#ch1: astrid

[valentinethorn]

With almost supernatural precision, Valentine placed four wine glasses down before her. He couldn't very well pour the wine beforehand, and instead had brought with him a cart, the wine still chilling in a bucket of ice. There were few things in this world that he appreciated more than popping open a new bottle. Some in the restaurant even sought him out for the task, given the fact that he could perform the task in record time. With all of the practicing he had with it, that shouldn't be a shock for anyone.

"I'm happy you asked, since I'm much more knowledgeable in this area than if you started peppering me with questions about the dessert that should be coming out in a few minutes." Really, he was almost relieved. Valentine loved wine, yes, but he loved sharing what he knew even more.

To start, Vale showed off the La Marca Prosecco. "The first should always be a sparkling. It's a great way to kick start your palate, and everyone loves Prosecco." He poured a small amount, though he might've added more than was strictly protocol for a tasting. "You'll have to tell me what you experience as you taste, but this particular Prosecco reminds me of the beginning of summer. It's citrusy, and light, and it makes me feel warm, as though I've been outside all day in the sun."

"I do so love a sample. There's something very satisfying about trying very many little somethings rather than getting sick of the one thing halfway through." That might explain why she liked most nights to order her dessets first and have appetizers as the main.

In his absence she found she had to let her mind and eyes wander back to the empty seat across from her, only her imagination filling it. It wasn't as though she had been particularly looking forward to seeing her sister. On the contrary, she’d been dreading it for several days now. Still, she’d had the decency to show up. Astrid couldn’t help but feel, yet again, the butt of some joke between her siblings for no reason other than the cruel whims of their boredom. At their age! However did humans manage to grow out of it in their short times? She wondered if maybe they didn’t.

It was a train of thought she’d rather not board, and resolved to threaten her moral compass with a little iron to point it askew. All so that she might find herself asking the poor waiter questions that might keep him there once he returned, and thus free her mind from dwelling too much on itself.

“Is there an order you think I should have them in?”

[minatheemeraldwitch]

The Good Witch CH1

Hello Loves! Here is the first chapter of The Good Witch, please leave your thoughts and reviews down below! I need all the constructive criticism I can get so don’t go easy on me! I hope you enjoy the world building and allow yourself to be immersed in my version of the wizarding world! XOXO-Minatheemeraldwitch

Waking up was never an easy feat in the Gardner household. From the moment she opened her eyes to the curtains being drawn back by a house elf, she felt a pang in her back that only served as a reminder that with the start of a new day comes the rest of her grandmother's lessons. Sitting up in bed only does further to remind her of the most recent lesson, perfect posture in every circumstance possible. Sitting at the dining table, walking through the gardens, riding astride a horse (side saddle, the only way a lady should ride she’s told). She's surprised she has not yet made her attempt to balance a book on her head while riding a broomstick at this point. Not that she even knows she owns a broomstick, it’s a secret between her and her Father.. 

Finally mustering up the strength to face the day, she swung her legs out of bed and into het bed slippers. Patiently awaiting the next task of the routine. “Good Morning Miss y/n, breakfast is to be held in the gardens this morning, followed by your morning lessons with Professor Litt, weather permitting you’ll be able to have your riding lessons just after midday meal, your grandmother wishes to continue you lessons with her in the afternoon over tea and until you must get ready for dinner at 6 o’clock” her maid, a middle aged women with dark hair starting to gray at the roots, Lucy, spills as she begins setting out the dress and robes she’s no doubt spent the better half of the hour ironing before y/n was awake. 

Lucy, like all the other maids and butlers employed by the Gardners was a squib, she grew up with a knowledge of magic but did not possess the ability herself. The employment under the house of Gardner allowed for them to maintain a position within the wizarding world without having to perform magic. 

y/n smiled at Lucy before getting up and putting on the house robe which was always hanging on its hook besides the bed frame. “It's good to know that my grandmother still has the energy to continue teaching me even into the late hours of the day” she jested, moving to sit at the vanity placed facing the window. Lucy merrily shook her head with a laugh “ Aye, yes, your grandmother would rather dine with a muggle than slow down in her ways Miss”. The two entered into soft conversation as Lucy began to brush and style her hair. 

"Is there any more gossip in the kitchens about the Parkinson and the Goyle?” y/n asked, slightly wincing as Lucy swiftly twisted her hair up into a bun atop her head. “Aye there is Miss, apparently Mrs Parkinson and Mr Goyle were found alone in the Nott’s gardens, walking rather swiftly from the veranda. The maids jest that Mr Parkinson was happening by with an unmarried Ms Royce on his arm” she giggled. y/n lightly smiled as Lucy pulled out some hair to frame her face. “ I feel for Pansy and Gregory, the two of them must feel embarrassed of all this going on” y/n said softly, eyes drifting off thinking of  her friend Pansy fondly. 

Lucy rested her hands on y/n’s shoulders, assessing the work she’d done on her hair. “Perhaps they are used to such behavior Miss, however I’m sure Miss Parkinson wouldn't mind an invite over to see you. I’m sure the two of you could use some time to play before preparations for Hogwarts begins” Lucy suggests, a twinkle in her eye as she leans down to whisper in y/ns ear “ I’ll have the elves prepare lots of sweet cakes for the day”. Y/n couldn't help the smile that broke out over her face. “ I’ll ask my mother during breakfast. Thank you, Lucy”. “Of course, Miss. Now, let's get you dressed for the day, shall we?” Y/n nodded, eager to see what she’d chosen for the day. 

Most of her clothes were the colors of her family crest. The crest was printed, stamped, engraved, and burned on just about everything in the house. She’d have to say that their crest was one of the better ones she’d seen, a silver wand with dark green vines and thorns wrapped around the base of the wand leading up to a dark purple rose protruding from the tip. Most of her friends have animals, more wands, and swords in their crests. She thought theirs was the perfect representation of her family, thorny yes, but magic doing what it does best, creating something beautiful.

Lucy had chosen a dark purple dress with a corset lace up built into the front. Not that the corset had anything to hold up or cinch in yet, she’s only 11. The sleeves of the dress had silver vines embroidered down them with little clear beads intertwining throughout. The cloak she was to put on later during her riding lesson was black with the same silver vine pattern along its edges. 

Lucy stood back once she was dressed, further assessing her work. With a quick nod she deemed her fit for the finishing touch which she procured from the jewelry box situated on y/ns vanity. A necklace with the pendant being the family rose, made of amethyst. A gift from her father the day she received her Hogwarts letter on her eleventh birthday. “ You look perfect Miss” Lucy said with a sigh “I have half a mind to berate you for growing up so fast, I’ll need a promise from you that you won’t age a day when you're off at school. I can’t bear to miss seeing you grow up” she adds, adjusting y/n's necklace. “I’m sorry I can’t promise that Miss Lucy” she says, feeling herself tear up a little. “I could never break a promise I make, especially to you”. Lucy gave a quick nod, swallowing her own emotions before giving y/n a quick hug. “Off you go Missy, I’ll see you after your morning lessons” she said, waving her off and out of her bedroom.

Y/n started making her way downstairs, passing old family portraits conversing with one another or giving their greetings. The Gardener Summer Manor, Lilylake, was beautiful in the morning, it had large windows which let in the light, Tones of light oak and green made up most of the color palette, a touch of purple made its way through every now and then. 

Exiting out of one of the doors leading to the garden she stopped and allowed herself to take a breath. Smelling the roses and rich soil that are tended to religiously by the gardener Mrs. Cripps, she's a very skilled witch in herbology.

“Good morning darling” a deep voice says behind her. She smiled before turning to face the owner of the voice, her father. Eric Gardner is his name. He has dark brown hair that is now starting to gray, and deep green eyes that match hers. He is quite handsome, many maids and other ladies of magical families giggle and blush over her father, but he has eyes for none other than her mother. A good thing too, she is quite the jealous type. 

“Good Morning Father” she answered softly. He offers her his arm with a warm smile and off they go into the dew covered garden. 

“Did you sleep well my dear?” he questions. “Yes father I did, although I did wake up sore from grandmother's lessons yesterday. Did you sleep well Father?” she returned his question. He chuckles “Why yes I did my dear. Although I am fortunate enough to not have any soreness due to your grandmother, just due to my old age” he jokes. “I’m sure you can find a potion remedy for that father. Perhaps a youth potion” she teases lightly. He puts his free hand to his chest as if wounded, “You my dear hurt me with your teasing, I’ll have you know I have plenty more time before I resort to dire measures. Why I’m still in my prime”  he boasts, egged on by her soft giggles escaping. 

They enter the glass house that sits in the center of the garden. Y/n's mother, Margaret, is already seated at the round table across from her mother in law and y/ns grandmother, the Matriarch of the family Lilliana Gardner. 

Her mother has dark blonde hair that has lighter streaks in it due to the time she spends outside helping Mrs. Cripps with her gardening or when she feels particularly adventurous enough to join y/n in riding. Her eyes are a deep blue, while they don’t have the same eye color the mother and daughter do look quite alike. Y/n received her hair color and most facial features from her mothers side.

 Her grandmother however possesses the same green eyes as y/n and her father.  While her hair is gray now, it used to be a soft brown like y/ns fathers. Her face looks aged with a stern crease in her brow but knowing her grandmother it is not caused by any mean spirited attitude, but by her stern stubbornness. 

Sitting at the table between her mother and grandmother they both pass polite greetings to her and her father before returning to their conversation about which table cloths should be used for upcoming dinners or whatever other events those two plan constantly. 

The breakfast spread in the Gardener household might be y/n's favorite meal of the day, besides tea time when the elves make extra sweets. Their elves never hold back on a hearty breakfast. Each member of the family has their usuals though. Her father prefers a full english, her mother simple porridge with fruit and honey, her grandmother poached eggs on an english muffin with sauce on the side, and y/n, usually just scrambled eggs with toast and jam. 

As she starts to pile her plate with a helping of eggs her grandmother turns to her “Y/n darling, I want you to be honest with me, how sore is your back today?” she says with an almost sing-songy quality to her question. y/n politely pause in her movements letting her hands fall into her lap and giving her full attention. “My back was only a bit sore Grandmother, however I suspect it is only because your training is becoming a habit in my bones. Any amount of pain is worth the end result.” she answered. “Very good my dear, polite, politically correct, and dutiful, you are turning into a fine young lady” she assesses. “All thanks to your teaching grandmother” y/n responded, lowering her head with a shy smile.

They both turned back to their breakfast as the family butler Edwin came in with the mail. “The paper for you Mr Gardener, as well as some letters. A letter for you Mrs. Gardener from Mrs. Malfoy. And finally, a letter for you Mrs Gardener senior, correspondence from your sister in florence” he finished, delivering the last letter to her grandmother.

“Thank you Edwin, we will let you know if we wish to respond” Eric says as he motions for a cup of tea to be poured. Picking up his paper he begins to read out any headline that stands out to him, not caring if none of the women at the table are listening to him.

Y/n's mother carefully breaks the seal on the letter sent by Mrs. Malfoy, reading silently while fiddling with the table cloth. “Narcissa has accepted my invitation to lunch tomorrow” she announces to the table with a smile. 

“Oh,that's lovely dear!” Lilliana exclaims “Now tell me, is she the one with the son who we like? Or the one we don’t like?”

