of it—and there was an acute reason for it.

Din’s eyes flew open when he heard footsteps approach. His half-drugged vision focused on the source, and Din sighed; a weight lifted off him when Omera appeared at the other end of the dinner table.

Din stopped short of his greeting. Omera’s eyes were bloodshot as if from a thorough cry. Her beautiful raven-dark hair and clothes were disheveled. She had already shed the armor she ceremoniously wore even as she remained in the Palace as the Mand’alor took to the battlefields.

It was Omera’s grating voice which hit Din like a shard of ice. “Please eat,” she prompted him tonelessly. “Don’t mind me—I have no appetite.”

“Omera—“ Din ventured. Omera sharply turned her head away, avoiding his pleading gaze.

“I’ll sit here,” she said at length, breathing out her statement in a shuddering sob, “I’ll sit here because you’re my husband, and I still respect you…”

“Omera…” Din called to her again. He winced at how his voice sounded so fragmented and weak. He realized how more acquainted he had become with Omera’s own suffering, even before she could completely relay her side of things. 

“… and because I love you, Din, after everything—everything we’ve gone through!” Omera unleashed the words. Her voice cracked. “Especially after this… this… call I had to make.” 

A call, in this context, was a tactical decision a commanding officer had to make amidst the odds, and in some cases—because of it. 

Din was silent as he let Omera pour her enraged heart out. She shook as she spoke, visibly fighting for vestiges of self-control. Din knew this, because she could be recovering from shock. Din felt guilt wash over him, because he also knew how proud he was of his wife’s mandokar, but sadly, at her expense. Omera had carried out a decision too difficult even for a battle-born Mandalorian to execute. The responsibility behind it was crushing should things fall awry. 

Weeks beforehand, the Keldabe campaign fell into a string of countless briefings, once they had gotten word that Imperial Remnant forces were amassing an offensive to retake the old capital. Omera was present in all those meetings when they reviewed the plans over and over again… she’d joked once, when spirits were relatively high: “I’ve heard these operatives so many times, I can recite them by rote in my sleep!” She had laughed then—uneasy laughter, but Maker, his wife still smiled, wide enough so her lovely dimples showed. The radiance still lingered in her eyes.

Now, those eyes were dull, avoidant, and awash with the shackling fear of a loss which could have been, had the call she made not ended up being the staggering success it had become, to their great unfathomable fortune.

“Danger close,” Omera spat, as if drilling into Din his own awareness of the weight Omera needed to bear, of the gamble she was doing before she even realized it. “In a fatal distance from your position! Had I caught the report earlier, I wouldn’t have made the call to set an entire fire mission meant for the Imps practically right above your heads!”

Din leaned further into the headrest, studying his distraught wife. He felt disembodied as he witnessed her grief, and yet with the bond they shared between them, they both knew that Omera was duty-bound to make the call herself. There was no way out of it save for dereliction, and with it the capacity to undermine her husband’s trust.

Omera had risked an entire company when an airstrike targeted coordinates dangerously proximate to friendly troops in order to eliminate enemy forces—hence the term, danger close. “The message got to me too late!” her tirade went on. “I’ve only been informed of your situation right after I green-lit the fire mission… all I heard before the comms went down was, ‘the enemy’s in position, we got them where we need them to be!’ Comms were completely dead for a full ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life, and I know—I know the engineers have worked hard to get the comms back up, but… you told me, the enemy was in position. It was now or never, or retaking Keldabe would drain more of our resources; it could be lost to us for a long time. What I’ve not known until the last minute, when I had to give the order because you can’t, and because the comms were down—was that your own position hadn’t changed! You were pinned in place, and hadn’t relocated to a safe distance where artillery wouldn’t blow you all to bits! Oh Maker—Maker, Din!” 

Omera growled and stuttered; she quivered as her voice grew louder with every portion of her tale, until she was as good as hysterical. 

That was enough for Din to ignore his wounded state as he got up from his end of the table to limp his way to her—but Omera flinched. Din’s heart fell. Omera had deliberately shifted her own seat away from his reach, and Din was only clutching air mere inches atop her trembling frame. He could almost feel the heat of her turmoil emanate from her body.

Din couldn’t speak. He couldn’t find the words, or express all of them at once—he was sorry, and yet pride overtook him, knowing his wife did what she had to do even as it went against the grain she had been raised in, among the peaceful krill ponds of Sorgan and only the annual harvest to preoccupy their minds until the Klatooinian raids happened. He knew that she knew that none of this was his fault, and he wasn’t faulting her either, but logic dissolved where emotions ran high and rampant. 

This could be a long night.

“What would happen if the fire mission failed despite danger close? You knew your position, you knew the enemy’s position, you knew mine—and that was to command Captain Fenn Rau and his squadron to fire on coordinates so close to you! And even Captain Rau had hesitated… but an order was an order. Tons of firepower a small distance from where you were crouched behind nonexistent cover, just so you could wipe the enemy out… I was going to kill my own husband—look at me, Din! (and yet her eyes remained averted)… Am I Omera, widowed again, but this time, by her own hand…?”

There, she said it; she told him what was tearing her asunder from the inside. 

Omera was a fragile leaf in a gale as she strung racing emotions into thoughts, and thoughts into words as best as she could. Fresh tears and mirthless laughter wove through Omera’s feat at coherence. Din sensed that she’d finally reach the peak of her dark despondency, and the white flames of her anger were whittling to embers. Soon, he could touch her again without resistance. 

Din understood, and it hurt him deeply, yet he found Omera blameless. It was he who had kept himself and his forces in harm’s way, but the willingness to sacrifice oneself for a greater good had always been the forefront of their arsenal. From the entirely challenging first year of his marriage to Omera, Din had learned how to decipher his wife—the outbursts, the occasional moments of silent treatment, the sobs of relief when he would return to her in one piece. She would then kiss and hold him as she had when he’d first offered his heart to her. 

He deciphered Omera’s grating, terrible confusion—how silly she must feel with these arguments, knowing well what she had gotten herself into when she married him, and when he made her his Queen and co-ruler over Mandalore and its neighboring worlds. She had made that pact with him, of bringing the Mando’ade together, of leading them together, and even leading them when they were physically apart. And the Mando’ade embraced the arrangement in turn, fully accepting her as their Queen, whom the Mand’alor had chosen to spend the rest of his life with whether on the throne or when that time had run its course.

Inching closer, he engulfed her in a tender, tenuous embrace. Omera was too vulnerable right now, after hitting a new level of reality. She knew as well as himself that Mandalore and its people came first, as long as Din remained their anointed leader, as long as he kept wielding the Darksaber and no one had challenged him—and his rule—for it.

If it meant losing the one she loved the most so that Mandalore continued to rise, so be it. It may sound cruel and counterproductive, as a leader usually fell with their kingdom, but not for Din Djarin. He had already planned two steps ahead for the loved ones he would leave behind, should his life end prematurely.

Omera was folded up on the chair, racked in quiet sobs. 

“Omera,” Din rasped out; it was taking his remaining strength to console her. He hadn’t slept and eaten well in days… but he needed to see to his wife’s welfare, after this awful trial by fire he had inadvertently put her through. “Y-you have to forgive me…”

His wife ceased her weeping; as if something snapped within her, she turned to him. Her eyes brimmed with fleeting concern. “Din, your voice—It’s scratched… Are you ill?”

Din smiled. With all his heart, he wanted to kiss Omera then and there. All her training, and yet the innocence borne out of her worry for him stood out to him like a flare in the dark. 

“I’ve been… screaming for all of ten minutes,” Din explained fondly, almost jokingly. “No comms, and I couldn’t get anything past a certain distance. I was yelling orders out manually. Thankfully, they all got passed down the ranks. We pulled through. Voice still got busted, though.” He had shed his helmet already beforehand; his gaze was full on her when Omera had tried to read his eyes, the shape of light in them, the shadows and this own unspoken words. 

“You’re hurt,” Omera remarked needlessly. Her expression had softened for a moment—then, to Din’s dismay, it grew distant once more.

There was a long silence again. This time, Din felt it sink well into his gut, into his system.

“Please eat,” Omera urged him one last time before she set herself to rights—dried her tears and smoothed her tunic down before she carefully rose from her seat. “See you in the morning, Din,” she whispered, resuming her cold treatment of him, but only after her beautiful almond eyes gently gave him a once-over—her lips parted. She thought twice and said nothing more.

She left him at the table alone; she had gone to their sleeping chambers as Din heard the door swish open and close in the wake of her fading footfalls.

***

Omera was startled awake by a chill in her bones.

She opened her eyes, and out of habit, she faced the side of the bed where Din should be—had he slept beside her that night.

Automatically, and in a sudden surge of loneliness, a palm reached out to smooth the empty space where her husband should be in his usual fitful, but much needed repose. 

The chill came from a half-empty bed. While there were times when Din would stay up so late in meetings or matters that needed his attention, long enough to leave his side of the bed bare before dawn, he would always return as often as he could. The bed would dent where Din’s weight pushed it down, and Omera would wake the exact moment her husband laid next to her. In a silent treaty, their foreheads met as they both returned to slumber. In a few hours, they would be up again, despite the limited hours Din had to recuperate to face another day as sole ruler.

In the past months since reclaiming Sundari, Din had been like water through a sieve—and she was the sieve. He was there yet not fully present. He was elusive even when he kissed her, but it had become dispassionate overtime. 

Omera sighed. The pillow was still wet whereupon she had cried herself to sleep that night. She didn’t need to check the chrono to reckon that it only past two in the morning. Mandalore had nineteen-hour days, lesser than most worlds and planets, but still falling in accordance to standard. Maybe, Omera thought, that was why she had felt that days flew by so quickly, and the nights were over in the blink of an eye.

She eyed the empty side of Din’s bed. Her lips quivered. 

She bit back the urge to loath herself. 

She had been horrible to Din at the dinner table. And Din, her sweet, noble, pure-hearted husband—he was simply there for her as he took all her scathing words in. She couldn’t even remember half of what she said, the burning statements she snarled out at him; she could only remember with embarrassment the blazing anger and confusion and helplessness she had meant to reel in, but ended in taking it all out on Din.

Now, in this moment of clarity hitting her like a slap, now that she knew that she may have hurt Din irrevocably and her heart had begun to hurt in turn—she recognized the rage which grew out of frustration over the situation rather than the people behind it. She had no way of channeling all the emotions that threatened to drown her in a misery she would have trouble delivering herself from. And there was Din: his kind eyes, his beautiful face, his serene disposition despite being almost taken from her by her need to momentarily command air support and artillery while comms were still running smoothly in the Palace. He was her shock absorber. And he was there for her every step of the way. And—gods, Omera felt nauseatingly dreadful. 

She was being petulant while her husband sat there, injured, patiently listening, waiting for a window to push forward and comfort her. 

Where did Din get all this self-mastery? How has being Mand’alor changed him in such an immense way, that Din the bounty hunter, Din the hunted—now held authority not only over the Mando’ade, but over his own once-turbulent soul?

Did he have any idea of the repercussions should the fire mission wipe them out with the targets? Omera knew Din had already been updating his will and testament. It was customary, Din had told her, of Mandalorian kings and queens. She shouldn’t worry about him departing this life too soon, and yet—he almost had. At least, she had thought bitterly, it would be a coveted warrior’s death.

Din’s hurt, was all her mind pondered afterwards as Omera rose from the bed, dressed herself in a robe and tied her hair up. Din was hurt, and he’s not in bed. She had to go to him, wherever he was. He should still be in the Palace. There was no way Din was still testing the limits of his mandokar after a week in a war zone.

Her steps moving out of their sleeping chambers felt like lead. Perhaps it was the guilt, the shame over last night’s hysterics which kept her from walking with her shoulders back and head up. 

The Palace seemed empty. Where were the other Mandalorians? After the Purge, there was so little of them left. Yet she had joined them, a new Mandalorian in their fold. She wasn’t Mandalorian-born, but wed to one, and through that custom, how quickly shall Mandalore rise again and be repopulated with new spouses and children?