“Mother, I believe you like Draco, remember? He’s Lucius’ boy” Eric said calmly, not even glancing up from his paper.

“Ah yes, I always get those Black sisters confused. One is a disgrace, one is locked up and completely mental, and one is perfectly normal. I guess the third time's a charm when it comes to that family.” Lilliana chuckled to herself.

Y/n adjusted in her seat uncomfortably, “Mother is this to be a family affair ? Or just a visit between you and Mrs. Malfoy?” she questioned.

Margaret smiled warmly at her daughter “Now y/n darling, it will be good for you to befriend more children your age especially before you leave for Hogwarts. Draco is a very kind young boy who I don't doubt will be quite a fine young man in a few years. He may help break you out of your shell”

“Margaret, there will be no young boys, nor men breaking my darling daughter out of her shell anytime soon” her father quips from behind his paper.

“Hush Eric, don't pretend you and Lucius have not jested over potentially being in laws one day once you found our children were the opposite sex” her mother taunted.

“Touche, my love” Eric responds, dropping the subject.

Y/n was not unfamiliar with the expectation of having an arranged “coupling”. The more modern term for arranged marriage. Most families of high status took part in the practice, it ensured that the bloodlines stayed pure and that the high class wizarding society remained separate from the lower classes. 

Y/n had not met many children her age yet, especially boys. Pansy was her first friend her age, they had known each other since they were in nappies. Gregory Goyle she had met briefly because his grandmother knew hers, also because of the gossip constantly surrounding his father she knew more than she’d care to admit. 

The idea of a coupling didn't scare y/n, her parents and many others that she knew of had found success in the matches. However the failed few in society did make her wonder if maybe the ritual was not for everyone. 

She was only 11, which meant that there was no rush to even begin the courting process. The earliest some start is 13, the close proximity at school helps to weed out any doubts you may have about a person. While some got privately engaged at 16, it was not publicly announced until the couple reached the age of 17, by then the wedding was most likely planned.

   As the family finished breakfast, Y/n remembered what she had been told to ask her mother “Mother, can I invite Pansy over before school starts?”

“I don't see why not, dear, have her over sometime next week. Not on Thursday or Friday though, we leave for home on Thursday and go school shopping on Friday” Margaret answered, carefully dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

“Yes mother, i’ll send a letter tomorrow” Y/n said laying her hands on the table “May I be excused please?”

“Yes darling, you may. Have fun at your morning lessons,” her father answered looking up from his paper. 

Y/n got up swiftly and rounded the table giving each member a kiss on the cheek before making her way back thru the gardens and into the house, mentally preparing herself for what was to come.

[cherryfairytwist]

RickFic Ch1. Falling In

(Tags: Alcohol / harassment / substance use / 18+ Minors DNI)

—- HELLO —-

—- INITIATING DOWNLOAD SEQUENCE MEMORY CLUSTER #1  —-

—-PULLING UP EARLIEST ASSISTED MEMORY RECORDS —-

—- NARRATION SIMULATING NOW —-

 Astrid walked down the sidewalk listening to “Every Day Is Exactly The Same” by Nine Inch Nails in their earbuds while nearing the entrance of the school. Waking up with a hangover was something no one at school could tell that Astrid was dealing with most mornings. They’d simply shape shift to look completely rejuvenated even if they felt dead inside. You’d never be able to physically tell, but for some reason Summer and Morty could always tell when something was off those days. They seemed to be nicer, as if they knew and were worried. She figured it was because they were familiar with what alcoholics were like in the Smith family. Their mother and grand dad being pretty hard core raging alcoholics themselves. She had heard all about it from the kids throughout the time she had known them. She had been there for them on the occasional times both the siblings were having some kind of mental breakdown during the school day due to alcoholic family issues. That morning Morty had picked up some books she had dropped during a lesson. He smiled kind of worried at her and whispered as he picked them up handing them away to a fellow classmate, 

“H-hey Astrid are you doing o-okay?” 

Astrid smiled back and tried to play it cool, 

“Yeah Morty I’m okay. Just a little tired this morning.” 

He didn’t seem convinced but tried to take a different approach,

“You-you know.. Su-Summer and I sometimes meet up before lunch a-at her locker if you’d like to come h-hang out..I-I mean like Rick will probably show up and pull us out of s-school around then so like no pressure.. haha.” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. 

“Okay Morty. Tell Summer I’ll give her back that eyeshadow she let me borrow a few days ago when I see you two.” Astrid replied casually knowing Morty’s nerves were getting the better of him. 

“Ha! O-okay cool!” He happily but awkwardly laughed and went to sit back down. 

The rest of class went on like normal, typical boring high school history class. On the way to the next class she popped an earbud in again and “Restless” by Unkle played. Suddenly they got stopped in the hall by one of the Seniors that was known for being quite the delinquent around school. His name was Harris Hailer. He wore black ripped skinny jeans with chains hanging from the belt and a black hoodie with random spray painted words on it. Harris was known for causing problems around school but never actually showed any signs of being a real threat, well… at least that’s how Astrid felt about him. He often would come around to bother her after class. 

“Well hey hey Astrid.” He looked down his nose at her from under his long black messy bangs. 

He looked to her side and spotted Morty slightly following behind her. 

“God this little kid is always following you around school like usual hu?” He grabbed Morty by the collar and held him slightly suspended an inch or two from the ground. 

“O-oh h-hey wait!” Morty squirmed and tried to pull away from him. 

“Weird to be talking about yourself in the third person today Harris, but whatever.” Astrid replied annoyed while snatching Morty effortlessly from Harris’s grip and setting him down. 

Morty awkwardly laughed at Astrid’s comment and quickly walked on ahead a few feet towards his class as to keep away from Harris but close enough to keep an eye on Astrid. 

“Wow holy shit- you’re strong Astrid… do you work out or something?” Harris replied trying to still lay it on thick while attempting to reach his hand out and play with her hair. 

 “I don’t have time for this Harris, go to class.” She quickly replied and brushed him away while walking towards Morty. 

“Oh come onnnnnnn Astrid! Don’t be like that, you’re so FINE though..” he mockingly moaned and quickly flipped up her skirt as he passed. 

 “H-hey quit it! L-leave her alone!” Morty whined from the other end of the hall. 

“Haha whatever loser. I’ll see YOU later.” Harris smirked and continued on to whatever class he had next. 

 Astrid and Morty continued on walking towards their classes. 

“I-I don’t know why y-you put up with him every day.” Morty said angrily. 

“I won’t let him get to me, he’s just an idiot anyway.” Astrid said through gritted teeth with a fake laugh. 

She knew she could have demolished Harris with the flick of her pinky if she wanted to but she needed to keep her cover on Earth. So she let it slide knowing he was just a meaningless pest in the grand scheme of things. 

 They parted ways as Astrid came to the classroom she needed to be in for that next class, 

“See ya later Morty. Have a good class.” she said as she entered through the room. 

 Morty thanked her and waved as he turned to go to a classroom a couple of doors down. 

 This history class was Summer’s. Every morning Summer would come up to the front of the room and make short talk with Astrid before class began. Summer always seemed happy to be around Astrid. She’d always updated her on the high school drama of the senior girls, their crushes and things they were up to that week during and after school. Astrid always found the info completely useless yet entertaining. She was just happy to humor Summer as she got ready for class and waited on the teacher. 

 “Heyyyy! Did Morty ask you to come hang out with us at my locker later?” She leaned on the front desk and arched her eyebrow. 

“ I mean, like it’s not just going to be me and Morty obviously. Like some of my other friends will be there too… if Morty is getting on your nerves lately or anything.” Summer quickly insisted before Astrid responded. 

“Oh no he’s sweet.” Astrid replied “I’ll definitely come hang out with you two later. Oh and here is your eyeshadow I borrowed.” She pulled the makeup out of her coat pocket and handed it to Summer. 

“Oh thanks! How’d you like it? Did you use it for a hot date?” She produced a cheeky grin while awaiting a response. 

“It’s pretty! But… I think it’s too warm a tone on me.” Astrid replied avoiding the subject of dating entirely. 

The main teacher walked into the classroom and announced class had started. 

 “Okay we’ll talk later!” Summer winked and returned to her desk. 

Astrid would never say it but she never really needed the makeup Summer lended her in the past. Being a shape shifter made those things unnecessary. But Summer was always so excited to share things with her or invite her to places. Astrid was starting to feel guilty for blowing her off so many times previously. Recalling all the times she spent at home alone trying on some kind of lipstick or eyeshadow Summer had lent her just to kill time. But who knows maybe it wouldn’t hurt to hang out with the Smith’s for real this time. Moping around until she got a new mission was getting old. She could try her hand at having normal healthy friendships… right? 

Ever since the incident it had become painfully obvious how different her life was compared to others around her. It was an isolating feeling. She didn’t know why she kept pushing them away but never having relationships outside of her working as an agent started to weigh on her mind. There had to be more to life than what she had been trained to do. But every passing day she could feel the ache of the co-dependency she developed for her Handler and the adrenaline rushes she had gotten from her many dangerous missions. 

Maybe this is why she gravitated towards the Smith siblings. They seemed to be more relatable than most the other humans on the planet. They had seen things. They had been THROUGH it. Hearing them talk about their grandpa reminded her of previous handlers she had in the past. This always caught her curiosity. Wondering if Rick Sanchez was anything like the rumors or what her Handler had said about him. But hearing about him from the kids gave her a new insight to the said grandiose reputation that followed their grandfather around. 

  Most of the school morning came and went in a blur. After the two classes with the Smith siblings she mostly went on auto pilot listening to one earbud hidden under her hair as the other classes dragged on. Soon the school bell rang out indicating it was time for lunch period. Astrid contemplated what she should do. Technically she had already returned the makeup to Summer… she could use that as an excuse to justify not meeting up with them. Like do they actually want to hang out with a teacher’s assistant? She didn’t even know what her real age was but she definitely looked and acted older than both of them. Still they actually seemed to still want to hang. Does that mean Summer saw her as like an older sister or something? She didn’t know but paced around the empty classroom now that everyone had left for Lunch. “Faceshopping” by SOPHIE blared through her ear bud. She wondered,

“What if we all end up getting close and then the Agency gives me a mission and I have to leave?” 

She paced.

“What if I end up getting the order to go after and assassinate Rick Sanchez? Their Grandfather….” 

She paced more. 

“What if the friendships end up getting weird or toxic like the ones I made at Cognito Inc.” 

She paced even more.

“What if something like the incident happens again….?” She shook her head and pressed her back against the wall and breathed. 

“Would they hate me if they found out who I really was? Would Rick try to eliminate me once he knew the proximity his grandkids had to me?”

She looked up at the ceiling. 

“They seem like tough kids though…. They’ve definitely been trained in some ways by their Grandfather right…?” She sighed.

“I mean I’m not actually hunting them… So I’m not technically hiding anything… if they ask I’ll tell them stuff… just not everything maybe.” 

She got up.

“I can at least try to be fucking normal.” 

She left the classroom and walked briskly down the hall towards the direction of Summer’s locker. 

 She had waisted a few minutes pacing so she picked up the pace. Turning the corner Astrid could see the siblings chatting at the locker as some of Summer’s friends turned and left towards the lunch room. 

“Hey guys, sorry I got caught up after class.” 

She called to them as the two turned to look at her with big smiles on their face. 

“H-hey Astrid-“ Morty cheerfully got cut off by his sister “Omg heeeeeeyyyyyy Astrid you actually showed!” 

“Sorry you guys I’m going to be better about that.” Astrid awkwardly laughed.

“No! I mean I’m joking like you don’t have to hang with us girl, I’m just glad you want to.” Summer said nonchalantly. “Let’s go grab lunch together.” 

“Haha- yeah! I’m starving” Morty said with a smile. 

Right as “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC played in Astrid’s ear, both the siblings turned and Summer grabbed Astrid’s arm to pull her along with them. Astrid looked down and noticed her shoe had come untied. 

“Hold on guys let me tie my shoe” she said as she crouched down. 

As she laced up, she heard a noise that she was able to identify as a type of portal. 

A voice loudly announced, “SUMMER. M-MORTY. N-NO *burp* TIME!! COME WITH ME!”

Astrid heard another portal noise and suddenly fell backwards through the floor. She looked up and saw her and the siblings were falling through a pastel purple sky of an unfamiliar planet onto hard dry orange soil. Seeing a portal hole close up above their heads made Astrid realize Summer’s hand was still on her arm. Astrid brushed herself off and looked up to see Rick Sanchez now on the ground standing with them. 

“Grandpa Rick you need to start waiting until after lunch before you try to pull us on one of your adventures!” Summer yelled back at him. 

While also brushing herself off, she looked down to see Astrid next to her on the ground. 

“Oh shit-“ she started to say before Morty also yelled out “Y-YEAH! RICK! I’m tired of this!! I’m Starving right now m-man!” 

“S-stop you’re bitching you fucking pansies! T-this is important- yuuuhhrrrgg*burp* you guys need to trust Grandpa! Y-you-your Grandpa will give you something better than lunch! I have countless inventions that can make you feel like you had WHOLE MEAL!! S-shrunk down FULL COURSE MEALS M-Morty!!” He raged on at them as the siblings stood up. 

 Astrid had only ever caught glimpses of Rick when he picked up the kids from school. She mostly ever just heard him yelling something of urgency before suddenly the Smith siblings were gone out of thin air. Or the occasional moment where she would happen to see him running through the school frantically with or looking for the kids while something insane chased after him. 

 “Fuck I’m so sorry Astrid!” Summer quickly said while Astrid helped her up. 

“I didn’t mean to actually drag you into this! This is so wack right..?” Her nervous rambling went on, “Are you going to freak out now and like hate us….? I know we are like on an alien planet and everything… we can take you back to school I promise-“ 

“W-who the FUCK is that?” Rick demandingly asked. 

Astrid looked Rick in the face as Morty asked if she was okay. She suddenly realized this was the first time she was meeting THE Rick Sanchez. Probably one of the most wanted men in the universe. Considered a terrorist amongst countless planets. Yet he stood here arguing with his two grandchildren in the dirt. 

 “I’m terribly sorry sir.” Astrid spoke and extended her hand towards Rick. “Nice to meet you. My name is Astrid I’m-“ 

Morty cut her off with “she-she’s our teacher’s assistant at school!” 

“Oh yes the-*uhrp* little fucking assistant friend you two never shut up about that keeps g-ghosting you.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes, 

“God will y-you two take a hint? She obviously doesn’t want to waist her time on you.” He said annoyed as he shot his portal gun off to the side in Astrid’s direction. 

His eyebrow raised as he noted she didn’t flinch the slightest bit in surprise of her surroundings.

“S-shut up Rick!” Morty yelled, “Astrid came to h-hang out with us! Maybe we wanted to bring her with us!” 

 “Wait yeah!” Summer agreed now also noticing Astrid wasn’t freaking out about the situation and seemed fine with it. 

“She’s really cool Grandpa. Give her a chance! We could all have fun on a mission together or something!” She said practically exploding with excitement to have a friend to share adventures with.

“Fuck no.” he barked abruptly. “I’m not d-dragging around another dumb fu-fucking little friend of yours. Think about the last couple of classmates you two g-*aahhhh*-gained the privilege of losing once they realized they couldn’t fucking HANDLE IT!”  He quickly took a swig from his flask and stomped over to Astrid. 

“N-nice meeting you but I’ll t-take it from here.” He shoved her backwards through the portal and back into the school hall. 

“See you later!!” Summer quickly said to Astrid as Morty whined in protest behind her. 

“Yeah see you later.” Rick sarcastically echoed as the portal snapped shut leaving her alone in the hallway. 

—- PART ONE COMPLETED —- 

—- SHUTTING DOWN —-

—- GOODBYE —- 

[kmomof4]

A Mistress to No One Part 2 Ch4

We are back, y’all! Part 2 begins with a bang and our favorite couple are reunited... sorta... Thank you all for coming along on this journey with me! I so hope you enjoy this new chapter and would love to hear what you think!

All the love and thanks to the ladies who helped in some way to bring this fic to fruition. @hollyethecurious​, for whom it was written, @jrob64​ and @zaharadessert​ for their betaing expertise as well as being sounding boards and plot buddies, and @motherkatereloyshipper​ for her manips of Leroy and Astrid, and Killian in the artwork. And another thank you to @jrob64​ for keeping her up WAY past her bed time as she helped me revamp the artwork... 

Summary: Bastard Emma Swan enjoys one night of pure magic and romance in the midst of a life of drudgery and abuse- attending a masquerade ball and meeting aristocrat Killian Jones. 

Two years later, the same man she met on the best night of her life reappears, saving her from a dire fate in the process. Now, she must keep herself from falling in love with a man she can never have. But when that proves impossible, is there any hope for a happy ending between two people from such vastly different worlds?

Rating: M (smut in a later ch)

Words: 5100 of approx 61,6k

Tags: Birthday Fic, Inspired by Benedict’s Story in Bridgerton, Smut, TW for this chapter only- attempted sexual assault

On ao3 from the beginning/ current ch

On Tumblr Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3

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Under the cut unless Tumblr ate it.

Two Years Later

Alcohol and cigars. Card games and lots of women, both hired and not. It was just the kind of party Killian would have enjoyed more than a few years back, but it had little appeal for him now.

How he’d gotten roped into coming, he still couldn’t understand. It was a case of a friend of a friend inviting him to a party held by one Neal Gold, a distant acquaintance simply by virtue of their social standing. What he did know of the man didn’t impress Killian at all. He hadn’t seen his own friend for the last several hours and Killian decided he’d had enough.

Good manners demanded that he find his host and inform him of his departure, but he’d been searching for the man for almost ten minutes, and still hadn’t located him. Going back into the house from the back gardens of the country estate, Killian turned toward the parlor where a high stakes card game was in progress. One of the men was sweating profusely. Probably a single card away from losing his family’s ancestral home. Killian shook his head. He hated card games like these where the stakes were higher than the participants could afford.

A little further on, he could hear rhythmic grunts and moans coming from behind a closed door. Killian rolled his eyes. At least they’d had the presence of mind to shut the door before commencing with their activities.

If he didn’t find Neal Gold in the next five minutes, he was leaving, good manners be damned. He came across a couple of fairly sloshed party goers who informed him that their host, whom they barely remembered, was out front. As Killian left them to their revelry, he could hear them singing Neal Gold’s praises for his excellent hospitality. He crossed to the front door, thinking he could be gone in five minutes time. It put him in a much better mood.

~*~*~

It was high time Emma Swan found a new position of employment. It had been two years since she’d been kicked out of her own home. Two years since she’d been forced to be completely on her own. When she left Spencer House that June morning, she’d immediately pawned the shoe clips she’d taken from Cora’s closet. They’d brought her enough money to buy a ticket to Wiltshire, where she’d been lucky to find employment quickly as an upstairs maid to Robert and Milah Gold. An ordinary couple, they expected good work from their servants, but did not demand the impossible. After slaving for Cora for so many years, this job was a virtual vacation.

All that changed when their son, Neal, returned home from his European tour, about a year after she’d arrived. He’d immediately taken a shine to Emma and did everything in his power to coerce her into his bed. When his subtle hints and innuendos were rebuffed, he got more aggressive.

As long as Mrs. Gold was in residence, Emma felt safe enough. She didn’t think Neal would attack her with his mother in the house. But then Mr. and Mrs. Gold decided earlier in the week to visit relatives in Brighton, and Neal decided to throw a party for a couple dozen of his closest friends.

She should have left as soon as her employers did, but she couldn’t bring herself to simply leave without giving notice. She changed her mind when she spent the first few hours after they were gone, literally running away and hiding from Neal Gold. Once he was gone from the room where she’d hidden herself this time, Emma snuck out, packed her bag, informed the thankfully sympathetic housekeeper, and slipped out the side entrance of the house.

It was a two mile hike to the village, but the moon was full and the evening pleasant. She was in much better financial circumstances than she’d been in two years before, so she set out with determination and a bounce in her step. She came around the front of the house and stepped onto the front drive when she heard a raucous cry. She turned around and her jaw dropped in horror.

Neal Gold. Obviously drunk, looking even meaner than usual, and surrounded on either side by two others, who looked even more drunk than he was. Emma turned, gathered her skirts and the cloak she wore, and ran. She hoped he was drunk enough that he’d be unable to catch her, but he was several inches taller than her and carried no burden like she did. He must have taken her flight as a challenge, because she heard him whoop with delight from behind her and then begin pursuing her on the gravel of the drive.

Her heart was in her throat as she could hear him drawing closer and she cried out when his hand landed on her shoulder and dragged her against him. They were both out of breath from the pursuit but his arms around her were like iron as she struggled in his embrace.

“Let me go, Mr. Gold!” she demanded, trying desperately to keep the fear out of her voice.

“Oh, I don’t think I will, Emma,” he whispered in her ear, his nose running up and down her neck. His words were slurred, but they were dripping with lust and Emma knew she was about to be raped. “What do you think, boys? Peter? Felix? Should I let the lady go?”

“Oh, hell no,” the taller of the two said. Emma shut her eyes against their leering twin gazes. “Although, ‘lady’ might be a bit above her station,” he added.

“Too right,” Neal agreed. “This one is a maid, and as we all know, that breed is made to serve.” All three of them laughed and Emma felt herself pushed forward. She stumbled before she hit another solid wall of male flesh. “Have a look at the goods, my lads.”

Emma felt the bile rise in her throat as whoever held her fondled her with rough hands. She was pushed again, into the arms of the third, but before he could do more than snake his arm around her waist, she heard a loud voice from the direction of the house.

“Gold,” the voice called. Emma tried to contain her terror and despair. Dear God! Weren’t three enough?

“Jones,” Neal called. Emma’s eyes flew open. “Come join us!” Neal sounded much more sober now and quite delighted with himself.

Jones? Emma thought. She turned toward the house to see a tall, well built man coming toward them. The lights from the house kept his face in shadow, but somehow she knew exactly who it was.

“What have we here?” the man asked.

Dear God in heaven, she’d know that voice anywhere. The one that haunted her dreams. It was Killian Jones.

~*~*~

Killian emerged onto the front portico and took a deep breath. The night air was cool and free from the smoke he’d been forced to endure while inside. He opened his eyes and could see movement of several people further down the drive, but he was too far to see who it was. He moved down the front steps and ambled in their direction.