Five steps, seven steps, nine…

She wove aimlessly down the empty halls where her footfalls echoed.

She didn’t know when her steps finally halted, but when she lifted her eyes to determine where her feet led her, she saw it was the door to one of the officers’ meeting rooms. She was surprised, however, when the door swished open—and out came Paz Vizsla, helmet perpetually on, but through his posture was visibly tired. She heard him sigh through the modulator, laced with heavy fatigue.

“Paz…” Omera called, and the heavy infantry warrior looked up to acknowledge her.

“Omera,” he answered back, his voice muted yet affable. He nodded his visored head. “It’s late. Should you not be in bed, my lady?”

Omera blushed. She could never get used to those titles, no matter how the likes of Bo-Katan herself, once so opposed to Din’s claim to the Darksaber, had convinced her that my lady was a noble title—and Omera was worthy of it. Bo-Katan had been very sincere, and very contrite.

Omera didn’t know what to reply. Her thoughts evaporated like steam.

Paz, to his credit, was no less understanding. He had been a stalwart friend to Din despite a history of scuffles and brief resentment over Din’s transgression of breaking the Creed. Paz had since forgiven him and took his place as a trusted comrade and brother-in-arms to Din in the battlefield. It was then no surprise to Omera when Paz offered, without her saying anything, “Din’s in there, my lady.” The large man motioned to the meeting room he’d just stepped out from. His deep baritone was gentle. “I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Paz,” Omera greeted back as Paz nodded and disappeared down the long hall to his own quarters.

The sight which met Omera had set her heart alight and broken at the same time.

Din was on a chair by the heating vent, shed of armor and only in his flight suit—he had not even changed to clothes fit for longer downtimes. He sat up but his eyes were closed, and that was when Omera realized that Paz had probably caught his brother sleeping, and had decided to drape a huge blanket over the man. It looked almost comical—an oversized blanket over her husband, but it also made Din look so small. So… mortal.

Omera bit back a sob as she made her way to the slumbering warrior.

She couldn’t help but admire his features: both soft and sharp and wonderfully handsome. Din’s self-consciousness over showing his face was long gone. He now treated the helmet as Bo-Katan or Fenn Rau did, like a piece of armor to be worn only when necessity arose, and not as part of a fundamentalist religious pact.

Din’s face in his sleep made him look so serene, but it was the serenity of one confident in their own strength, and reliant on the strength of those around them. 

The Mand’alor felt secure in this room where battle plans were hatched, and yet—not secure in his marriage bed, with his wife.

Worry tore through Omera when she noted Din’s slightly labored breathing. There were bruises and minor gashes on his face, but not to an extent where he could be unrecognizable. The cut over his nose had already been bandaged. Omera smelled the faint scent of bacta underneath the huge blanket.

Unable to help herself, she willed her husband to wake with a loving kiss on his cheek, so close to his mouth. How she missed this sort of warmth she could bestow on him, when her heart was full and free of darkness.

Din slowly stirred awake. A breath escaped him, and he blinked. Immediately alerted to a familiar presence, Din turned to face her. Puzzlement filled the sea of brown in his eyes, as though he hadn’t expected Omera to be at his side in this hour.

“Omera,” Din acknowledged his wife. The fatigue was palpable in his eyes and bled through the hoarseness of his voice. “I—I need to speak to you…”

“Right now, love?” Omera marveled at how Din could switch at once to a sort of business-like air, with both of them dressed down they were almost bare. Omera felt heat course through her body when Din had drawn his gaze over her entirety before meeting the warm depths of her eyes once more.

“Paz and I talked,” Din began, and he shifted his position so he sat up more fully. Din winced and Omera empathically winced with him as he registered the dull pain shooting through his body. “I… I know you’d want to find some peace again, after a long while.”

Omera’s brows knitted, not quite sure where Din was getting at. “Love—what are you saying?”

Din’s ever-so-gentle gaze kept her in place. His eyes were sad, so sad. Omera swallowed hard.

“He’s agreed to take you back all the way to Sorgan in two days’ time. I’ll have Skywalker and the kids know. I’ll accompany you as far as the blockade before the jump. I—I need to be on Mandalore, but you… Omera, you need to rest. I’m granting you this, and you should grant yourself that, too…”

“Din,” Omera shushed him, and she kissed him again, this time full on the lips but only for an instant. “Din—no, no. I’m staying with you. I’m not going anywhere…”

Omera felt her beloved’s gloveless fingers trace her cheek, then her jaw with a reverent affection she had missed so much that it ached. “You’re in need of a home now, Omera. Mandalore isn’t home. At least, not yet. Let yourself recover… I know I’ve put you through so much.”

She meant no disrespect at all, but she had chosen to deter her husband’s entreaty from sinking into her thoughts. Din loved her—oh, Omera knew that as much. But at this moment, he was being civil.

It shattered her heart even more, knowing Din was giving her a chance to reconsider their marriage, their eternal pact to each other, and he was bearing her no ill will over it. He would not judge her for it, and he would make sure that the rest of the Mando’ade would not begrudge their Queen her right to decide for herself, out of her own free will.

Omera felt those stubborn tears again. They hadn’t left her entirely since the night before. 

She felt great relief when Din accepted her embrace, and with it, a kov’nyn with foreheads pressed so close together, it could almost seem that they read each other’s thoughts. Omera wished that was so. She wanted Din to know.

“I’m staying, my love,” she whispered again, almost pleadingly. “Din—I’m so sorry about last night…”

Din was unrelenting, yet his scratched voice was compassionate. “You had every right to let me know how you felt.”

Omera nodded helplessly. She let her wet cheek grace over Din’s own, now covered in the stubble she had loved to brush her fingers over, when they still had their nights to themselves, when their marriage was raw and young. How everything leveled so quickly; how reality had set in so dizzyingly faster than a free-fall. “I could do better, my love,” she insisted. “I’m learning, still learning. You know that.”

Din had compelled her to meet his gaze without as much as a word. 

“Your welfare means so much to me,” Din added, superfluously. “Omera—you can never be happy on Mandalore, not while the war is still upon us.”

Omera had her mind set. She would hold herself accountable to it, once she’s relayed these words to Din. 

“I don’t want to be happy all the time,” she told him pointblank, her voice surprisingly calm and resolute. “Of course, happiness is a gift. I’d want to be happy—but not at the expense of us. I was scared out of my wits with that danger close call yesterday. Yes. I was so upset and hysterical. Yes. I wanted to escape that pain for a little while. Yes. But Din—I want to experience every growing pain with you. My love—Sorgan is an old life. I would love to return there, but only if you come with me. But that won’t be after a while but it doesn’t matter. Do what you need to do—and I will always be by your side.”

Din was looking at her incredulously, truly baffled that his queen would rebuff a chance at solace, when she could still afford to do so. With that bafflement came a genuine spark of joy when he smiled—small, but with a vibrancy Omera had not seen on her husband’s face for a long time.

“Now come to bed,” Omera concluded, suppressing a grin that a dimple cratered on her cheek. 

“Smooth,” Din joked with a furrowed brow, and Omera laughed—what a freeing thing to do. 

Their foreheads met once more, and before Omera knew it, Din was kissing her again with a rekindled passion that sent Omera immediately on fire. To her slight vexation, Din cut the kiss short, only for her to realize that the culprit was his pained grimace, as he pressed a hand to his side.

“Uh-oh,” Omera riposted with her own jesting air. “Looks like someone needs some TLC.”

It didn’t take much for Din’s own dimple to emerge from his stubbly cheek. “Then you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Omera feigned an aghast tone. “Do you forgive me?”

Din’s airy chuckle sent her heart dancing when he leaned forward to kiss her again. She ran her hands over his curls as he entangled his fingers over the lush length of her locks in familiar playfulness. 

“I forgive you,” he muttered in between impassioned kisses.

“Then,” Omera replied, sighing in this tender exchange, as if they were saying their wedding vows again, “I forgive you too, my love.”

Soon, the sun was high on Mandalore, and another day of unmistakable challenges was at hand.

******

Author's Notes:

Mando'a:

*Mand’alor - the sole ruler of the Mandalorian people *beskar’gam - Mandalorian suit of armor (lit. “iron skin”) *mandokar - the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life. *Mando’ade - the people of Mandalore (lit. “children of Mandalore”) *kov’nyn - a head-butt; a Keldabe kiss

Wikipedia as a reference is usually frowned upon in the academe, but for fic purposes, here’s the military definition of danger close - “If the forward observer or any friendly troops are within 600 meters of the impact point, to keep themselves safe, the forward observer would declare "danger close" in this last element.” I was quite intrigued with how something like that could work in a scenario like the one in this fic. I’m not an expert but sometimes writing about Mandalorians, a people well-versed in war, has you doing a bunch of research you don’t normally do. I’m not even entirely sure if I got this right, but I was curious so I went for it. ^^ Thank you for reading!

[inevitablemoment]

Samlan September Day 4 - Secretly Married AU

Word Count: 337

Warnings: Marital troubles, perceived betrayal, arguments, trial separation

Fandom: Law & Order

Pairings: Nolan Price x Samantha Maroun

This doesn't count as the 22x17 part, but the idea just couldn't escape me.

Enjoy!

————————

Nolan had returned to their apartment alone. He had picked Emmeline up from daycare by himself, and he definitely noticed the stares from from the other parents.

From the way that everyone was treating him, you would have thought that Raymer's trial had revealed that Nolan had cheated on Sam instead of a workplace fling from before he had even met her.

He had made dinner for both him and Emmeline, and went through Emmeline's bedtime routine with her before she finally fell asleep.

Nolan looked through his and Sam's wedding album as he laid down on the couch. His heart just kept sinking, only to lift itself back up into his chest, and start sinking again repeatedly as he looked over the images of their younger selves.

He thought that he heard the lock turning and the door opening. He tried to spare himself from raising his hopes, but he still turned around.

Sam was indeed walking through the door. He jumped to his feet, letting the album drop to the floor and rushed to her. He stopped, moving back to be about a yard away from her.

"Sam..."

"Where's Emmie?" Sam asked, ignoring him.

"She's already asleep-- but before you say anything, I've been replaying everything since I found Rachel's body in my head," he said. "And... I had just told you how I knew Rachel that night... everything would still be okay. Right?"

She didn't say anything. She just stood there in front of him, stone-faced.

"Sam... I am so sorry."

"But you didn't tell me that night," Sam reminded him. "And... and I know you don't think it's that big of a deal, but the more I think about it, the angrier I get."

She looked down on the floor, as if she was trying to gather her thoughts before she spoke once more.

"I think... no," she stopped herself. "I know I need some space."

Nolan's chest further tightened around his heart. "What are you saying?"

"I think you should move out."

[macsimagines]

I cannot thank you enough for now incredibly you bring my silly little ideas to life~

May I request for Yan! Shin, Izana, & Ran on how they are as a husband to their darling and how they are as fathers? (like them after they’ve finally achieved their Yandere dreams of marrying their darling and having kids with them and everything ) ʚ♡ɞ

TW: YANDERE CONTENT, MINORS DNI, BABY TRAPPING, MANIPULATION, COERCION

Yandere!Shinichiro Sano

Is so happy that you've made him a husband and father. It wasn't easy trying to convince you to go out with him, but eventually he called in enough favors and 'saved' you enough times that you relented and dated him for a short period.

Short because after that he tried very hard to get you to marry him and when it was obvious you weren't going to relent he eventually started to just poke holes in condoms and simply waited for the great news.

"Oh? You're pregnant? Well shucks, looks like I gotta take responsibility. When are you moving in?"

Ya he's not hiding the fact that he's all too pleased to put a ring on you and have a baby in you. But he does his best to provide and make you happy.

He comes home with flowers all the time, just cause, and sometimes he'll bring your son with him to the shop. "You need a break baby, I can take over today."

Shinichiro loves having JR. around. He of course loves his son, but it does help he's the perfect combination of you and Shinichiro.

Yandere!Izana Kurokawa

He had to force you to marry him. You had tried to leave him and he wasn't going to let you live any kind of life without him. Those first few years were less than marital bliss.

The fighting, the screaming, the crying. It was honestly hell. Izana almost let himself think you weren't worth the trouble but he was kidding himself if he thought he could live a life without you.

That all changed when he found out you were pregnant. Now it was real, now he couldn't afford to fuck up.

"Y/N, I know you hate me, I can accept that, but please for our babies sake, lets make this work."

Izana is like a changed man, he's kinder and even gentle. He can tell you're still resentful and bitter, but he'll accept that. He just wants his child to feel loved and know he did all he could to make that happen.

You finally go into labor early, Izana doesn't know why or what he did wrong but this was obviously his fault. He was going to loose you both. You really were going to leave him and take the one thing he wanted most in the world with you.

But you pull through. You and his precious and perfect daughter. She's puny in his hands, even for a newborn, just barely bigger than his own palms, but she's perfect. And he'll never let her go.

"Hey, princess. You don't know how happy I am to finally meet you."

Yandere!Ran Haitani

Made you his wife after he found out you had his Twins. One boy and one girl. His brother was the one that had to break the news to him about it 4 years after he had told you to get lost.

"Hey bro, remember that trick that said you knocked her up?" "That bitch? Like I'd ever forget to wear a condom." "...You might wanna have a look at her insta."

Well shit. Obviously the rubber ripped because he was staring at his little clones on your feed. It was very apparent he was the father only a fool would deny it.

"You ain't my dad!" Your son hisses at him "Ya! You ain't!" Your daughter will parrot back. Clearly introducing himself as their father while they were beatingtheshitoutof playing with other kids wasn't the best idea.

"Our hair is pretty an' black!" "Ya! Yours is purple and ugly!"

Ran might not like how the kids are giving him shit, but he certainly does love the idea of another infamous pair of Haitani siblings running amok in Roppongi.

He also doesn't like the fact that you try to fight him tooth and nail for him to not bother your family. "Our family baby, C'mon. Let me take responsibility."

You have no choice but to relent to his threats of custody and courts, knowing damn well you don't have the connection he does.

And he doesn't love the fact that you're a huge bitch to him or the fact that his twins seem to live and breath violence more than he and his bother did back in his youth. But he must admit he thinks it's way more hot how cold and unforgiving you are compared to your old self. You keep him entertained at least.

"Guess who just had to bail our little ankle biters outta jail~ Why not thank your husband for a job well done."

[jessamine-rose]

✿⚘❁⚘❀ Astilbe ❀⚘❁⚘✿

Fufufu after all these months, here’s another Herbarium epilogue with more dark fluff and comfort. It was nostalgic to write for Capitano and his darling again (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, psychological trauma, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ 1.2k words under the cut ♡

The astilbe’s beauty has faded.

The pressed flowers are only a phantom of the radiant clusters you picked weeks ago. The petals have lost their brilliance. The feathery plumes have been reduced to flat shapes.

This is a natural consequence of preservation, one which occurs to all of your flowers. So why do you feel particularly mournful for the astilbe?

Maybe the flowers aren’t the problem. Rather, it’s you.

Your wedding ring twinkles on your index finger, an unavoidable sight. The sculpted flowers serve as a constant reminder of your marital status, disregarding the fact that you and your captor never had an official ceremony.

Capitano…what time will he be home? You usually accompany him to Zapolyarny Palace but he decided against it today. Important business, he claimed.

Nonetheless, he treated you so kindly before his departure. He’d given your new guard a stern warning which, even in his formal tone, sounded more like a death threat. You received a soft kiss, some new books, a promise of his immediate return.

Your life has never been happier. So why are you still plagued with your bad days?

You are used to this feeling, the ever-present melancholy which has haunted you even before you met Capitano—those hours spent trapping flowers in your notebook, escaping reality through storybooks, reliving memories better left forgotten. Perhaps it is your subconscious upset with you, the double curse of your self-awareness and resignation.

How can you believe in his love, knowing it is a twisted delusion?

Despite this, you’ve never smiled more since the day you accepted your fate.

Since meeting Capitano, you even remembered how to cry. Compared to your past tears and “tantrums,” the action feels oddly cathartic nowadays. Like a call for help finally answered by your own devoted knight.

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupts your thoughts.

Your husband is home.

The door opens. Capitano enters the room.

“______, is everything well?”

“Capitano.” You leave your desk and meet him halfway. “Did you mi—how was work? You arrived earlier than usual.”

He feels warm. You lean into his embrace, letting him be the first to pull away. His hands remain on your waist.

“The new recruits show potential.” He looks down at you, face hidden by his mask. After a short pause, he adds, “Did you take kindly to Sergeant Naiad?”

“Cyane was all right,” you reply, shrugging. “They just kept quiet and watched me from a distance. They are nothing like Ceres, if that is what you’re asking.”

The change in his tone isn’t lost on you. “That is acceptable. Should they infringe on your personal boundaries, inform me at once.”

Is that even necessary? He already has his spies to monitor your behavior.

Your notebook is still open to the astilbe. Capitano walks over to your desk, keeping one hand on the small of your back.

“I presume that your astilbe has been fully preserved.” He taps the corner of the page, careful not to touch the pink and white flowers.

You make no motion to retrieve it. “Yes. They’re…not as pretty as when I first saw them. Or maybe that’s just my perception.”

He turns to face you. “If you desire more astilbe, we may revisit the botanical garden.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Shouldn’t this be enough? What more must he do for you?

“Which flowers do you want?” You return to your chair, feeling a familiar stab of guilt. “I’ll let you pick first this time.”

“My darling, what troubles you?”

Huh?

Capitano caresses your cheek this time.

“You are in low spirits,” he observes. Anger creeps into his tone, faint yet palpable. “Did you tell me the truth about Sergeant Naiad?”

You quickly nod. “I was! I just feel…it’s nothing, really! Nothing worth your trouble.”

He remains adamant. “I would be an inattentive husband if I fail to care for my wife.”

What kind of expression is on his face? Even with his face concealed, you don’t want to look at him. Anything to prevent him from perceiving your distress.

From your peripheral vision, an image catches your attention—a framed drawing on your desk, illustrated by the same artist who painted the family portrait in your living room.

-

“Such an odd couple,” they muttered.

You had to agree with them. With his mask and fine armor, Capitano was an intimidating subject. You, on the other hand, looked small and delicate in your lacy gown. But your close physical contact left no doubt that the two of you belonged to the same picture.

The artist spent more time on you. They took a while to capture your face, describing your gaze as a dim mystery. You didn’t mind; it meant more time in your husband’s arms.

During a short break, you faced Capitano to chat with him. That was when the artist froze, staring at you with renewed interest. A silent look from the former, however, was all it took for them to fearfully return to their canvas.

The finished portrait came with a small pencil sketch. You were looking at Capitano with bright eyes and a fond smile, unrecognizable even to yourself.

-

“______?” He holds your hand. His own ring twinkles above your interlocked fingers.

“I…It’s not important,” you insist. Despite yourself, you feel your heart racing for reasons not borne from fear. “I’ve dealt with this before. The issue will go away on its own.”

Foolish girl. Since when was your captor one to leave you alone?

Ever the patient man, Capitano kneels down to meet your gaze.

“One word from you, and I will do everything in my power to alleviate your sorrows,” he tells you. The soft declaration is juxtaposed by his firm grasp on your hand. “How could I be at peace when my beloved flower is in pain?”

Words fail you. You stare at your lap, gripping the armrest with your free hand. It is his next words, spoken with quiet resolution, which spell your defeat.

“But if you refuse to smile, that is also acceptable. I will stay by your side regardless.”

You give up.

At first, Capitano tenses when you throw your arms around him. The hesitation which follows—the way he carefully reciprocates your hug, measuring his strength…it only tugs at your heartstrings all the more.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Your eyes feel damp; are you crying? Your tears don’t match your mood at all.

What is there to worry about? Time and time again, your husband has proven his unwavering devotion to you.

Why should you torture yourself with the truth of your marriage? Freedom is nothing compared to this false happily ever after.

Who cares about the astilbe? You already have the most beautiful, eternal flowers wrapped around your finger.

Capitano’s heartbeat is comforting. He traps you in his embrace, rubbing circles on your back. You don’t need to see past his mask to know what tender emotions lie in his gaze.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He lifts your wrist to his mask, imparting a soft kiss on the back of your hand.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I feel a bit better thanks to you.”

♡

Side Story ๑ Epilogue ๑ Another Comfort Fic

A few months ago, I started this fic cuz I was sad. And now that I’m less sad, I decided to finish it and cry over Capitano again. Aahh he and Damsel always put me in a soft mood TvT

Once again, thank you to @diodellet for your support as my bestie and peer reviewer. Last year, she actually wrote her own Herbarium-inspired comfort fic which I beta-read and linked above. Her smut is amazing and well-written, so pls check it out <3

Do share your thoughts on this fic!! And if you read the teaser for Astilbe, look at me in the eye and tell me that the Captain isn’t the best at comforting his darling ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @nicebonescomrades @harmonysanreads @ansy-tea @leftdestiny-posts @thescribeoflostmemories @kocherry @gum-iie @oofasleep @shumidehiro @ryo-ri @dulcetthorns @lambdrop @uhhhh-hi-im-sorry-for-this @the-dreaming-city @lyra-mew @yanmaresu @frogchiro @lcveaesop @micchikari

[theladyofdeath]

Lady Death's Lover {Prologue}

19th Century Period AU Nesta x Cassian Secret Affair / Enemies to Lovers / Forbidden Romance Fanfiction / Characters from Sarah J Maas Based on a prompt sent in by anonymous

Summary: Nesta Archeron has been married off to Tomas Mandray to secure a comfortable future for her father and sisters. Although grateful to be wed, Nesta holds no love for her husband. Lost in a state of depression, she meets her husband's newest business partner and can't seem to stay away.

A/N: New story alert! You know I love a good period piece. Please note the trigger warnings for each chapter. This story deals with some pretty heavy topics. Chapters will be posted twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays! I hope you all enjoy. :)

TW: marital abuse, sexual content, language, depression

This story is for readers 18+. Mature readers only. Content should not be read by anyone under 18.

My Dearest Sisters,

I cannot be more grateful. Tomas is a dream and I am more blessed than I ever thought imaginable. Although I am not yet with child, Tomas and I grow nearer every day. It is only a matter of time before we find our family growing and I simply cannot wait for that day to come.

My summer is looking quite full. I am not certain when I will be able to visit. I am scheduled to host a ball in a matter of weeks, and being a woman that runs a household is a chore in itself. There is always something to do, always someone that needs something, always a fire that must be put out. 

I think of you both often. I hope that my marriage has brought you both comforts that we did not have before. Tomas promises that he sends aid each week and knowing that you both are well taken care of brings me much joy. How is Father? He does not write, and I do not blame him. We never did get along, and even now, I’m not sure if I’d truly like to hear from him. Nonetheless, I hope he is well and his leg is not causing him too much trouble. If he is doing poorly, please let me know so that I may help. 

Feyre, I hope that you have ceased contact with Isaac Hale. We all know the rumors surrounding him, and he is not good enough for you. I hope you do not find that cruel. I only care for you and your reputation. With the help of Tomas’ aid, you can find a husband that is a gentleman — someone who does not take you for granted, someone who can provide for you like father has not been able to. Take care of yourself. Respect yourself. Wait for a man to come along who can give you the world.

Elain, how is Graysen? I know how the two of you would stare into each other’s eyes lovingly, but the last few letters have lacked any mention of him. I hope he has not broken your heart. If he has, I vow to travel these agonizing miles and see to it myself. Please be certain that he cherishes you. If he does not, you are free to reject him. Money is no longer an issue and you do not have to do anything you do not wish to do. 

I love you both dearly and hope you are doing well. Please write back with any news. I think of you both every day and long for the day that I will wrap you both in my arms.

Love always,

Nesta 

I stare at the letter before me as the ink dries on the parchment.