“Gold!” he called, hoping that if one of the persons was not Gold himself, they’d at least know where to find him.

“Jones,” a voice replied. “Come join us!”

Killian moved a bit faster, pleased to have found his host at last. As he came closer he could see that Gold and his companions were surrounding a young woman. She wasn’t dressed like one of the guests of the party, and so he assumed she must be a servant. He wasn’t yet close enough to discern whether she was enjoying the attentions of the men around her, but if she wasn’t, he had far too many younger sisters to ignore her plight.

“What have we here?” he asked as he could finally see the faces of all four persons. The young woman’s face was utterly terrified, and Killian’s fury rose. One of the men had his arm snaked around her waist, holding her tightly against him, her back to his front. He could see the man’s other hand groping and kneading the girl’s ass.

“Just a bit of sport,” Neal answered. “My parents were kind enough to hire this prime specimen as an upstairs maid.”

Killian took a deep breath, keeping a very tight lid on his rage. He didn’t doubt that he could make very short work of all three men, but it was always better to hold those passionate emotions close to the vest, keeping his adversaries blind to exactly how much danger they were in.

“She does not seem to be enjoying your attentions,” Killian murmured.

Neal scoffed. “She’s enjoying it just fine,” he said, grinning lecherously. “Fine enough for me, anyway.”

“But not for me,” Killian said, stepping closer to where the girl was still held tightly around the waist.

“You can have a turn with her,” the man holding her said, “just as soon as we’re done.”

Killian chuckled lightly. “No, you misunderstand.” He moved into the man’s space and looked him square in the eye, a hard edge to his voice that even someone as drunk as he was should be able to understand. “Release the girl.” He watched as the man’s countenance ran through lust, humor, confusion, and finally to understanding. “I don’t want to fight you. And believe me when I say, you do not want to fight me.” The man’s eyes skittered over to where Neal Gold still stood, sputtering in his anger.

“You can’t just come in here and take her away from us!”

Killian raised an eyebrow. “And why not? I don’t believe rape is legal in this country. And I’m quite confident in my assessment that that is what you intended to do. Am I right?”

“She’s my maid and she has to do what I say,” Neal insisted, sounding more like a petulant child than a man.

“She’s your parents’ maid, you jackass,” Killian replied. “So no, she doesn’t have to do what you say.” None of the men moved to release the girl, so Killian rolled his eyes before his right fist shot out, catching the empty handed young man square in the face. He fell to the ground, blood spurting from his broken nose as he howled into the night sky.

Neal moved toward him then, his fist poised to strike. Killian caught it in his hand and twisted hard to the right until he heard the bone crack, bringing Neal to his knees. Killian released the man’s fist and readied his own punch, knocking Neal out cold. Killian turned to where the third man still held the girl against him. As soon as he caught Killian’s gaze, he released her, his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Get out of my sight,” Killian growled. The man needed no other urging. He turned and fled, leaving Neal and the other man still on the ground.

Killian turned to the young woman. “Are you alright?”

She was still too terrified to speak, and so nodded instead.

“Do you need to pack anything?” He noticed then a small bag laying on the ground. “Is this yours?” he asked, picking it up and handing it to her. She nodded, still looking like a rabbit caught in a snare.

He held his elbow out to her and waited until she looped her own through it. “Come with me,” he said, patting her hand in comfort. “I assume you were leaving the Gold household when they caught you?” he asked, looking down at her. She nodded again.

Killian inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. She was still in a bit of shock after her ordeal and Killian thanked God he had come along when he did. “Where were you going? Do you know?” When she only shook her head in answer, he stopped them in the middle of the drive.

“I planned to journey to My Cottage, which is about an hour away to spend the night before returning to London tomorrow. I can take you with me, if you’d like. I’m sure I could find employment for you in my mother’s household in London.” He couldn’t see her eyes very well under the full moon, but he could see them widen slightly in surprise at his offer. “I assure you, you’ll be properly chaperoned while at My Cottage. The caretakers, Mr. and Mrs. Miner, will not allow anything untoward to happen.” He paused for a moment to see if she would respond verbally. When she didn’t, he spoke again, injecting as much calm and sincerity into his words as possible. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

She looked up and into his eyes, and he had the strangest feeling that he knew her somehow.

Her voice was no more than a whisper and if he hadn’t been standing so close to her, he would have missed her words.

“I know.”

~*~*~

Ten minutes later, Emma sat next to Killian Jones in his phaeton on their way to his cottage. She was still having trouble coming to terms with this sudden chain of events, and an apparent reversal in her fortunes.

When Neal caught her, she’d never felt such terror in her life. At the very least, she knew he planned to use her to fulfill his base desires, and then pass her around to his companions as if she was nothing more than a hired whore. Her stomach still churned with anxiety over the fate from which Killian had saved her.

And then there was Killian himself. The moment she recognized his voice, she couldn’t contain her shock and dismay. When she’d met him two years prior, he didn’t seem the type to attend these kinds of gatherings, filled with debauchery and depravity. But then, she’d only spent a couple of hours with him. And just because she felt a connection with him- a soul deep connection she’d never felt with anyone before- didn’t mean that she knew what kind of man he truly was. But he had saved her. That was irrefutable fact.

“Thank you.”

He turned his head to her, startled. “For what?”

She turned and stared at him. Did he truly not know? Emma prided herself on being able to tell when someone was lying to her, and as she searched his face, she saw no artifice, no cunning or craftiness there to contradict the plain meaning of his words.

“You saved me,” she explained. “I don’t think I adequately expressed my sincere appreciation for that. Three against one, most men wouldn’t have intervened.”

“I have four younger sisters,” he told her. “There’s no way under heaven I would have left you to your plight.”

“Still,” she looked down at her hands clasping the small bag that held everything she owned. “It meant everything to me.” She turned and looked at him again. “Thank you.”

He held her eyes a moment before speaking. “You’re welcome, Miss…?”

“Swan,” she informed him. “Miss Emma Swan.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Emma Swan,” he said, a smile on his lips. “I am Mr. Killian Jones.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Killian Jones.” She returned his smile with one of her own and tried very hard to tamp down her racing heart. She never thought she’d see him again, and sitting here next to him now, on her way to his cottage, and presumably to London on the morrow to be employed in his mother’s household, all the dreams she’d had of him came flooding back.

There hadn’t been a single day in the last two years she hadn’t thought of him. It was the only thing that brought any joy to her drab and dreary existence. Her dreams ran from the impossible to the purely fantastical. Meeting him at a ball thrown by her loving and devoted parents, followed by a true and genteel courtship. Or, Killian Jones finding her somehow, recognizing her as the lady he taught to dance at his mother’s masquerade ball, and saving her from a life of servitude. Of course, the dream ending the same way they all did- him sinking to one knee before her, declaring his everlasting love and devotion, and asking for her hand in marriage. Followed, of course, by several children. All born within the sanctity of marriage. It was a lovely thought.

But this reality was far different. Yes, he had saved her from a fate worse than death, but he didn’t recognize her. At all. And when she thought about it, she realized there was no real reason for him to recognize her.

Two years ago, a mask had covered half her face and she was dressed like a princess. There was a world of difference between that night and this. She looked down at her clothing- a simple cream, woolen dress covered with a dark blue cloak that tied at the neck. People saw what they expected to see, and there was no trace of the fairytale princess from two years ago in the appearance of a humble housemaid this night.

“You have a very refined accent for a housemaid,” he said suddenly.

She wasn’t terribly surprised at his statement, as she’d heard it often over the years. As such, she had a stock answer already prepared.

“My mother was a housekeeper and the family she worked for was very kind and generous, allowing me to take lessons with their daughters.”

Killian’s eyebrow raised slightly and he nodded in understanding. “I assume you’re not speaking of the Gold’s,” he said.

Emma shook her head. “No.”

“What made you leave?”

Emma tried to contain her surprise. No one had ever cared enough to seek more information about her upbringing. It took her a moment to come up with something that made sense.

“My mother passed on and I didn’t get along with the new housekeeper,” she finally settled on.

“I see.”

They both fell silent for a time, the only sounds the whistling of the wind and the clip clop of the horses’ hooves on the road. Emma looked up, noticing the full moon was now obscured by clouds.

“Was that a raindrop?” she asked as she ran her hand across the top of her head where something had just landed.

Killian looked toward the sky. “It didn’t look like rain when we left, but I do believe you’re right.”

“How far are we from this cottage of yours?”

“Still about thirty minutes, I believe.”

Although she didn’t relish getting caught out of doors in a storm, Emma smiled.

“I don’t mind a little rain,” she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “There are far worse things than getting wet.” They both knew exactly what she spoke of.

It was only moments later that the skies opened, drenching them both in just a few minutes.

“I’ll get there as fast as I can,” Killian shouted over the wind and rain.

“Don’t worry about me,” Emma shouted back. Killian looked over at her and saw the way she clutched her arms and hunched in on herself, trying to present as small a target for the furious weather as possible.

“Let me give you my coat,” he shouted again, trying to get an arm out while still controlling the horses with the other.

Emma laughed. “That will only make me wetter,” she observed, “with it as soaked as it is.”

Killian shrugged in acquiescence and flicked the reins for the horses to pick up the pace. But the road was becoming muddy now and he sighed in annoyance.

This was just what he needed. He’d had a bloody awful head cold all last week that he’d just recovered from- he probably could’ve used it as an excuse to avoid Gold’s party, if he’d thought of it. But then, he wouldn’t have been there to save Emma, so he couldn’t truly regret it- and now driving through a blinding, freezing rainstorm was likely to set him flat on his back again.

Although, if he was forced to stay at My Cottage for more than just a single night, his mother wouldn’t be able to force him to attend every single party in town. Granted, she only wanted to see him happily settled down like Liam and Belle, but he knew the difference between his two beloved siblings and himself was that they had both married the right people- people they truly loved and were happy with. Killian, on the other hand, hadn’t met the right person yet.

Well… then again... His mind wandered back a couple of years to his mother’s masquerade ball. He had met someone that night. Someone who set his heart racing and made him believe that perhaps there was someone out there for him. As he led her in her very first waltz out there on the terrace, he felt a connection with her that he’d never known in all his born days. A desire, so much more than simple lust, a desire to know her, protect her, love her.

But her disappearance made that longing all but impossible to fulfill. It was as if she'd fallen off the face of the earth. Descending from heaven for that one night, making him think about his future for the first time in his life, filling him with hope, only to be snatched away and taken back to where she belonged.

When calling on the Spencer household looking for her proved fruitless, he’d had to simply look for her at every ball and social event of the season. And every season since. It had simply become part of who he was. He was Killian Jones. He had seven brothers and sisters, he was quite skilled with a sword and a drawing charcoal, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.

He knew she was out there somewhere, and while he also knew it was high time he married, he couldn’t quite muster up the enthusiasm to do so. What if he were to marry and the very next day, he found her? It’d be enough to break his heart.

No, it wouldn’t. It’d be enough to shatter his soul.

Killian breathed a sigh of relief as the village near My Cottage came into sight. That meant they were only a very few minutes away and he flicked the reins again to get the horses to move just a bit faster. He couldn’t wait to get inside and into a warm bath.