I read it once, then twice, three times to be sure I have left nothing out. 

The truth is this: I have left out a million things. I have left out my misery, my anguish, my everyday pain. I have ignored the truth of my own life and have asked after the lives of my sisters. Yes, the letter lacks depth, but I have always lacked depth. There is no use in starting now.

Once I sign my name at the bottom, I fold up the letter and seal it with wax. 

I wish it was longer.

I wish it held all the words that I cannot seem to say.

I wish it held the truth. 

I give the letter to my lady’s maid.

She smiles as she takes it, thinking it’s the world’s greatest honor to be delivering a piece of my mail. 

Little does she know that the letter truly means nothing.

Our lives here mean nothing. 

Maybe she doesn’t mind the nothingness, doesn’t mind the irrelevant place she holds in my husband’s household. Do not get me wrong — I adore my lady’s maid, but I do not deserve her. I do not truly need her. 

I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

At least, that is what I thought before I married Tomas Mandray.

Now, I am nothing more than his wife, nothing more than a trophy on a pedestal to be ogled over by the ton. Yet, I cannot be angry at this life that I have been given. I cannot regret my place in society.

My family is taken care of.

My sisters are promised great futures.

My father has not drowned in ruin.

And I am a lady, the wife of a lord.

Too bad that is all that I am.

I am a lady, and nothing more. 

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Schatze - Mal de Mer

Mel remembers her parents' marriage.

And notes that her own shares troubling similarities.

tw: trust issues, betrayal, violence, gore

Mal de Mer on AO3

Snippet:

Mel stares. The urge to break away, to force a confrontation, is surging in her chest. She's used to his obliqueness. She's not, and will never, be used to his unpredictability.

When he says Don't run, he means Hold your ground. And when he says Surprise, he means Beware.

And then he says, "Trust the plan."

Which, she's learning, is his shorthand for, Trust me.

Mel's mouth pinches. Trust. Doubt. These are two sides of the same coin. His past, and hers, laid bare without veils. Moments like this, she's reminded of the enormous gamble she's taken by marrying him. She knows, from her own experience, how quickly trust can curdle into the opposite. And she knows, too, that doubt can devour even the sturdiest edifice.

It had, after all, devoured her parents' marriage.

Ambessa Medarda, no sentimentalist, had not married for love. Her choice was pragmatic, and it was prudent: from a broad swathe of suitors, ranging from bluebloods to brutes, she'd selected Mel's father, a swarthy, scarred captain from the Targonian Isles. Known, simply, as Aziz, he'd possessed a devious head for deals, and a deft tongue for wooing. His clan were descended from a line of seafaring mercenaries. Over the centuries, they'd carved a bloody path on a shifting sea of wars, alliances, and compromises.

Aziz had met Ambessa during a trading venture. It had been, by all accounts, an explosive collision.

Ambessa had admired the way he squared his debts with a bladesman's exacting precision, and wielded his real blade with a cutthroat's clarity. He, in turn, was taken by her ruthless pragmatism, and her cold-eyed resolve.

There'd been no need, in the end, to seek approval from either clan. The match was mutually advantageous: her riches, and his ships, would forge a dynasty.

Theirs was not, by any metric, a love-match. Yet Mel remembers the heat, and the intensity, and the sheer physicality of her parents' union. With Aziz, Ambessa became, despite her hardness, a creature of feeling. And Aziz, for all his wily ways, became a man of sentiment.

They'd quarreled often, publicly. They'd butted heads over business, and brawled over trifles. But they'd also made up in the same fashion: two titans, clashing in a storm.

Mel, since girlhood, knew never to knock on her parents' bedchamber door when she heard raised voices.

She'd witnessed the aftermath, once. After a particularly savage row, Ambessa had stormed from their marital suite, and headed for the stables. Aziz, stalking soundlessly after, had caught up with her halfway there. In the middle of the courtyard, they'd fought anew. Aziz, seizing her waist, had swung her in. Ambessa, kicking out, had knocked his legs from under him. Together, they'd fallen into the thatch of wildflowers behind the copse of cypress trees.

Their cries were not, Mel had realized with a dawning horror, cries of pain.

They'd been so preoccupied, they hadn't noticed her creeping closer. They'd not seen her stare, through the screen of foliage, as their fierce struggles devolved into a fiercer embrace. And as they did, a surreal alchemy took place: Ambessa, all wildfire and iron, began to melt. Aziz, all seaspray and stone, began to yield.

Mel, unable to tear her eyes away, saw the exact moment they transformed. A moment before, they'd been two warring elements. A moment later, they were one. And the power of it, the raw, unmitigated passion: it was a force beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old girl.

That day, Mel sometimes thinks, is when she'd learnt that the strongest forces can be unmade by desire.

Love, fear, fury: they were not, as she'd childishly believed, discrete entities. They were all part of a single current, ebbing and flowing, and changing course with the tides.

Later, much later, her parents had subsided into a languid sprawl. Ambessa's head, pillowed on her husband's shoulder. Aziz's fingers, stirring through his wife's curls. Their bodies, twined, were a study in drowsy contentment.

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

"Why should I," Ambessa had purred, "when I've already cut out your heart?"

"That you have. Now, it's yours."

Ambessa's lips, curving, had found his throat. "Then remember, Schatze, I'll do worse to any woman who dares to claim it."

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

And she'd meant it, Mel thinks now. Meant it in the way a warrior, who's seen a thousand battles, will fight her last. She'd fought him, and he'd fought her, and they'd taken shelter in each other. Over and over. For twenty years, their marriage was the stuff of legend: a dynastic alliance, and a private whirlwind. They'd begotten two children, lost two more before birth, and spawned a military empire.

Until their union, with the same suddenness as their collision, came undone.

Aziz had, during one of Ambessa's war-campaigns, chosen a mistress. This, in itself, was not unheard of. The men of the Tagonian line were notoriously philandering, and the woman of the Medarda clan were notoriously pragmatic. Ambessa, who'd not only kept her own paramours, but had changed them with the frequency of a Piltovan noblewoman changing her gloves, had never begrudged her husband his dalliances. She'd even handpicked a few herself, including the mistress Aziz so doted upon.

The choice had proven fatal.

She was a pretty thing, Mel remembers. Pale as a lily, and shrewd as a serpent. She'd beguiled Aziz with her beauty, and bound him with her wits. In the span of months, her hold on him grew implacable. By the time Ambessa, returning from a year-long absence, realized what had happened, the damage was done.

She'd discovered Aziz gone, along with three-fifths of their battleships.

Ambessa was not a woman prone to tears. Now, her fury was a black inferno. She'd raged, and she'd razed, and she'd sworn to see the mistress decapitated, with her golden head on a pike. Her pursuit of the wayward pair had been relentless, and the carnage, legendary. She'd burnt villages to the ground. She'd sunk fleets to the bottom of the sea.

And when, finally, she'd had the chance to close her fist around her husband's neck... it was too late.

Aziz had succumbed to a tropical fever. He'd been bedridden and delirious when his ship was waylaid by Ambessa's fleet. The mistress, by then, had already fled with whatever riches she could carry. 

When Ambessa had stormed into her husband's cabin, Aziz, on the verge of death, had mustered a crooked smile.

"My lioness," he'd rasped, "have you come to finish the job?"

Ambessa's fury, like a house of cards, had collapsed at the sight of him. She'd flung her scimitar aside, and fallen to her knees at her husband's bedside. His ramblings—of repentance, of devotion, of the children he'd left behind—had been shushed by her kisses. The entire night, she'd sat vigil, cajoling and bargaining and finally, begging.

To no avail.

Aziz had perished at dawn. He'd died, as he'd lived, with a smile on his lips.

For Ambessa, the fearsome general who'd won a hundred battles, this was the first true defeat. But she'd not wept, or wailed, or rent her hair. She'd only kissed Aziz's forehead, and smoothed his lids shut. Then, with a composure born of pure iron, she'd ordered his body laid out onto a wooden funeral bier, and floated out to sea, before it was set ablaze in the Targonian custom with five dozen flaming arrows.

When the sun had set, and the smoke had dissipated, she'd hefted her scimitar and turned her eyes to the horizon.

There are a thousand and one ways a Medarda avenges a slight.

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

Ambessa's troops had cornered the woman, in a tiny port town along the southern coast. By then, she'd spent every last coin she'd stolen from her dead lover, and had nothing left to offer in her defense. Not that coin would've made a difference. When Ambessa, flanked by her honor-guard, arrived at the tavern where her quarry was hiding, there'd been no mercy, and no negotiation. The woman, bound and gagged, was dragged to the center of town, and flung at the feet of her former benefactress.

"For my Schatze," Ambessa had vowed, "I'll make this slow."

And she did.

In front of the entire town, she'd cut out the woman's tongue, and plucked out her eyes. She'd hacked her fingers and her toes. She'd flayed her skin, and slit open her chest. And as the woman's life bled out, Ambessa had at last carved out her heart.

It was, in its ghastly way, a fitting recompense.

In the years afterward, Ambessa had grown harder. More ruthless. The light that once shone in her eyes—that strange, fierce light, whenever she'd looked at her husband—had flickered, and faded away. She'd gone on to wage numberless wars. She'd had lovers by the score.  She'd built a legacy, and an empire.

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

She'd still call him that, whenever she reminisced. The endearment was its own admission; the sentiment, its own confession.

Ambessa Medarda did not marry for love. But she'd loved, and lost, nonetheless.

Schatze.

Mel, in the heart of herself, knows the word. It is worth its weight in gold—and the poorest possible investment. Men, as a rule, are faithless. Even the ones who seem, in the sunlight, like perfect princelings. And sharks, as a law, never stop swimming. Even if the water's blue for miles.

To trust one is to invite hurt. And to trust the other is to invite teeth.

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

And yet, in the depths of passion, she trusts Silco with hers.

Because, in the afterglow, languid and spent, she sometimes calls him Schatze, too.

[scmantic]

is that (HANNAH SIMONE)? oh, no, that’s (RANIA CHADHA), a (FORTY-TWO)year old (NURSE AT VALPARAÍSO CENTRO MÉDICO) who uses (SHE/HER)pronouns. they currently live in (CASABLANCA), and the character they identify with most is (HELEN PARR FROM THE INCREDIBLES). hopefully they find their own little paradise here in el país de los poetas! 