He glanced at his companion, who shivered under the weather’s onslaught. She hadn’t offered a single word of complaint and he tried to think of any female of his acquaintance who would have held up to the elements with such fortitude and grace. He couldn’t think of a single one. Even Belle, who was as good of a sport as any, would have been howling about the cold by now.

“We’re almost there,” he shouted, moments before he was seized with a fit of coughing. The deep kind that rattled down in the bottom of one’s lungs. They felt like they were on fire and his throat felt as if a razor had been taken to it.

“Are you alright?” she shouted. He turned to look at her. Her face was filled with concern, but he couldn’t respond before another coughing fit took him.

Once he got control of himself, he tried to wave aside her concern. “I’m fine.” He flicked the reins again, trying to make up for the lack of direction when he’d been coughing.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Had a head cold last week,” he tried to explain before another round of deep coughs racked him. Damn, his lungs were sore. “Must have moved down.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “That does not sound like your head.” Another round of coughs took him and Emma reached for the reins. “Let me drive.”

He jerked his head toward her and the reins away from her. “I can drive!” he exclaimed, a bit indignant. His words were negated, however, when yet another deep seated cough overtook him. Emma reached for the reins again as he got himself under control. She flicked them and the horses picked up the pace.

“And how,” he said before being interrupted with another cough, “do you know how to drive a phaeton?”

“The same family I took lessons with,” she informed him.

“The lady of the house must have really liked you,” he observed.

Emma couldn’t quite hide her smirk as she remembered how Cora always vociferously objected when her father insisted that Emma receive the same lessons her girls did. All three of them had learned to drive a team the year before the earl died.

It was nice to find she could still do something from her previous life. There were some things you just didn’t forget how to do, she supposed. She’d worn fine clothes then, had good food to eat, and had interesting lessons. She sighed. It hadn’t been all bad.

“What’s wrong?” Killian shouted over the wind.

“Nothing,” she shouted back.

“You sighed.”

She turned incredulous eyes on him. “You could hear me over the wind?”

“I’ve been paying close attention.” He coughed deeply again. “I’m sick enough without you landing us in a ditch. Turn right right here.”

She took the turn without bothering to reply to his other statement.

“What’s the name of this cottage of yours?”

“My Cottage.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I might have known.”

Killian smirked. The effect was rather pitiful with as sick as he obviously was. “I’m not kidding.”

“Oh, I believe you,” she assured him. And sure enough, just a minute or two later, they arrived at the gate of an elegant country house, a small unassuming sign upon it which read ‘My Cottage’.

“The previous owner named the house,” Killian explained as he directed her to the stables. “But I thought it fit me as well.”

She looked at the house, which was not nearly as large as where they’d come from, but was by no means a humble dwelling. “You call this a cottage?”

“No, the previous owner did,” he replied. “You should have seen his other house.”

A few minutes later, they were out of the rain and Killian was trying to unhitch the team. His fingers were trembling with the cold.

“Here, let me help,” Emma said, stepping up beside him.

“I can do it,” he insisted.

“Of course, you can,” she placated him, “but it will go faster with help.”

They worked side by side until Killian was wracked with coughs once again. Emma didn’t like the rattle she heard coming from his chest, even after the coughing itself subsided. She took his arm and led him to a bench along the wall.

“Please sit down,” she begged him. “I can finish this.” To her surprise, he didn’t object.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Not very gentlemanly of me.”

“I think you can be excused given what you did earlier,” she told him. She tried to give him a smile, but for some reason it wobbled and she found that she was suddenly near tears. She turned back to the team, hoping he didn’t catch it. Her fingers trembled with the cold and a sudden barking sob escaped her.

Only a moment later, he was by her side and she was in his arms. He held her tightly as she cried, whispering soothing words in her ear, his hand rubbing circles along her back.

She cried for everything. She cried for what could have been her fate earlier this evening, she cried for her fate since she came to Spencer Hall all those years ago, she cried for the memory of being in his arms at the masquerade, and she cried for being in his arms right now.

She cried because he was so kind to her. Even though she was nothing to him- nothing but a housemaid- he still felt the need to care for her, to protect her. She cried because she hadn’t let herself cry in years and she cried because she was so alone.

Her tears finally subsided. Killian pulled back and looked her directly in the face. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded, because she did actually feel better.

“Good,” he said, before another deep cough seized him.

“We really need to get you inside, out of the rain,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Race you to the door.” Emma’s eyes widened in surprise, stunned that he had the strength to make a joke like that. But he was off like a shot and she took off after him. By the time she joined him under the covered front porch, she was laughing with the exertion and the sheer ridiculousness of running through the rain to get out of the rain when they were already soaked to the skin. Killian banged on the door.

“Don’t you have a key?” Emma shouted.

Killian shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on stopping.”

“Do you think the caretakers will even hear you?”

“I bloody well hope so,” he muttered.

Emma looked at the darkened windows of the first floor. “It seems very dark,” she observed. “Are you sure they’re even here?”

“I don’t know where else they’d be.”

Emma was starting to think there was no one here to let them in. “I think you might need to start looking for an open window.”

“Not necessary,” he told her. “I know where the spare key is kept.”

“Ok, why the frown then?”

He coughed several times and then sighed. “Because it means I have to go back out into the bloody storm.”

Emma knew he must be nearly to the end of his patience. He’d cursed twice in the last few minutes, and he didn’t seem the type to curse in front of a lady. Even a housemaid.

“Stay here.” He dashed back out into the rain and it was only a few minutes later that she heard the doorknob rattle from the inside. The door swung open revealing a dripping wet Killian Jones holding a candle. “I don’t know where Mr. and Mrs. Miner are, but they are definitely not here.”

“We’re alone?” she asked.

“Completely,” he confirmed.

“I- I’d better find the servants quarters,” she stammered. He grabbed her arm.

“Oh, no you won’t,” he growled.

“I won’t?”

He shook his head. “You, my dear, aren’t going anywhere.”

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! Still deciding whether to keep with the twice a week posting schedule or go to weekly, but I will tell you, if I don’t post the next ch on Wednesday, I WILL post a sneak peek. Until then, y’all!

[funkytoesart]

Ch1 | P20 | The Breaking of the Waves [Mermaid Hiccup Au]

Masterpost of Pages

[pjane]

how's it going with your s5 rewatch? and with that tommy volker fanfic? (also this definitely isn't astrid)

GHFJGN im literally laughing so much omg

ok so im a few eps into the rewatch and heavy into the outline  😌 👀

[lastbluetardis]

Sacred New Beginnings (9/?)

Summary: James Noble thought he traded away his chance at love and a happy-ever-after when he signed a contract with a record label that turned him into an international celebrity. But a chance meeting in a dive bar may prove him wrong.

Ten x Rose AU, @doctorroseprompts

This Chapter: Teen, ~4400 words

AO3 || Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 |

Rose stays for dinner—actual dinner, this time—after they finish having a round of slow and lazy sex in his bathtub. Her stomach gurgles as she sits astride him, her face tucked into his shoulder where she pants softly for breath. His responds similarly, and they giggle in the comfortable silence between them.

He calls for Chinese delivery once they’re both out of the tub and dressed. They must have managed to miss the dinner rush, because less than an hour later, their food arrives, carried by an older teen who gapes wordlessly at James when he answers the door. James gives the kid a wink, and asks if he wants a selfie or autograph or something. The kid does, and James obliges.

“No broadcasting my address though,” he warns, even though many of his London-based fans know where he lives.

“Of course not,” the kid stammers. “Have a good night.”

James salutes the teen, and slips back into his home to share boxes of fried rice and chicken with Rose. He learns she doesn’t particularly like spicy foods, so he hoards the General Tso’s, while she takes the teriyaki chicken. It’s nice, sitting on his couch and sharing a meal with Rose, without feeling pressured to fill every second with conversation.

They’ve finished their meal when he gets a text from Donna. You made that delivery boy’s day.

She shares an Instagram link with him, and sees the selfie he’d taken with the teen. The caption reads, “Delivering Chinese takeaway has its perks 😍”

James snorts. He likes the photo and comments, “It was nice meeting you. @ChinaPalace hires great staff on top of making great food.”

He then snaps a photo of all the empty Chinese boxes and uploads it to his Instagram story, tagging the restaurant and thanking them for dinner.

“You like supporting local places, don’t you?” Rose asks, resting her cheek on his shoulder to watch him post the story.

“Very much. Only after the fact though. I don’t want people to swarm me while I’m out and about.”

With each of them fed and satiated, it’s time for them to part ways. Though she says she’s fine taking the tube, James insists on driving her to her flat, claiming it’s so that she doesn’t have to deal with Sunday night bustle, but really, who wouldn’t want to spend another half hour in the car with Rose?

The drive is comfortable, with the silence between them filled with music and quiet singing. He holds her hand the entire way, and when he pulls up in front of her building, he leans over and kisses her softly.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs against her mouth.

“You’d better,” she grins. “See ya.”

He can’t bear to say goodbye, so he says nothing. He waves, and waits in his car until she’s safely in her building before pulling back onto the street and making his way home.

It’s a new kind of torture to return to his vacant house, which seems so much bigger and colder now that Rose’s bright presence is gone. Her scent lingers, especially on his couch and the nest of blankets she’d been curled up in all afternoon. That’s where he settles for the rest of the night, drinking wine and trolling social media. He logs into Twitter and does an impulsive Q&A game, telling his fans to tweet out questions which he then replies to.

His notifications are flooded with mentions, but he slogs through as best he can while secretly keeping an eye out for any usernames that might belong to Rose. He isn’t sure if she even has social media—he knows teachers often need to be careful with their online lives—but is nevertheless disappointed to not see her name on his Twitter feed.

Two hours pass in this fashion, and he’s rather drunk by the end of the Q&A session. While fun, James would have preferred another evening with Rose. She hasn’t texted him since she got home, and he wonders if that’s a bad thing, or a normal thing. They’d just spent the better part of two days together; two hours is nothing. Two hours is healthy.

God knows he doesn’t want another partner who demands he check in with her every half hour. No amount of sex had been able to make that particular relationship palatable; he’d broken up with her after three weeks of that bullshit, and she’d sold her sob story to the media within a day, accusing him of refusing to get emotionally attached to her and only wanting her for sex. Donna had had a field day trying to smooth those accusations over, but, like everything, the story eventually died and his life returned to normal. Well. His version of normal.

Vigorously shaking that ex out of his head, James tweets out a thank you to his fans for entertaining him for the night. He then trudges up the stairs, half-tripping over his feet. He goes through the bare minimum of his nighttime routine before collapsing in his bed, hating that his sheets smell like Rose because it reminds him of how damn empty his house is. She should be there, her laughter filling the stillness, her warmth breaking through his solitude.

He grabs his phone, but there are no messages from Rose, so he sets it back on his nightstand. What would he even have said anyway? He rolls over until he’s spooning the pillow that smells like her, tucking his face into the soft fabric.

It doesn’t find him as easily as it had the night before, but, eventually, sleep does come and claim him.

oOoOo

It’s odd, awaking the next morning, knowing he’s crawling out of the rabbit hole and back into the real world. It’s like the last two days never happened, like Rose was a fever dream, a gift from his subconscious for his weary, waking mind.