BASICS 

full name: rania ahana chadha  hometown: london, england  sexuality: bisexual  birthday: september 10  zodiac: virgo sun, capricorn moon, virgo rising (i'm so sorry) height: 5’7”  languages spoken: english, spanish, french marital status: married  children: 10-year-old twins, sonia and zane   traits: nurturing, bold, focused, abrasive, defensive, stubborn

HISTORY tw anxiety

born in london to restaurant owners, rania grew up in the kitchen with her two younger brothers; while they caused trouble she kept them in line (in typical older sister virgo fashion), from a young age being the Responsible One and helping raise the younger ones

her parents were super busy, so she had a lot of responsibility from a young age, was the one getting her brothers up for school and making sure they were dressed and fed

she was a high achiever in school and was very ambitious from a young age, knowing immediately that she did not want to inherit the restaurant from her parents

her parents weren't super happy considering she was the ideal future owner and the MOST responsible child clearly, but they let her Follow Her Dreams of becoming a nurse

being under so much pressure to achieve and to help out wherever she could definitely took a toll and she has struggled with anxiety for most of her life, always anxious she isn't doing enough or is doing the wrong thing; there's always something to worry about

in college, she met her spouse after a particularly shitty, annoying breakup and has never looked back

she was always kind of ambivalent toward relationships and ~love~ until she met them, blames them for making her a softie (she's always been a softie)

they ended up in chile due to her partner's job about 15 years ago and it's safe to say this feels like her forever home, their twins were born here, they have a life here — rania loves it

loves being a mom, loves being a Working Mom and having a full schedule because if she's not moving then she feels like she's d*ing

PERSONALITY/FUN FACTS

biiiiig mama bear energy, protective as hell of her kids and pretty much anyone else she cares about

type a, perfectionist, will do everything herself just so it's Done Right

she DOES have a therapist and manages her anxiety, but she's still always buzzing, always moving, has lots of energy that she puts into work and the people around her

generally friendly and very sweet, doesn't know a stranger, but will not be sweet if you mess with her family

tough love advocate, does not beat around the bush

loves bad tv, show her a show that has too many seasons and terrible writing? she is SAT

stubborn, likes things to be her way, will be annoying if they're not

despite growing up in a restaurant, is a horrible chef, her kids audibly groan when she's the one making dinner

wears lots of jewelry (always gold), bunch of necklaces and rings

WC page found here pinterest found here

[ivoryielded]

( ROSAMUND PIKE, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER. ) could that really be MARILDA HIGHTOWER, NÉE CELTIGAR, the RULING LADY of OLDTOWN entering the keep ? king’s landing is sure to benefit from the FORTY-TWO year old’s ability to be both QUICK-WITTED and BUOYANT, but beware, whispers also say they have been known to be DECEPTIVE and INDULGENT. their loyalty belongs to HOUSE HIGHTOWER & THEMSELVES (SECRETLY TARGARYEN) and they are INDIFFERENT to the notion of peace throughout westeros.

name : marilda hightower, née celtigar. alias : mar. dob & age : seventh day of the sixth month; forty-two. gender and pronouns : cis woman; she / her. orientation : biromantic & bisexual. occupation : ruling lady hightower; was once a maid of honor for queen daenera targaryen. marital status : married to uthor hightower for twenty years. children : liela waters (21); from the hightower brood: owain (18), daenera "dany" (16), triston (13), orys (10), ceryse (8), bryndon (6). religious affiliation : the faith of the seven. pets : tba spoken languages : the common tongue, high valyrian, some bastardized versions of valyrian (lyseni, some bravoosi). appearance : long golden blonde hair; indigo eyes; 5'8. inspirations : tba zodiac : gemini sun, aries rising and sagittarius moon moral alignment : personality trait :

tw: pregnancy, child endargement and cruelty, parental abuse, arranged marriage.

lord aeron celtigar is a well known man — his fame is great for his wealth as well as for his sourness. however, not one nor the other mattered as much as his role: the old crab retained his position on the targaryen council since he was young for his way with money, an ability that maintained the coffers of the red keep always at least half-full.

marilda was his first daughter, and, from the moment she learned how to speak, one of the biggest thorns on his side. impetuous, loud and self-willed, she would not rest until she got what she wanted which, often, went right against what her father wanted. in claw isle, she'd get to all sorts of trouble: pestering the servants as they did their duty, stealing away horses, sneaking into visiting ships and begging captains how to sail herself.

as a means of easing the brat and keeping an eye on her, aeron brought her to court as a tween to serve as maid of honor to queen daenera. the queen, sweet and pliant, took the girl as her own but the effect daenera had on marilda was hardly the placating sort. though she learned all of the arts of the court, she also followed all of her passions, something that culminated when, at her early twenties, the grand maester announced marilda was with child.

whose child? she would not say. it was certainly not her betrothed's, the young lord hightower. eventually, it did not matter. she was whisked away to claw isle, her pregnancy kept hidden under several layers of clothing and, when the babe came to life, the child was given the surname waters. but of course, the babe was not to be marilda's bastard. no, lord aeron took it as his — as if anyone would ever go near his wilting corpse, marilda counter-attacked — and decided to finally ship marilda away to hightower, for her husband to handle; she was not to come back to court nor claw isle until he saw fit. if she refused, he swore he'd drown the child on the blackwater bay himself, and marilda would be next.

his convincing argument worked. she married uthor, even if she kept a pout about it for a good part of their first year as married folk; eventually, he won her over, giving her a proper courting, affection and an autonomy marilda had craved for years under her father's thumb. as lady hightower she became interested in the functions of oldtown; it was not the targaryen court, but there was plenty for her to marvel about. over the years, she's gained the reputation of being both a model and a benefactor to many artists and erudites, being used as the face for the mother, receiving plentiful book of hours in her honor and being claimed as a sort of model for good women, gods-fearing and good wives.

she enjoys the façade, truly. though she has learned to enjoy motherhood, there is always some sort of mask she's learned to use. she doesn't have to kick and scream to get her way anymore, as there other ways of getting what she wants, and she is hardly ever without getting what she wants, too. after twenty years as lady hightower, she's also learned patience, and, as much as she loathes to agree with her father, that she has a higher responsibility, that to her family, to her husband and her children. 

it was for them that she remained in distance during the rebellion, stuck within the hightower, watching as her former mistress and the children she knew as infants flee in order to save themselves from a horrible end. in fact, for her own family, she did worse: she laid on thick her loyalty to the new king, turning her back to both the targaryens and the celtigar (the later of which did bring her a spark of joy, but she wouldn't speak of it), smiling her way through the coronation of the stag king. 

there's something about biding time until things are right, it seems. when the targaryen, exiled and long forgotten, return to westeros, marilda takes them under their wing, much as once their mother had taken her. dying their hairs and giving them different names, they become their cousins, a shared bloodline with her mother from across sea, who gave marilda her purple eyes and, of course, gives them to her "cousins" as well. a dangerous move, but not without a hint of calculation from the hightowers' part.

[shakespear-picaso-lovechild]

Umm I haven't written much fanfiction before other than small dabbles!! And I have some ideas for Top gun x reader fics. So would anyone be interested in reading these?

Jake “Hangman” seresin x fem! reader ( Smut )

Tw: age gap, degradation, anal sex

Hangman’s wife has a naturally flirty personality, which gets her in trouble ;)

Top gun maverick gang (everyone) x Mitchell!reader (platonic)

Tw: underage drinking (readers 18-19)

It's the fourth of July and maverick lets his daughter have a few margaritas cause it's a small party with friends. This unfortunately leads to a very drunk teenager and a bunch of naval pilots having fun. (not sexual btw 😭)

Bob x wife!reader x hangman (smut

Tw: threesome, degradation, mlm sex

No plot for this one, just pure smut!!! But what I imagine is bob toping hangman as hangman fucks his wife!!!! Like hangman just beings their marital slut, I love the idea.

Also if anyone likes these ideas, please feel free to use them cause, most of the time they just stay ideas.

[gloriousncss]

{jeanine mason, thirty three, cis woman, she/her} We are so glad to see you safe, PRINCESS MARIA ORTIZ of SPAIN! It’s dangerous out in the world these days, but I hear that you are PROUD and ADAPTABLE enough to handle it. Just don’t let your BRUTALITY bring you down! Stay on your guard, because with your secret being at risk for exposure, you wouldn’t want everyone to find out YOU ARE ONE OF THE LEADERS OF THE ANTI-MONARCHISTS IN SPAIN.

Basics:

Name: Maria Esmeralda Ortiz Title: Crown Princess of Spain Age: 33 Birthday: January 25th (Aquarius) Sexuality: Heterosexual Marital Status: Unbetrothed Positive Traits: Proud, adaptable, creative, loyal, decisive Negative Traits: Violent, short-tempered, bold, cunning, vengeful. Hobbies: Painting, fencing, swimming Family: Pirate Esmeralda (birth mother), Duchy of Barcelona (adopted parents, deceased), King of Spain (adopted brother), Queen of Spain (sibling-in-law), Prince Joaquim (adopted brother), Prince/Princess/Royals of Spain (adopted siblings).

Physical Attributes:

Height: 5'5" Hair Color: Black Hair Length: Just past the shoulders, but mostly worn up anyway Hair texture: Thick and wavy Eye Color: Dark Brown Markings/Tattoos: a bull on her left shoulder blade, two crossed daggers on her right shoulder, a wave on her left wrist, a rose on her left ankle, two swimming coy fish yin and yang style on her right ankle Accent: Spanish Languages Spoken: Spanish, English Skin Texture: Course, rough, calloused

Prologue: (murder tw)

She was born from the waves, or at least that's the poetic metaphor her parents came up with to explain how she came into their lives. The brutal truth was that she came from a shipwreck with absolutely no memory of any previous life at the tender age of 5 years old. The only evidence of her old life was a medallion with the name "Esmeralda" engraved on the back. It was lucky that the Duchys of Barcelona came across her and claimed her as their second child, calling her "Maria", as they found her in the water. Maria was a difficult, yet devoted child. Having younger siblings, as she grew older, only made it easier for her to sprinkle her bad influence all over them, taking them out to bars, going out with sailors, and getting into all sorts of trouble. But the more time she spent with the locals and villagers outside of the palace walls, the more she heard stories of how oppressive and terrible the other countries in Europe were to those who had no choice but to steal for themselves. It motivated her, studying politics and seeking justice for the serf class. However, the one thing she could not shake was how she could do nothing from her little chateau. When the Bonaparte's were discovered having stolen money from her family, she was furious that those in power were far too selfish and greedy. Becoming a princess in their place made it no better. All she saw was corrupt power replacing more corrupt power. Soon, the family she adored would also, soon, be just as bad as the Bonaparte's. Helplessness was no friend to Maria, and so she stole away at the age of 27 and was never to be seen again. For nearly five years, Maria wore a hood over her face and commanded her own crew of bandits and pirates, even recruiting another defiant royal just like herself as her right hand. She was known as "Esmeralda", the name she assumed would be her birth mother's. She stole from those who were more fortunate, gave to those who were less fortunate, and kept a sum of the prophet to herself. It was a seemingly perfect life until a battle against another crew resulted in the deaths of her men, all but her right hand woman. The hurt of those losses took her nowhere else but back home to Spain. It was the only solution; go back to Madrid, mend the bond with her family, and dismantle the monarchy from the inside.

Chapter 1: Lal Qila

Maria was practically dragged to Lal Qila. She made promises to do better for her family and the king and queen made her follow through on it by tasking her with finding a husband to prove her loyalty to the Spanish crown. Be that as it may, she made no effort in the slightest to do that. Instead, she proceeded with her work in stealing from all of the royals in the palace and giving the valuables to the poor in the village. Hardly anyone noticed their possessions were gone at all. It was just for the benefit of the people, not thinking twice about what could happen to the revolutionaries and the abolitionists, what they might do. Her interest in sparking the rebellion began again when she encountered an old friend, a revolutionary, whom she met on her travels. Suddenly, the walls of Lal Qila were penetrated and lives were lost on that fateful day in the name of the anti-monarchists. She knew a life without the crown would be better for everyone, but she didn't want so man lives to be lost, so many families to be torn apart. The point of her mission was to free families from the crown, not destroy them. She couldn't help but feel the sting of guilt and used the first strike of chaos to run away back to Spain.

After The Reckoning:

In her guilt, Maria stayed hidden in the palace for some time, turning her attentions to finding out who the real Esmeralda was. After turning up with nothing for two months, she could hardly stand being within the palace any longer, and she set out back into the villages. It felt like her real home, sitting in the village pubs with nothing on her head but a hood, ditching her fairytale princess dress for trousers and a sword, singing songs of freedom and justice with the pub singers. There was still hope without destruction, if only Maria could take hold of the reigns and lead. She pledged herself, Maria Esmeralda Ortiz, to the Revolutionaries in Spain under secrecy (and threat of exposure if they revealed her identity). She started by having her revolutionaries spread propaganda all across the country, and even reaching out to rebels in bordering nations so that the whole continent will sing of freedom and justice too. The Bonaparte family is threatening to rise to power, which will throw Maria off her seat of power to properly control and lead this rebellion. A Bonaparte on the throne will only set Spain back miles behind her plan, and so she is here to stop this uprising. Though she claims the Ortiz family is the rightful family for the throne, she only means to secure her power so she can burn it in hopes of saving all royal families from tearing themselves apart for something as useless as a crown.