But no. She’s there, in his phone, in his photos. There they are, together, cheek to cheek at the Renaissance Faire, her glittering, sparkling face beaming at him. His heart constricts, and he spends much longer than is probably healthy staring at their selfie. They only have one—just one selfie together. That’s completely his fault, since he’d freaked out on her, but still. He yearns to have more photographs of her. Of them.

He finally drags himself out of bed and diligently completes his morning workout routine with River in his basement. It must be obvious on his face that he’d had quite an enjoyable weekend, and she teases him mercilessly for it. He simply grins, unable and unwilling to deny how wonderful spending time with Rose had been.

Donna stops by mid-way through breakfast to badger him about his date with Rose, and she smacks him when he mumbles, “It was fine,” through a mouthful of leftover waffle.

“Details, I want details,” she orders. “Did anyone spot you at the Renaissance Faire? Rose actually knows you’re the James Noble, right? She doesn’t think you’re some random rich tosser with a big house?”

James snorts into his coffee. “Yeah, she knows. And no, we weren’t spotted at the faire.”

“And… after?” Donna asks.

His ears burn a little to remember exactly what he and Rose had done after the faire.

“It’s fine, Donna,” he answers. “Everything went well. Everything went… perfectly.”

Apart from him snapping at her for trying to take a photograph of him, but that’s beside the point.

“What did you get up to yesterday?” she asks, slinking up behind him to steal a bite of his food.

He swats at her hand. “A bit of writing.”

“Mhm. And there are two sets of plates and coffee mugs in your sink because…?”

He glances over, and sure enough, the dishes from yesterday’s breakfast are sitting unwashed in the sink. Busted.

“Because Rose stayed the night,” he mumbles, taking a long sip of coffee. “Happy now?”

Donna’s face softens and she sits down on the stool beside him, turning completely to face him while he resolutely stares at his almost empty plate.

“What’s going on between you and Rose?” she asks, resting her hand on his thigh. “Is it… serious?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. She doesn’t seem to want it to be.”

“And what do you want it to be?”

“It’s just some fun,” he says, his voice falling flat. Just sex. He keeps that last bit to himself, and shoves the remaining bite of food into his mouth.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t think Donna believes him, but quite honestly, he doesn’t care what Donna thinks.

“We’re keeping it secret and out of the media,” James says, standing to set his plate atop the dishes from yesterday. He turns on the tap until hot water pours over the syrup-sticky plates, and he methodically and meticulously gives them all a rinse before stacking them in his dishwasher. “I’ll tell you if the media get wind of it, but honestly, you’ll probably know sooner than me.”

“Are you going to see her again?”

Donna has followed him and she stands with her hip resting against the cabinets, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Dunno. Maybe. Probably. If she wants to.”

“Just… be careful, James,” she says quietly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

He bristles. “Rose wouldn’t… she’s made it very clear she wants to keep whatever we have out of the media. And I believe her. I don’t think she’d go to them after we… after.”

Donna gives him a half-smile. “That’s not what I meant.”

With that cryptic comment, she goes to the living room—where Jack and River are sprawled across the sofa, getting in a quick game of Mario Kart—and briefs them on what his schedule looks like this week. It’s another easy week of going to the studio to continue drafting his new album, then a meeting on Friday to update his record label on his progress. He’d like to have most of the songs drafted and in some sort of order before the meeting. It should be doable.

He finishes loading the dishwasher but doesn’t start the wash cycle. There aren’t enough dishes to warrant using that much water. He usually only runs the dishwasher twice a week, since he doesn’t exactly create a lot of dishes when he’s home alone. Which reminds him that he hasn’t hosted any sort of party in a while. Perhaps he ought to do that. Maybe a Halloween party. And maybe Rose might like to come.

River cheers raucously from the living room, having clearly won their race. James would be content to let them have a rematch, but Amy can only work with him that morning, so he needs to get to the studio within the next hour to maximize his time with her.

He packs a salad for lunch, figuring his body might appreciate a vegetable, and the small portion of General Tso’s chicken leftover from last night’s dinner. By the time he gathers that and his notebooks and iPad from his music room upstairs, Jack and River are ready to go and waiting for him at the door.

The drive to the recording studio passes quickly, and soon James is tapping away on his piano when Amy enters the studio with two travel cups of coffee from a local shop down the street. His drink today is something strong and almost on the wrong side of too bitter, but it’s palatable and smooth. James finds himself taking sip after sip while he shares half-drafted songs with her.

Their morning is very productive. They polish up all of the songs they’ve collaborated on, to the point where they’re ready to be recorded. James would have worked on that this week, but he’d rather get his label’s stamp of approval first; it would be frustrating to have a song recorded only for his label to recommend minor changes.

He records samples though, so his producers will be able to have the general impression of how things will sound. His next goal is to have the rest of the songs almost fully drafted, and he can do most of that work at home. He gives his team a heads up that the rest of the week will be spent in his own music room, and he confirms that the meeting with his label is still on for Friday morning.

It’s well past dinner time when James gets dropped off at his house, but he’s not in the mood to cook, so he orders takeaway again and tries not to feel guilty about it.

An hour later, he’s shoving piping hot pizza into his mouth and rooting through his fridge to see what groceries his personal assistant had bought him today, and what meals she’d planned for him for the week. His fridge is colorful and well-stocked with fruits, veggies, meats, and cheese. The dinner she’d planned for him for tonight was fish, but, upon checking the expiration date, James decides that it can be tomorrow’s supper instead. Making meals should be easier this week with him working from home for most of it.

James often toys with the idea of hiring a personal chef to cook his food, but always decides against it since he genuinely likes to cook. Plus, his schedule is so erratic it’s often hard to plan more than a few days in advance. Sometimes he gets a last-minute invitation to a party, or gets scheduled for an interview that goes late, or simply decides to stay out and enjoy the London nightlife. He would hate for a chef’s work to go to waste.

He finds himself wondering if Rose likes to cook, or if she orders takeaway as often as he does. He wonders what her favorite meals are, and which restaurants she likes ordering from. Cocinara was a delightful find, and he’s dying to know if there are other similar hidden gems sprinkled throughout the city that Rose can introduce him to.

Sitting on the sofa that still vaguely smells like Rose, James starts on his second slice of pizza and pulls his phone from his pocket. There are dozens of notifications waiting for him, but none from Rose. He frowns, and goes into their texting thread to make sure he hasn’t somehow missed a new message from her. But no, her last message is the selfie she’d taken of the two of them at the Renaissance Faire.

The pizza churns in his stomach, and his appetite is abruptly gone. Why hasn’t Rose texted him at all today? Had he somehow upset her? Did she want to spend last night with him too and was disappointed that he’d sent her home? Had they escalated their relationship too quickly and now she was having second thoughts?

Or was she simply busy?

“You’ve been quiet today,” he types. After a few seconds’ deliberation, he sends the text.

Almost immediately, she begins responding. Okay, probably not busy then. He doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse

Sorry, busy day.

He frowns and takes an absent bite of pizza despite his stomach’s protests. Is she lying? Is that all she’s going to send him? Is that…

Half-term break is next week and it’s hard to get my kids to focus. I spent half of today yelling at everyone and giving myself a headache.

His unease morphs into something like shame. He’s all too familiar with neglecting texts, calls, and emails when he has a busy day at work. He’s also familiar with the thinly-veiled frustration and exasperation from other people when it takes him more than a day to reply to the messages that pile up faster than he can get through them. Of course he shouldn’t expect prompt responses from Rose. She’s busy being brilliant with her students.

“No worries,” he says, and actually means it. If it takes Rose days to answer him, he’ll gladly wait for her. “Sorry you had a rough day.”

A moment later, his phone begins to buzz in a phone call from 🌹 Bad Wolf Girl 🌹.

“Hey,” he greets, kicking up his feet and slouching back into his couch.

“Hey yourself. Sorry, I wasn’t kidding about the headache, and talking doesn’t hurt as much as texting.”

He winces. “We don’t have to chat. Rest. Relax. Get some sleep.”

“What, and have nothing else to listen to except my next-door neighbor’s kid’s trombone lesson? I don’t think so.”

“Oof, that’s a tough instrument to listen to when the player is…”

He searches for a polite word and chokes on a laugh when Rose supplies, “Rubbish? Unskilled? Bad?”

“A beginner,” he says instead, still grinning.

“Pfff.” Rose lets out a long, low groan. “So. What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” he says, feeling like a stupid teenager wanting to talk to his crush but having no idea what to actually say. “I ordered pizza for dinner. I wish you were here to eat it with me.”

“That sounds heavenly. I had beans on toast. I need to go food shopping but when I’m done teaching for the day, I’m too tired to even think about going to the shops.”

His stomach sinks as he’s once again struck with gratitude for how privileged he is to have the life and the opportunity he has.

“Well, I’m working from home for the rest of the week. If you send me your list, I’ll pick up some food for you and bring it to your flat tomorrow.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” she says dryly. “The revered James Noble doing the food shopping for a lowly commoner.”

He knows she’s teasing, and yet his heart aches. “Don’t say that. You’re not lowly.”

She makes a noncommittal noise that makes James want to pull his hair out.

“If you won’t let me buy groceries for you, can I come over for dinner tomorrow night and bring the dinner my personal assistant planned for me?” he counters.

The silence grows heavy between them, and he wonders if perhaps the call cut out, but then she murmurs, “You… you’re not sick of me yet?”

“Are you sick of me?” he counters, suddenly wondering if maybe he has come on a bit too strongly.

“No, but I just assumed…” 

“What? Assumed what?”

She blows out a noisy breath that sounds like a raspberry. “I dunno. So. Dinner, eh? What’s on the menu?”

“Do you like fish? I’d like to make that before it goes… fishy.”

That earns him a giggle. “Yeah, I like fish. Fish ‘n chips. Isn’t every Londoner required to love that and tea?”

“Then I’m a bad Londoner. I’m not big on tea.”

“Careful, ‘else the queen will have you exiled,” she drawls.

“It’s not that tea is bad, it’s just that coffee is better,” he explains. “What else is strong enough to get me through an all-nighter in uni and keep me awake for an exam I forgot to study for because I was too busy writing a paper I forgot was due? Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically, how the hell did you pass your uni classes?”

“With lots of luck and a giant, impressive brain,” he boasts. “I’ve got myself a near perfect photographic memory. Lots and lots of storage in this baby.” Even though she can’t see him, he taps his temple.

“Bet humble’s your middle name,” she mutters.

“Right after fancy.”

She laughs again. “Incidentally, what is your middle name?”

“It’s on my Wikipedia page,” he blurts without thinking.

“That’s a strange middle name.”

“Sorry,” he says, cringing. “Sorry. I’m used to directing interviewers to the internet when they ask silly questions.”

Oh God, could he shove his foot any farther into his mouth? Jesus, it’s going to be coming out his arse soon enough.

“I don’t know whether to be more insulted that this conversation reminds you of an interview, or that you considered that a silly question.” Shit, she actually sounds hurt. And why wouldn’t she be?

James groans and rubs the heel of his hand into his eyes until bright colors bloom behind his lids. “Can we just… pretend I didn’t act like the world’s largest prat and try this again? My middle name is Corin. I was born on November the twenty-third, nineteen eighty-nine in a little nowhere hospital just outside of Peckham, where I lived with my mum ‘til I was eighteen, when I went off to uni. There you go. Bonus material.”