TLDR: She doesn't know it, but she is the child of a pirate queen called Esmeralda, and her birth siblings is out there trying to find her. Her mother died in a heated battle between pirate crews. She was washed up on shore with no memory of the raid and the Spanish Duchy of Barcelona adopted her as their second child. She loves her family but also has a fierce sense of justice, which is what took her away from home for 5 years. She met a bestie and had her own crew of outlaws, but that all went awry when another crew killed them all save for Maria and her right hand woman. Maria came home and wanted to set things right with the intent of dismantling the monarchy, but she had to get engaged to make up for it. Thankfully, the reckoning got her out of it and, instead, she spent the last year spreading abolitionist propaganda and is also searching for her birth mother.

Similar Characters: Tulio (El Dorado), Mama Imelda (Coco), Emma Swan (Once Upon a Time), Ember Lumen (Elemental), Tzipporah (Prince of Egypt), Angelica (Pirates of the Carribbean), Anya (Anastasia), Chani (Dune)

[milos-journal]

The Asher Family (TW: TribeTwelve)

Ok, long post, I'm gonna talk a lot. scroll on by or just skim for art if you do not care. Second, TribeTwelve post. TW for that. Lastly, I want to say that this post is a character analysis/my opinions on the Ssher family (Milo, Mary and Robert) so this kind of thing is gonna get gross in subject matter. TW for talks of abuse (specifically marital abuse and child abuse), cults (fictional), drugging, suicide, self harm, and a potential plethora of other topics. tread lightly.

Ok, now that that's out of the way, hello! This is just me babbling about underrated characters and giving hot takes that may cause debate or not, we'll see. It's also me showing off the designs I did for each of these bastards. VERY self indulgent, just something I wanted to make. If this post does well, I may do a post on Noah (or rather, the Noahs, plural) because I have a lot to say on him as well. I don't know how to cleverly segue this.

Milo Asher / Mr. Scars

I feel like it's important to start with Milo, half so that people can decide if I'm insane a quarter way through these paragraphs and either keep reading or scroll, and half because a lot of Mary and Robert's notes are going to elaborate on Milo since everything in TribeTwelve is tightly linked together.

From a writing perspective, Milo is one of, if not the character in TribeTwelve with the most depth. We get an almost whole life read on him and we see the trauma that made him the person he is and what lead to his suicide. However, what is interesting about the journal is the Noah notes, and moreso, how dismissive Noah is.

Something Adam does in his writing that I'm not a huge fan of is explain away all potential mental illness Milo and Noah certainly have and goes "It's from slenderman!! Collective influence!!" when a lot of it is much more nuanced. Milo at the least has PTSD and anxiety, and that's the least. Given the childhood trauma of being thrown into cults as a worshipped being, or given the drugging, or being beat as a kid and watching his mother get beat, he definitely has something wrong, whether or not it wants to be admitted.

Milo being "completely fine" despite overdosing on anti depressants and consistently shown with fresh SH scars feels like this weird glorification of mental illness.

But with that amount of trauma and horrific occurrences, something that is not exemplified enough, is Milo never fully heals from this trauma. He instead internalizes it (which, within his scenario, is his only choice) with no outlet, which makes his moral compass towards the end of Milo's Journal very interesting to say the least.

Milo Asher is absolutely a morally grey character. However, being from Noah's perspective the whole story (to the point where all the Milo centric content is literally annotated by Noah with his own thoughts on the matter) he is a consistently praised character. A lot of the story parades that Milo has done no wrong, simply because he's troubled and traumatized and Noah holds him dear. However, I feel like the entries "Mockingbird" and "Institute" are perfect examples of how unhealed trauma manifests unhealthily.

While many may argue Mary deserved every bit of what happened to her, which, in some ways she did, I think the best way to see everything is to pretend Noah Maxwell isn't there. Which sounds weird, but try to read everything wholly unbiased. In Institute especially it feels almost dirty the way its written, all of Milo's words are covered in this grime he has no guilt for. Did Mary deserve it? Yes, kinda, we get more into Mary later. Is it alarming how Milo had no regard for his or her safety, ruined a marriage, grinned as his mother got hit and swore at by his step father, and then beat the shit out of her and went "Well, she deserved it, so.."? Absolutely, it's very alarming. And, because of the fact everything is from Noah's perspective, not only canon but Tribetwelve's active fanbase puts Milo on this weird pedestal of martyr, how he can do virtually no wrong. I don't know, I'd love to see more of Milo Asher in this grim light, but not exactly demonized. But, this talk of moral greyness and unpacked trauma brings me to my next topic.

Milo's Journal almost entirely focusses on the topic of generational trauma in the Slenderverse, which I find very interesting. Within Slenderverse, there are a couple occurrences of protagonists wanting or even having kids, but often something happens that blocks them from having kids or something happens to said kid. However, Milo's Journal explores this concept of what would happen to a kid being haunted by Slenderman with a parent of the same affliction. It makes me wonder what a fully fledged Milo who ended up with a partner and kids would've been like. With none of that trauma unpacked and all choked down, would he end up just like Mary? Somehow better or worse? With the amount of trauma brought onto Mary (more on that later) that trickles onto Milo, it makes some very interesting writing.

Really quick I want to talk about Mr. Scars, just as a character, and how much wasted potential he is. I genuinely wish he had one of two routes, he either was a full and complete villain, creating this psychological horror by being haunted of a lost loved one who literally wants you dead, or for him to be a villain for Mary when she was younger. The villain for Mary route is interesting because it explains why she so desperately wanted to know who Mr. Scars is while also keeping up this theme of generational trauma. I feel like so much potential for both Mr. Scars and Milo is completely unused, and honestly, same goes for the rest of the Ashers.

Do what you will with my thoughts, have the design I did for Milo. I think I didn't do half bad. Tumblr MURDERED my quality, hopefully clicking on it will do it better.

I did not plan on writing this much, so I'm gonna put a cut here. If you're curious about Mary and Robert, that'll be under it.

Mary Asher/Cursor

Alright, this is deep shit now, and mostly speculation. Most of my writing from here on out will be VERY reliant on some of the old Milo's Journal and Sebastian's Journal leaks. You can find those here. (Yes, it's a download. It's a PDF file.) You don't need to read them to enjoy this post, but it's good for if you want a source on a lot of my opinions on Mary and Robert.

Actually into the bullshit now, I want to start by saying I do not think ANYTHING Mary did was okay, and almost everything she did was volatile and inexcusable. Holy fucking shit she's an underrated villain. And so many people brush her off and go "She was mean to Milo, she's the worst!" in the same breath as sucking HABITs toes, so I feel like it's only fair to give her a chance.

She, unlike a lot of the villains in TribeTwelve, has motive. From what we know about the journal Mary kept herself, she went through some TOUGH shit. A lot of her actions can be seen as preventative measures in her mind, a lot of it probably felt like simple protection to her. This does not make her actions valid, of course, but she probably was going through logical steps in her mind, especially since at the same time she was manipulated by a cult.

Need to sacrifice someone and the cult demands it? Have a kid! Kid's experiencing inexplicable paranormal activity that aligns with a cult messiah? He must be special, take him to meetings. Kid exhibiting disturbing behavior she had when she was a kid and at the same time the cult conveniently has pills to help it? It's natural, Milo needed to be protected.

My point is, a lot of her logic is there, even it doesn't track to most. And of course just because there's logic doesn't make it right, I just wish people thought on Mary more. Saw her as more of an interesting villain, y'know? Thought of her with more dimension past cruel and abusive.

I also forget to note, just putting it as a one off note, she was abused by pretty much all of her partners in some way with exception of Robert and John, or what we know of them. It doesn't connect to anything, just wanted to say it before I call it quits on the rant yada yada here's Mary. Quality got eaten.

Robert Asher / Scriniarii

I love Robert Asher as a character despite the fact we know NOTHING about him, and the fact we don't is a literal crime because what we know is so intriguing.

First, we know that Scriniarii is in his archival position without want, when he joins the TribeTwelve discord and nobody is helping him he exclaims "LOOK I DONT WANT TO DO THIS FUCKING JOB. I DID NOT ASK FOR THIS SHIT!" So, Firebrand or someone else forced him into this position. This doesn't help that he mentions he'll be "punished" by Firebrand for talking out of term. Here's the screenshot in question.

Second, we have no idea if Scriniarii is just a pen name or Robert ascended. Whether or not he is a collective member is very ambiguous. It's heavily implied he's ascended and outside the loop but still he could be some guy also.

Third, we know Robert is in the Order. In a screenshot I sadly do not have, he talks about how the order took his family and ruined his life. It is further confirmed in Wizards, when it says "I asked mommy why we have to go to two churches now and she says it’s to get closer to Daddy and closer to God."

All of this information together is so interesting. Did him and Mary meet through the order? (Update, apologies on misinfo for that question in specific, we have canon confirmation they did not and met beforehand) If so, was he on board with the child sacrifice? What about his command under Firebrand, how is he "punished" and how much control does Firebrand have over him? For those who were not part of the TTD while it was running and really wanna know more, The SCRINIARII Code is super useful for a good summary. I swear I had a good archive of the discord screenshots but apparently I don't, so thats the best you get.

Congrats! You got so far into the bullshit you get the final piece of art. Quality looks like he got chewed up and spat out.

That should be it for now. Again, if this post does really well and/or if people are interested, I will TOTALLY make more. Do what you will with my takes, write weird fanfic, call me dogshit, I don't care. Thanks for even reading this far. It means a lot.

[jackwallce]

stats

Name: Jack Wallace Nicknames: none that he really goes by now, but in his group of friends in school, there were two Jacks, so he was often referred to as Wallace or Wally and will respond to it as reflexively as he would his actual first name Gender: cismale Pronouns: he/him Age: 29 Birthday: August 7, 1994 Marital status: single/widower Occupation: carpenter & artist on indefinite hiatus

quick facts

tw: car accident, death, drug and alcohol use

born in London, dad skipped out early because he wasn't ready to be a father but became a father again very shortly after ditching his first family. he moved to America to be with his new wife and son and Jack and his mom did their best to just barely make ends meet.

young Jack was incredibly street smart, sometimes swiping a few bucks here and there from unsuspecting people, but he also came by money with honest work like mowing lawns and washing cars

he met and became friends with his elderly neighbor where he learned how to do so many useful things by helping around the old man's house

he made a career out of construction, but he still supplemented his income when work was hard to come by

it was how he meant his would-be wife, Elise. initially, he'd planned on charming some money right out of her bag, but instead she'd charmed him. he took her back to his place and she found his secret stash of paintings he'd done and she'd Seen them in the way that any artist longs to be seen. he went full simp from there on out

the two were married just a year after meeting and Jack's whole life changed. she was his person and together, they began to build a life fuller than anything he could have imagined for himself. her career was just beginning and he was gearing up to open a gallery— sharing his paintings something he'd sworn he'd never do— when it all came to a screeching halt. A driver not paying enough attention ran a red light, and that was all it took to lose her.

Jack didn't handle her death well. he went heavy into all the wrong coping mechanisms. basically went on an almost two year long bender before his father stepped in. they'd only begun speaking again because Elise had encouraged him to reach out, so he didn't really want anything to do with him. but his friends and family decided he needed an intervention so he reluctantly agreed to go back to America with his father

first, he spent a few months traveling alone, sobering up, and giving himself time to actually feel his feelings. but as of a few weeks ago, he moved to starlight oaks where his brother and dad live and he's settling in and figuring out what life looks like in the After.

background

tw: car accident, death, drug and alcohol use

Jack grew up in a borough just outside of central London called Barking and Dagenham, but to save himself the trouble, he'll just call it London. It was a small, ramshackle flat that he and his mum shared with an extended family of roaches and a heater that only worked a quarter of the time. His father'd ditched them before his second birthday. He hadn't been ready for fatherhood and he wasn't cut out to be a father and blah, blah, blah. It was funny, then, that shortly after he left them for his new wife in America, they'd welcomed a child he had been ready for.

As Jack grew older and those weekly calls with his dad became monthly became bi-monthy became basically obsolete, he was learning how to game a system that had been working against him since before he was even born. His mum didn't make much money, hadn't technically finished school, and didn't have the desire to try to reach any higher. So, Jack learned that if he wanted to eat dinner every night or outgrew his clothes, he needed to get crafty. As a kid, that meant nimble fingers and begging neighbors to let him mow their lawns. He was a smooth talker by nature and made a best friend in the form of his seventy-six year old neighbor, Arthur.

Arthur took up the space in Jack's heart where a father was supposed to go. As Arthur grew older and began to lose mobility, he taught Jack everything he knew about... well, everything, really. He learned how to build, he learned how to run electricity, learned how to work on cars. He really became a jack of all trades— a pun he's heard way too many times.

Jack was seventeen when Arthur passed. He was devastated, of course, even knowing it was a fast-approaching inevitability. But the old man had given him the tools to make a decent life for himself. Contracting work wasn't as consistent as he might have liked, but he scraped by just fine. Sticky fingers and a clever tongue could supplement him when he really needed it. So it was fine. He was fine.

Elise was never supposed to happen. It'd been a one night stand, a mark he'd planned to swindle for a few bucks that she clearly had in excess, but he's surprised him with her quick wit. She'd been charming, the conversation effortless, and when he'd brought her back to his place, she'd stumbled upon a passion that he nurtured in secret.

She found his paintings. And she'd gotten his vision. He'd watched her watching the paintings, watched her mouth as she spoke aloud everything he'd been feeling as he'd painted them, and he was pretty sure he'd fallen in love with her right then.

It was a whirlwind romance, married after only a year. No one believed in a reformed party boy, but when you know, you know. And Jack knew. For three years, they built their lives together. She was pursuing a career in nursing and he was in the process of opening a gallery to display and sell art he'd once sworn would never see the light of day. They settled easily into that kind of life that makes you aware of just how grateful you should be. And he was.

For a lifetime, he was grateful. But you never consider just how short a lifetime can be. One day, she's pulling weeds in the garden, and the next, a car runs a red light and your last words to her were "drive safe, see you soon".

Jack's world ended the day he lost his wife. He became untethered, burying himself in vices to numb the pain that was too overwhelming, too painful, to let in. He carried on like that for a year, his friends lost on how to help him, Jack insistent that he wouldn't take their help if they did offer it.

After almost two years of self-destruction, something unexpected happened: Jack's father came to England. They didn't have much of a relationship. Jack could fix anything, it seemed, but that. Any progress they had made in the last few years had been all his wife's doing, so that had been the last person Jack wanted to see. It'd been the intervention that had done him in in the end. He'd been ambushed by a handful of friends and family, his mom and dad sharing the same space for the first time in nearly twenty-six years. It'd taken a lot of convincing and even more subtle threats to get him to agree to go back to America. He had family there: a father, a brother, a step mom. He had a fresh start, a place where she didn't haunt every corner.

Leaving felt like abandoning her, but even Jack knew it was for the best. It had taken someone telling him Elise would have hated to see him acting like he was, so he took a few months to travel America alone and finally let himself sit with his feelings. He was both ready and not ready at all to settle into Starlight Oaks, right into his father's home while he found his feet. Once he stopped moving, it was real.

It was finally time to move on.

connections

TBA! (aside from his brother which will be a wc i send to the main), but he's new to town so open to everything!!

[mermaidsirennikita]

First of all - absolutely love your blog! Do you have any recs for a second chance romance (specifically married couple) where maybe the couple has issues/emotional distance but maybe find their way back to one another through sex?

Thank you! I appreciate it.

The Lady Who Came in from the Cold by Grace Callaway has a couple basically split after the hero finds out that his wife of like 12 years has a past as a spy, which she never told him about. Their trust issues are definitely resolved in part through sex. TW: past sexual assault, attempted sexual assault in the present

Winterblaze by Kristen Callihan. Paranormal historical, hero and heroine have been married 14 years and separate after he finds out she was lying to him about being a witch (and the existence of the paranormal, like, in general). There's a whole plot, but they do initially reconnect because they just really want to fuck each other. LOVE this book, one of my favorite marriage in trouble novels.

Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage by Jennifer Ashley is probably the purest example of this. Hero and heroine have been separated for three years due to general marital/emotional issues exacerbated by a miscarriage (TW) but come back into contact and can't resist falling into bed again, which leads to them emotionally reconnecting.

The Day of The Duchess by Sarah MacLean has the hero and heroine separate for years after he cheats on her and she has a late term pregnancy loss (to be clear: not because of the cheating directly) but when she comes back demanding a divorce, he requests that she help him find his next wife first... which of course is a ploy to get her back. Their physical attraction to each other is a big part of it.

Return to Monte Carlo by Cate C. Wells. In this case, the hero and heroine marry in part because of their immediately powerful sexual chemistry, but separate because she feels so emotionally disconnected and unhappy with him. She runs off, and he tracks her down months later only to find her pregnant with his kid; he drags her back to Italy, and the sexual chemistry has... not abated lol.

[warwickroyals]

would anything have prevented james from dying, like stepping down as prince of danforth or family members being home? (weren't tatiana and the boys out on a trip when james died?) i know philip has the reputation of being the "troubled" one, but how long had james been suffering?

Yes, James's death was fully preventable and all that really needed to happen was for the "people upstairs" (aka Louis's team of sycophants that run Chester Palace) to stage an intervention for him to get some sort of mental care or have him hospitalized. Schuyler and James's team were on board with getting him help and trying to spin a narrative afterwards, however, Louis's coms team actively blocked this because they were worried that James's image would be damaged if the media found out he was in and out of a mental hospital.

They also convinced Louis that James was not actually "that bad" and Louis believed them. You have to understand, Louis's comms team is comprised of the people who originally saved his marriage and reputation after FarrahGate: he trusts these people with his life and he and Irene value their opinions like they are facts.

Another thing that prevented this was the fact that James was also insisting that he wasn't "that bad" which leads to another issue: James was very good at hiding his mental health problems and he never talked about it with anyone outside of maybe Tatiana and, oddly, enough Queen Katherine, his paternal grandmother. He was very different from Phillip, who often lashed out specifically because he wanted attention, James felt very embarrassed and was fearful of being "exposed" as some sort of fraud, so you can imagine getting him to actually open up would be hard.

I don't think James would have needed to step down. He wouldn't have wanted to because it would leave Nicholas, a minor, as heir (Ironic because that's what happened anyway, but I think in James's mind there was a difference between ending everything and giving up his birthright—what he was raised for—and still having a life afterwards).

I think he literally just needed a chance to get away, relax, get the treatment he needed for a year or maybe two, and divide his workload among other members of the family. He would also need to have his family change how they operate on an interpersonal level. At the time of his death, he was basically working non-stop and was involved in trying to fix several problems within the family and institution before they blew up into scandals (like Phillip and Courtney's marital issues, for example). It was too much stress added on top of a man who already had a history of depression from a family with a history of mental health problems. His depression also began to fuck up his relationship with Tatiana as well, so then there's that: It was like all the factors were stacked against him.

TW suicide below the cut

I think that James was probably struggling with depression for decades, but it worsened with age, especially when he began to realize that Louis was getting older and wouldn't be around forever.

Once it kind of "clicked" in James's mind that he wanted to die (this would have been in January 2017, around his 40th birthday) it was already too late. That was his point of no return. He became very peaceful between then and September, so much so that Tatiana mistakenly thought he was getting better. In reality, he was just feeling a sense of resolution while he was finalizing his will and leaving instructions for his funeral.

The family typically spends late June through to the end of August at Collingwood, the King's summer retreat. They leave Collingwood almost always on August 31 and resume public work just after Labour Day. James and his family own a cottage on the Collingwood Estate, you'll notice in posts set at Collingwood that there's the main castle looming in the background of the actual cottage where James would have lived.

On August 31, Tatiana and the boys returned to the city, but James claimed that he still had stuff to sort out at Collingwood. He promised his family he'd meet up with them in a day or two, and they honestly thought nothing of it since James is so meticulous that something like this wasn't out of character for him. This was James isolating himself from his family because: 1) he didn't want to traumatize them further or have them discover him after the fact and 2) he was ensuring no one could stop him.

Also note: that's the reason why Tatiana hangs out so much at Collingwood now that she's an empty nester: that's where she feels close to him. She also feels a lot of guilt for not insisting he stay close, which is sad since there's nothing Tatiana could have done to stop in the grand scheme:

Had Tatiana been able to stop him on September 1, he would have just waited until September 15, if someone stopped him on the 15th he'd have waited until October. So, I think it would have been instrumental for him to have gotten help before he reached that point something that, sadly, did not happen.

[chwenotchoi]

[ kim tae-ri, cis female, she/her ] - was that CHOI HYE-JIN i saw by the lighthouse today? i heard that the TWENTY SEVEN year old who has been in nightrest for A MONTH and works as a/an HOSTESS has a reputation of being CHARMING, but also DECEITFUL. they reside in ASHMORE & people in town usually associate them with RED LIPSTICK, BLACK CATS, and WILTED ROSES. let’s hope the killer doesn’t go after them next.

*taps into the mic* hello, hello. is this thing on?

hi! i'm dee, your new (favorite) provider of all-things angsty! i am so excited to be here and to write with all of you :--) without further ado, let me write a very... brief introduction for my baby, hye-jin! <3

tw: abandonment, murder, sexual harassment, all things illegal

full name: choi hye-jin nickname/s: jinnie, yeji birth date: october 5, 1995 age: 27 years old birth place: daegu, south korea marital status: single blood type: o zodiac sign: libra mbti personality type: entj

choi hye-jin is the eldest daughter of a notorious criminal (choi duri) and a well-known businesswoman (song eun-jung) in daegu. her mother's family, of course, did not approve of this. it resulted for them to use their influence to get rid of hye-jin and her father. luckily, the two managed to escape with the help of the gang he's involved with.

hye-jin and her father lived in incheon. this is also where he met park do-yun, the only daughter of the gang leader in the said city. he loved her dearly, and eventually had a son when hye-jin was 9 years old. right after giving birth, do-yun did not survive as she lost a huge amount of blood during labor.

this leads to duri losing the love of his life, as well as his mind. he did all things to distract himself from being reminded that do-yun passed away. he was never home, leaving hye-jin to take care of the boy while their father did whatever he wanted outdoors. this went on for years!

aside from becoming the gang's greatest member, he would also cause trouble from left to right. his gang is there to back him up of course, but there are also times where in a young hye-jin would be the one to help him clean up his mess.

when she was 15, she had a fight with her dad who came home drunk and angry. he was screaming at her, blaming her for every miserable thing that had happened in his life. from being exiled in his hometown to losing the love of his life. hye-jin never understood why she was the one to blame, especially when she was just at home, taking care of her step-brother and providing everything that she can. she worked different jobs while studying, since their father barely gave anything to support them.

as expected, hye-jin eventually got involved with her father's line of work. it pays good money, and she would do anything to survive. from scamming to injuring people, you can count on her. just make sure you have the means to pay for her services.

the gang's leader eventually saw the potential in hye-jin. he made sure hye-jin had everything she could need, in exchange of her loyalty to him. this was a deal that she could never say no to. so whatever it is that he wanted her to do, she's got it covered.

this includes getting rid of duri. who has been stealing money from the gang and cause nothing but trouble lately. but since hye-jin is known for getting the job done efficiently, she was the one assigned to execute choi duri.

definitely, it was a difficult job for the girl. she was barely 18 and that is her father. but she would rather have him dead rather than penniless and hungry. she was offered a huge amount of money for this. which is honestly more than enough to support her and her younger brother. the gang's leader keeps his word. and he also assured her that they will be moving somewhere far away once she gets it done.

and so she did. the next thing she knows is that she was watching her father bleed to death. other members of the gang took care of the body, while she was packing her things. what she did not know about the whole deal is that her younger brother will not be joining her.

she moved to a different continent at the age of 19. of course, still supported and funded by the leader of the gang she's in. she was able to get into college and live a pretty normal life. she just wished that she can still take care and see her younger brother.

but every now and then, she is still assigned to do things for him. she would spy on people, steal expensive jewelry, and even kill whoever did the gang leader wrong. all that tasks done without any traces that would lead to her.