Rose is quiet for a beat, and he wonders if she’s going to tell him to piss off, but instead, she asks, “Corin?”

“It’s an old family name,” he explains. “It was my mum’s dad’s name. And my mum’s dad’s dad’s. And my mum’s dad’s dad’s dad’s… well, you get the idea. She never liked the idea of giving me the family name—she wanted me to become my own person. But she liked how it all sounded together.”

“James Corin Noble,” Rose says softly, and God, his name has no right to sound that sweet from her lips. “She was right.”

“Really, Rose, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’m finding I have that problem a lot with you. This conversation doesn’t at all feel like an interview, nor was that a silly question. I just… I’m used to interacting with a certain type of people, so my brain sort of goes on autopilot, with specific pre-screened responses.”

“Guess I can’t really get too annoyed. I used Teacher Voice on my mum the other day without thinking and nearly earned myself a slap through the phone.”

He chuckles. “I invite my mum to events sometimes, and I once made a smug comment about there being a ton of options to choose from for… er… nighttime entertainment after the awards show was over. She smacked the back of my head and told me to have a bit of decorum. On live television. To be fair, I completely earned that, but my God, it was mortifying. That moment has been GIFed and memed all over the internet ever since.”

Rose cackles on the other end of the line. “Oh my God, when was this?”

“Three or four years ago. I was young and new to the industry and still trying to craft my celebrity persona. The media were marketing me as a heartthrob party boy, so I figured comments like that would help build up that image.”

And it had: the media ran wild with it, painting a new portrait of James until he’d forgotten the person he used to be. He adopted masks, wearing a new one every day to please whoever he was with, all while telling himself that only he knew who the real James Noble was. But even that was becoming lost to him, and maybe he’d never actually be able to get it back. The old James Noble was a hard-working student who was going to get a job at an aerospace company to help humanity explore the stars, and help his mum move out of her decrepit old house she could barely afford. And the new James Noble… well, he got his mum out of that old decrepit house, didn’t he?

He can’t tell which version of himself he prefers, and that’s a little bit too much truth for him tonight, so he asks, “What’s your middle name? And… er… what’s your last name?”

Rose laughs on the other end of the line. “Oh, blimey, I never told you my name?”

“Well, you told me the important part of it,” he drawls.

“Tyler,” she says, still giggling. “Rose Marion Tyler.”

“Ooh, Marion.”

“Mhm. After my grandmum. Mum’s mum. Guess our mums are both nostalgic,” she says wistfully.

“And your brother? Does he have a family name?” he asks.

“Sort of, but before I can answer that, I’ve got a funny story for you,” she says. “My dad’s name is Peter Tyler. He died when I was a baby, and mum stayed single that whole time. More or less. Anyway, fast-forward eighteen years, she meets and falls madly in love with this bloke called Tyler Peters.”

James gasps. “No!”

“Yep,” she replies. “What are the bloody odds that my mum gets remarried to a guy with the reverse name of her first husband? S’like the plot straight out of a sci-fi film about parallel universes or somethin’.”

“What are the odds, indeed,” he murmurs to himself. “Wasn’t that weird for your mum?”

“A little,” Rose admits. “But I think she also took it as a sign. She’s happy, and that’s all that matters.

“Now, my brother. Mum named him Anthony Tyler Peters to keep that connection with her old name, and mine. My stepdad tried to talk her out of it. Wanted to give Tony his family’s middle name. But it’s hard to argue with a woman who’d spent three days laboring to give birth to your son, so Dad backed off.”

“Quite right.” James isn’t sure he ever wants children, but he couldn’t imagine dictating anything about his child without his partner’s enthusiastic agreement.

“Do you wish you’d grown up with siblings?” Rose asks.

“Nah, I grew up with Donna. She was more than enough sibling-substitute for me.”

“Ha! Me too. I have loads of cousins, all of ‘em younger than me. I was always glad when me and mum could be alone again. By the time Tony came around, I was off at uni and only saw him when I visited home. Kids are exhausting.”

“And yet you decided you want to work with them all day,” he teases.

“Well, sure but I only deal with ‘em in hour-long increments, then I get a new batch of ‘em,” she reasons. “Plus, they all go home to their mums and dads when the day is over, and I go back to my quiet flat. It’s the best of both worlds.”

They carry on like that for an hour, jumping from topic to topic until Rose yawns. He cringes, realizing she must feel even worse since she’s nursing a headache.

“Guess I’ll let you go,” he says with a sigh, because that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Still on for dinner tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. Fish ‘n chips, like proper Londoners.”

She giggles, and he wants to spend all of his nights talking with her to make her laugh.

“Sounds great. ‘Night, James.”

“Nighty-night.”

[funkytoes]

An Affair of Affliction: Ch1

Sequel to White Oaks! that no one probably wants but I decided to officially post anyway haha 

Astrid Cartan has everything she could ask for. A loving husband and son, a beautiful home, and an affluent lifestyle. Chance meetings and an impending war threaten to change her life in an unforgiving and irreversible way.

Chapter 1 on Ao3 | on FFnet

[crystalgirl259]

How to Train Your Dragonblood 3: The Dragonblood Alpha Ch1

The bright, yellow, morning sun shined and shimmered over the stunning blue sea surrounding the northern islands. Suddenly something fast moved across the surface causing the water to part and spray sideways. A colorful, bustling town sat atop one of these many northern islands. A few sea birds were heard in the background along with the shifting waves as they hit the base of the island. This was the island of Ninjago. The only island that housed both dragonbloods and humans as one community.

It was the best-kept secret this side of anywhere.

Much had changed on the island of Ninjago in the five years since Jay Walker and the Fire Dragonblood Kai had first bonded together and became a couple and showed humans and dragonbloods alike that coexistence between their two species was not just a possibility. It was the way of the future. The catapults and trebuchets that once dominated Ninjago's towers during wartime have now given way to aqueducts, wing-inspired windmills, and Dragonblood Racing bleachers.

Similar changes also occurred beneath Ninjago's surface.

There was a reinforced hangar, complete stables, feeding troughs, and a dragonblood wash for when they were in dragon form. Granted, it may not look like much, but this wet heap of rocks packed more than a few surprises. Life here was amazing. Just not for the faint of heart. The streets were seemingly empty, aside from the shadowy blurs zipping over the many roofs of the town. In-between two houses, a group of scared sheep watched the sky as they trembled in terror.

The bunch of sheep started crossing the plaza back to back as their eyes darted around in fear.

On their sides, they had different colorful targets painted into their white wool. They quickly scurried into a space between two buildings, only it was too small. One of the marked sheep was pushed away and into the open. It looked up alarmed just before being snatched by a sudden, flying blur. Fast shapes moved across a totem and buildings. While most folks enjoyed hobbies like whittling or needlepoint, the people of Ninjago preferred a little something they liked to call Dragonblood Racing.

Dragonbloods barreled past at a dizzying speed.

Their riders swiped, kicked, and rolled into one another while they weave between the houses, docks, and revamped structures of Ninjago. Dareth, who is now twenty, rode Tox, his Poison Dragonblood, who carried the sheep in her claws, until Plundar, also twenty, but every bit as a juvenile, and Adam, his Lightning Dragonblood, side-checked them and stole their sheep.

"Sorry, Dareth! Did you want that?" Plundar laughed as Dareth glared at him and Adam. Adam fell back toward Zane and Harumi, who lag on their Ice and Wind Dragonbloods, Pixel and Morro. "Here ya go, babe!" Plundar called out and, with a chivalrous grin, he tossed the sheep to Harumi. She snatched it with a sneer and a grumble. "Did I tell you that you look amazing today because you do?" He smirked, but she wasn't impressed.

"Ugh, come on, Morro, it's starting to stink around here." She huffed in disgust Morro started to peel off, spewing a gust of wind as he did so.

"You must see that she still hates you." Zane sighed at his friends' antics before he and Pixel also flew ahead. As they flew, Pixel released a wave of frost that blew into Morro's previous gust and left Plundar and Adam shivering. As they rush past the main bleachers, Harumi dropped her sheep into one of seven baskets suspended over a chasm at the lap crossing. Each backboard bore an image of its corresponding dragonblood. Morro and Harumi's basket was filled to the brim with sheep.

Presiding over the game, Cliff turned to the frenzied crowd.

"That's nine for Harumi and Morro, Cole and Rocky lags with three, and Plundar and Adam, Zane and Pixel, Ronin and Shade, and Dareth and Tox trail with NONE!" He roared over the crowd as his eyes fell on an empty basket at the far end, its backboard painted with an image of fire. "And Jay and Kai are... nowhere to be found." He sighed as he slumped back into his large chair.

"Scared your boy off with the big talk, didn't ya, Cliff?" Ed chuckled lightly. Plundar, still defrosting from the blast, suddenly got a punch from behind. Cole rolled in, astride Rocky, spirited and competitive as ever.

"What are you doing, Plundar?! They're going to win now!" He growled.

"She's my princess! Whatever she wants, she gets!"

"Harumi?! Didn't she try to bury you alive?!"

"Only for a few hours!" He argued. Cole rolled his eyes in frustration and Rocky flew as far away from the love-struck Plundar as he could get. He loved Adam with every fiber of his being, but his human rider could be very annoying. The racers chased each other through a sprawling hangar and into a vast cave, teeming with colorfully painted dragon stables. They exited through the far side and circled back through the village, blasting past many of its dragon-friendly additions.

In the village, one of Rocky and Adam's children suddenly sneezed, releasing a little molten rock and accidentally setting one of the houses aflame.

Cole saw this and Rocky peeled away from the other racers, and yanked open a spout on the overhead network of aqueducts, dousing the flames with a surge of water. Back to Cliff, amused as he watched the racers around the island, searching for sheep. He turned to Ed and nodded.

"It's time, Ed."

"Righty-ho! Last lap!" He shouted to the crowd. A horn sounded and the racers all turn to each other, excited. It was time to release the Black Sheep.

"Come on, Rocky! We can still win this thing!" Cole grinned and the Earth Dragonblood kicked it into high gear.

"Come on, Shade!" Ronin shouted.

"Let's go!" Dareth cried to Tox.

"Go, Adam!" Plundar yelled as Ed loaded the Black Sheep onto a catapult. He pulled the trigger, launching the Black Sheep into the air. Cole spotted it first and steered Rocky into a steep climb toward it. In a flash, however, Dareth and Tox flew in and nab the sheep.

"NO!" Cole shouted and Rocky roared in frustration.

"Good job, Tox!" Dareth praised as he patted the green dragonblood's neck and tossed his captured prize to Harumi. "Here you go, darling! Mine's worth ten!" He called to her when she caught it. She cheered and steered Morro towards the baskets

"You guys are fighting over Harumi?!" Ronin scowled at his brother in disappointment while Shade let out a laughing sound, but Dareth just ignored them and Tox flew to catch up with Harumi and Morro. When they saw him, Morro rammed into Tox, sending her and Dareth into an uncontrolled spin. They slammed into Plundar and Adam, sending them all tumbling head over tail. The crowd went wild. Harumi thought they were in the clear until Zane and Pixel came up beside them.