she is definitely a pro at all things illegal. with her very innocent looks, everyone would not believe that she can do such thing. and everyone will always pick her side because... she mastered the look of being helpless too. a true cunning queen!

she also completed her degree in culinary! she can cook, she can kill. A GIRLBOSS!

eventually, she worked at a well-known hotel. her skills and dedication made it easy for her to become a head chef in three years. she took her time, but as she was about to get promoted, one of the executives of the said hotel sexually harassed her after work. knowing hye-jin's skills in that department... she had this man dead too.

she made sure that it looked like it was suicide. luckily, there were no security cameras on where it happened, and she knew the hotel like the back of her hand. she just cleaned up her mess, neat enough to ensure that the man looked like he killed himself. the next day, hye-jin came to work early and acted as if she discovered the body. this was so well-orchestrated. this lead to her resignation and eventually moved to the small town of nightrest.

she wanted to live a more lowkey life now, so she works as a very friendly hostess at spirits!

personality wise, hye-jin is can be a little snobbish. she's literally a black cat personified. but if you get on her good sides... you're lucky.

she also lives in ashmore because her bank account never runs out of money (thanks to her work and her illegal sidelines hehe)

i think that's about it! i'm pretty open for any sort of plot with her since she's new around town! let me know what you think :) tnx 4 having me here <3

[theladyofdeath]

Lady Death's Lover {VII}

Lady Death's Lover Masterlist & Summary

19th Century Period AU Nesta x Cassian Secret Affair / Enemies to Lovers / Forbidden Romance Fanfiction / Characters from Sarah J Maas / ACOTAR B ased on a prompt sent in by anonymous

A/N: I meant to post this, like, a week ago...but I have to admit that I've been pretty down lately. It's not been a good mental health week. I apologize for the delay! Now that the school year is in full swing, I may only be posting one chapter a week instead of two. Thank you all so much for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy! x

TW: marital abuse, sexual content, language, depression, alcohol abuse

This story is for readers 18+. Mature readers only. Content should not be read by anyone under 18.

Dear Gwyn,

Emerie and I missed you this last tea. She told me all about her recent travels and now we must wait to hear all about yours once you return. Selfishly, I am glad you will not be gone for long. I swear, I am living vicariously through you and Emerie. I absolutely adore hearing about all the two of you see and do beyond the borders of Velaris. I will not spoil all that Emerie told me for I am certain you wish for her to tell you herself.

I will, however, briefly mention something that I shared. In all honesty, I’m a bit embarrassed about it. No one will ever know about it with the exception of the two of you. There is…a man. This man keeps popping into my mind and just yesterday he popped into my carriage as well. Although, I believe I am to blame for that. It was storming and I offered him shelter. However, that is not the issue. The issue is that, on multiple occasions now, I have felt towards this man. I do not need to tell you how troubling that is. 

I have not acted on these feelings, of course, but when he is near I lose all sense of myself and my duties. It seems silly. I do not know him, not truly. Perhaps I am simply lonely and find him handsome, that is all. At least, I hope that is all. 

Please burn this letter once you have read it and write back soon.

With love,

Nesta

Nesta

The sun is shining and the air is warm but I am absolutely miserable. I have been dragged to yet another social dinner alongside my husband. I am on his arm pretending to be the most loyal, loving wife, but inside I am raging. I feel like a caged animal ready to attack, only my target is my husband and that will simply not do.

Apparently, such thoughts are frowned upon.

Unsure of what this dinner is actually for, my mind has already become vacant once we reach our chairs. We are seated across from a few of Tomas’ business partners and their wives, high ranking members of the ton like ourselves. I let the men talk and for once I am grateful for it. If we women were to talk, I would have nothing kind to say to these women. In fact, I would surely say something to them that would get me smacked by the man on my arm.

My husband has never liked my sharp tongue. I figured that out quite quickly. 

It had been less than twenty-four hours into our marriage, the morning after our wedding, our consummation, when he first struck me. He entered my bedchamber and was appalled that I was still nude from the night before. I asked him why he did not like my body, while he was ashamed of my nakedness when it was he that stripped me bare the night before. His response was to throw a nightgown at me and tell me to cover up. He said that no woman should be bare in daylight that is not a whore.

I refused to put the gown on.

And then he hit me.

From that moment, not even twenty-four hours after we had said our vows, I knew my marriage would never be one full of love. 

We eat and the food is decent. The roasted chicken is flavorful and the vegetables have just enough crunch to be satisfying. Tomas does not allow me to drink the wine, but I long for it, just to help me get through the evening until I am safely alone in my room once more with only the company of a good book. 

Unable to make eye contact with the women across from me, my gaze drifts further down the table and my breathing halts. 

I hadn’t even realized he was here. I was so deep within my own thoughts and misery that I hadn’t taken account of who else was present with the exception of those seated across from us. He must have arrived after we did.

As if he can feel my eyes on him, his eyes swivel to mine. 

Lord Cassian is dressed in all his finery and it suits him, strangely. He is always dressed finely, but I still imagine him as a man that is naturally a bit unkempt. I would like to see that version of him.

I give him a polite nod.

He returns the gesture. 

I turn to Tomas to see if he notices my distraction but he is in an enthusiastic conversation with the man beside him — a man whose name I’ve forgotten. He must be important for some reason. 

I try not to look back at Cassian, I truly do, but I can feel him staring. My thoughts drift back to our time in my carriage. Although the ride was short, there was more excitement in that ride than I’ve had with any man in years. Thankfully we arrived at his home before anything could have happened.

And I fear that if the ride had continued any longer, something would have happened. I know such a thing is blasphemy, but I cannot help but wonder what it would be like.

To be ravished by a man like Lord Cassian. 

I look at him once more. His jaw is hard, his eyes dark, as if he knows the thoughts that are running through my mind. I reach for my glass of wine before I remember I do not have one, that my husband does not trust me to drink. 

Realizing I’ve been locking eyes with a lord who is not my husband for far too long, I focus on my empty plate. Still, I can feel his gaze linger, can feel his eyes roaming my body, begging me to look his way. I do not, can not.

Suddenly, I feel like I cannot breathe. The room has grown too hot and I feel as if I am suffocating. Luckily, everyone around the table has begun to rise. I believe the owner of this home, whoever he is, has offered to show everyone something he deems extravagant. Tomas tells me to stay with the other ladies while he goes off to see this extravagant piece of uselessness and leaves me be.

I take the opportunity to get far, far away. 

After sneaking through multiple winding hallways, I find myself outside and in the gardens. The early evening air is cool and welcoming as the sun begins its descent. I immediately find peace in the silence.

The silence evaporates too quickly. 

“Lady Nesta, are you alright?”

I spin around to see, of course, Lord Cassian. He’s standing casually, with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s not smiling. In fact, he looks concerned. 

“Yes, of course,” I reply, trying my best to remain unaffected. “You should return to the party.”

“The men have gone to see Lord Kallias’ new hunting trophies.” He shrugs and I want to laugh at how informal he seems. “I do not care to see such things. I care more to see how you are faring after looking so miserable for the past hour.” 

I snort. “And here I thought I was good at hiding my emotions.”

“You are,” he says, with no hesitation. “I may have been paying more attention than the others.”

I’m blushing.

I hate myself for blushing. 

Suddenly, I can feel his hand on my knee, my hand on his. I was foolish for touching him, for asking what I was about to ask that day in the carriage, but I find it hard to find regret.

I clear my throat. “I see.” 

He takes a step toward me, then another, and I’m frozen in place. 

“You should really go back inside, my lord,” I say, my hands drawing into fists at my sides to keep me grounded. “This is…”

“Inappropriate?” he supplies, stopping a mere foot away. “I mean nothing untoward. Besides, you and I were alone in your carriage just the other day and I do not recall you thinking that inappropriate.”

That may be true, but it quickly grew inappropriate once I wanted to rip off his clothes and mount him on the velvet bench. 

Wonderful. Now that’s all I’m thinking about. 

“I have changed my mind,” I say, quickly. “That and this are both inappropriate. Good day, my lord.”

He doesn’t move. 

“I came out here to be alone,” I add. 

He still doesn’t move.

Just as I’m about to yell at him, he says, ever-so-calmly, “He does not cherish you as he should.”

My back goes rigid. “Pardon me?”

“Your husband,” he says, as if he has any right to what he’s saying, as if it’s not blasphemy to be speaking to a married woman this way. “He does not cherish you. The entire dinner, he looked at you once, and the look he gave you was the same as if he was scolding a child.” 

Anger fuels me. There must be a certain level of arrogance to make a man say such a thing. My shock-filled anger must show because he shrugs.

Shrugs.

“I apologize if you do not care for my opinion,” he says, “but I have never been one to hold my tongue.”

I cannot breathe. “You know not of what you speak.”  

"And what is that?" he asks, that smirk remaining. "The truth? I know very well that I speak the truth. It is you that does not want to accept it." 

My jaw aches from how hard it’s clenching. “I believe you are drunk, my lord.”

My hostile tone doesn’t sway him. In fact, it makes his eyes grow brighter. He thinks I’m joking. He must, or he wouldn’t be this ignorant. 

“I may not be sober,” he confesses. “Although, I am far from drunk. Do I look drunk?”

No, he does not, but some people have a certain skill set for hiding their inebriation. Yet, he remains the perfect picture of a gentleman. 

“Leave,” I order, and when he does not, I add, “Please. Do not make me beg.” 

He does not falter. “I would not mind making you beg, Lady Nesta.”

I ignore the way my cheeks heat. “Lady Mandray is what you should refer to me as.”

“Is that the name you truly prefer?” he asks, and that humor dims, if only a little. He’s standing so close to me now that his scent is strong, overpowering me. Mint, with a hint of tobacco. “If so, it is what I will call you, but I fear you prefer Lady Nesta. Perhaps even just, simply, Nesta.” 

Honestly, I’m surprised I’ve been able to control myself for this long. “You must stop speaking to me as if you know me,” I snap. “We do not know each other. You are no friend of mine. The way you are speaking to me is distasteful to say the least. I have never had to endure such an absurd conversation, much less from a member of high society. You should be ashamed of yourself, my lord, to embarrass yourself in front of a lady, to act a fool. If you will not leave me alone, then I shall leave you be.”

I go to take a step around him, but he steps in my path and our bodies nearly collide. 

It’s annoying how he has a habit of doing that.

“Should I scream?” I whisper. It’s meant to be a threat, but my body feels like it’s on fire. “Cry out for help?”

“I have no intention of harming you,” he says, taken aback, as if the idea is ludicrous. I nearly feel bad for insinuating such a thing.

“No,” I say, and I mean it. “I know you would not.” 

He swallows, and neither of us move.

“I will leave you alone,” he says, and his voice is low, reaching my very core. I can feel his breath on my face, the warmth, smelling like expensive red wine. “I apologize if I have overstepped. And you are right. I do not know you, not well, but I have seen glimpses of who you are and that woman is very different from the woman who I saw sitting at that dinner table, next to a man she seems to loathe. I know you well enough to know that you deserve better than a loveless marriage. That is all.” 

“My lord—”

“Fogive me,” he breathes, and he sways forward as my breath catches. 

I called him a fool but it is I who is the fool. I am foolish for wanting this man to kiss me, to touch me, to sweep me into his arms and make me feel something. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” I say, and look from his welcoming lips to his eyes that are watching me so intently that I feel completely nude. 

He leans in closer and the panic sets in.

“I am sorry,” I say, and my voice sounds pathetically broken. “I must go back before Tomas returns.”

As much as I wish to have this moment, long to have this moment, I cannot endure Tomas’ wrath nor can I bear to embarass both myself and my husband before all these guests. I may be foolish, but I am not that foolish. 

Not now, not yet.

One look at me and Lord Cassian nods. There is no judgment in his gaze, there is only understanding.

This time, he bows, and meets my eyes once more before walking away.

“Goodbye, Nesta.”

I do not breathe again until he is completely out of sight.