He grabbed at the sheep, but Harumi fought back, inciting a tug-of-war.

Neither of them noticed Cole and Rocky flying toward them. As they got closer, Cole stood on Rock's back, keeping his balance.

"Get 'em, Cole!" Cliff shouted out in excitement at what was to come. Cole leaped off of Rocky, ran up Pixel's back, and plucked the Black Sheep from Zane and Harumi's hands. He laughed in victory as he tumbled through the air onto Rocky, sticking a perfect landing, the Black Sheep in hand. Zane smiled at Cole's strategy while Harumi and Morro growled in annoyance at losing the Black Sheep. As they flew, Cole eyed the fast-approaching finish line, unaware as Dareth suddenly rammed Tox into Rocky, sending them off-course.

He recovered and saw Ronin flying headlong toward them, war hammer cocked, aiming at his head.

He cried as Ronin hurled his hammer. Rocky suddenly ducked and rolled Cole out of the way. The hammer caught Dareth in the face with a clang and the crowd collectively winced. Cole and Rocky recovered from their roll, looped over the water, and blasted past the finish line, dunking the Black Sheep into their basket.

"That's thirteen! Cole and Rocky take the game!" Cliff shouted and the crowd came unhinged. The winners flew over the crowd, basking in their victory while the loses flew away to lick their wounds. Ninjago was pretty much perfect. All of Jay's hard work had paid off, and it was a good thing too because, with humans on the backs of dragonbloods, the world just got a whole lot bigger...

[a-song-of-quill-and-feather]

🌹🌹🌹

Gonna do a line from the last three WIPs I worked on!

From The Other Stark Girl ch28 (Eddard POV)

He knew rumors would swirl about Alys and Jon, but he refused to let that one breathe even a single breath if he could help it.

From Growing Strong ch1 (Astrid POV)

That doesn’t stop her from fumbling her last note on her harp when she notices Margaery not even paying attention because she’s talking with two of the other girls.

From Mischief & Manners ch3 

“But also sadly I was not sneaky enough to get away with it, or perhaps I am simply the obvious culprit when it comes to the tying of tongues during a Pureblood Society dinner.”

For every ‘ 🌹’ I get I’ll post a line from one of my WIPs

[ineffablecolors]

The Wife [22/?]

The Wife || Ch 22 ~ 4.4k || Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10 Ch11 C12 Ch13Ch14Ch15Ch16 Ch17 Ch18 Ch19 Ch20 Ch21 ||FF.NET&AO3

Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are?

A/N: Hey, guys, sorry for the longer wait. Currently hyperfixating on Ineffable Husbands but I'm not leaving those babies right before the end point so no worries ;)

Upon Alice and Robyn’s arrival, Emma’s life seems to settle for the first time in what is in reality less than half a year but feels very much like a couple of lifetimes. It’s a peculiar feeling to associate with the girls who, more often than not, move like little pocket hurricanes through the house and leave traces of themselves like debris behind.

Emma expects, is almost familiar with, Alice’s uncontainable energy, the childlike capacity for wonder and the safety to be herself and even a bit wilder, a bit freer – somehow more than the self that she presents to most of the world. It’s all Killian’s presence boosted even further, made sweeter, by Robyn’s.

It’s this other young lady that has surprised Mrs Jones. Robyn is all propriety and politeness at first, somewhat quieter than the vague image Emma formed in her head based on Killian and Alice’s stories, somewhat more subdued – her hair always pulled back and her movements strong but contained, her blush fierce whenever Alice’s hand would brush against hers or Alice’s lips would peck her cheek in front of Emma and Killian.

In all fairness, Emma knows – knows from personal experience – that it makes perfect sense for Robyn to be a bit more reserved, a bit more cautious. It just isn’t what she expected. Which is probably for the best. Since it lasts all of a week.

A week and some gradually warmer weather is all it takes for Robyn to start cajoling Emma into trying her aim at one of the practice targets that Killian put up at the very back of the grounds for the girls. A week for Robyn to accept Emma’s offer to take Buttercup out for a ride with Jolly and Alice. A week for her to start coming down to breakfast with her hair in a state that makes Ruby groan in near pain. A week for her to settle hip to hip with Alice in the library and another to rest her head in Alice’s lap while they race each other over the identical copies of whatever book Killian has bought them last.

“You do know this is all on you, don’t you?”

Emma looks away from the dissolving clumps of cinnamon in her cocoa and picks both mugs, heading toward the door and inclining her head in an invitation for her husband to follow. She and Killian retiring to their bedroom before midnight is another development that has been, at least partially, brought on by the girls’ presence and their love for lazing around in the library late into the night. Emma has settled into that without too much protest as well.

“What is?” she asks on her way up the stairs and grins at the way Killian glances down the corridor, toward the library door – part guilt and part suspicion that Emma has decided only parents can imbue with quite so much fondness and frustration at the same time.

“This. The usurpation.”

Her laughter makes a little bit of cocoa slosh over the rim of one mug and she bites her lip and glances guiltily at the spot on the stairs but Killian waves a dismissive hand and urges her up the stairs. Emma likes to think she would have normally protested and made them stop and clean up but his urging takes the form of his hand fitting neatly under her bottom and almost lifting her toward the next rung so she feels decidedly overruled on this one.

“Usurpation?” she giggles again as Killian crowds her against their bedroom door for a moment before turning the handle.

“Aye. I’ve been going to bed at a time befitting a gentleman quite a bit older than myself for weeks now.”

“Ah, yes, because it is all peaceful rest that transpires in this room.”

Emma does so love the way she can still make her eloquent husband sputter with barely an allusion to bedroom activities.

“That is entirely beside the point, love. I adore my daughter and I’m absolutely delighted how at ease you have set Robyn. But frankly, a father is happy with the abstract knowledge of his daughter’s successful romance, not very concrete encounters with it.”

There is a barely restrained current of amusement under Killian’s words and Emma makes sure that he sees her eyeroll and her knowing look before she sets their mugs on the floor before the fireplace and sits down with her back to him.

Killian’s knees press under the small of her back as he lowers himself behind her and works his clever fingers beneath the laces of her dress.

Of course, he is not entirely unjustified in his indignation, however playful.

When the library was usurped, as he put it, they tried sequestering themselves in his study but Killian found the idea of spending his evenings where he spend the majority of his days understandably less than appealing. Any period longer than the time required for the manifestation of some hot chocolate in the kitchen earned them Granny’s vocal displeasure and, as soon as the world outside started thawing, the chances of them running into Alice and Robyn in the garden were just as good as stumbling on an intimate scene in the library. Alice maintains that her father built that swing in the back for her so really it is them who have been trespassing.

And Emma has to agree with Killian – she is overjoyed to see the girls happy and in love but the image of her step-daughter loosening a corset is not one she needs imprinted on her mind. So, their bedroom it is – the last stronghold that they haven’t happily relinquished control of.

“What do you mean I have set Robyn at ease?” she twists her head to look at Killian over her shoulder.

He gives her a look that says he can answer her immediately but instead takes his time to finish undoing her dress and run his fingers through her hair a few times even though it has been free and loose all day.

“I’m confident in the very amicable relationship I have with Robyn,” he starts eventually, when Emma turns around to face him and takes a sip of her drink. “But surely you realize that it is you who has made her feel comfortable and at home here, my queen.”

“I wouldn’t say— That is I have…”

She has been trying to do exactly that actually, she just never connected the desired result with her efforts.

“I think it was the horse,” Killian says with a light in his eyes that she suspects has much to do with her own expression of realization. “I’d never let her ride my horse.”

“You’d never let anyone ride Roger and thank god for that. He’d probably kill just about anyone else.”

Killian hums as if the idea has quite a bit of merit and he is perfectly alright with that. When he moves to kiss her, the vision of him astride his gorgeous and equally dangerous beast is not far from her mind.

*****

She is already naked, still kneeling in front of the fireplace but now with her husband pressed fully –intimately – against her back, his hand low on her stomach, holding her to him and upright and grounded – she is already half gone by the time the thought crosses her mind – of the possible consequences of this, of the desired consequences.

At first, Emma was almost afraid that it will spoil it, that the constant hope and expectation and wondering of maybe this time will erode some of the sheer enjoyment of making love to Killian. She thinks maybe it did, the first few days – not so much erode as strain, add a particular weight to the act, send vibrations of anticipation along the link between them. But it is rather difficult to anticipate anything else when she has Killian all around her, inside her. The answer of him outweighing any question of anything else.

And then, a couple of weeks after she convinced her husband that they should at least try, on a night when they came to bed late, after too much food and some wine, and came together with the minimal amount of movement and effort and removal of nightclothes required, Emma realized that if they never get there, if she never gets anything but this, it will be alright. It will be more than alright, it will be enough for her to be iridescently happy for the rest of her days.

And now, as Killian’s hand slips lower and she can feel the scratch of his hair and the cool points of his nipples against her back, as he whispers things that make her bite her lip and try to swallow down the tidal wave in her chest, she forgets there is any point to this other than chasing that hill that Killian has shown her how to climb and making him jump off with her.

*****

None of that can quite keep down the instinctive longing she feels when she holds Mary Margaret’s newborn son for the first time but it certainly helps her smile and coo at him in genuine delight instead of masked resentment.

He is healthy and lovely and Mary Margaret looks so splendid and relaxed that Emma has a hard time imagining Leo’s birth including anything but her friend smiling serenely and sighing happily as she coaxes her baby to join her into the world with just a few whispered words. It’s a preposterous image, of course, but the more Emma listens to Mary’s lilting voice and watches her cradle her baby, the more she cannot picture anything else. There is a vague thought at the back of her mind that, even if she were able to bring a child into the world, there is no way she is able to do it as gracefully and seemingly effortlessly as Mary Margaret.

So she spends all her joy in the Nolan’s picturesque home and she stares unseeingly out of the window on the ride back home and then, as soon as she sets foot on the stones leading to the house, she has another vision in her mind. One of her finally taking one of Robyn’s bows and shooting arrow after arrow at the target, each one sinking it with satisfying success, perfect execution, perfect control. She starts walking around the house before she has had time to scoff at herself.

And Robyn is exactly where Emma imagined she would be, alone like she imagined she would be. It fuels Emma’s fantasy.

“Emma!”

The girl smiles brightly at her. She stopped calling her Mrs Jones around the time she stopped glaring at Alice every time she tugged on Robyn’s braid to try and bring her cheek to Alice’s lips.

Emma’s dramatic response is to throw her hat to the damp grass, pulling a few hairs on the way and squaring her shoulders. She doesn’t ask, she just takes one of the bows Robyn is not using. Emma has always been good enough with her hands, she only needs to see something done once or twice to be able to replicate it almost exactly. This is probably the reason she actually manages to cock the arrow properly. The adrenaline in her veins and the vision in her mind’s eye is probably the reason she manages to pull her arm back, a tremble going down her spine as she lets the arrow fly.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, it should be anything but, when the arrow dives down and falls impotently to the grass before even reaching the target.

Some part of Emma hears Robyn make a sputtering, helpless sound but all the rest of her is focused on keeping her muscles from shaking off the bones of her arm as she pulls another arrow back and watches it sail far to the left.

“Emma, let me at least show—“

The third one she can’t even pull all the way back and it takes everything inside her not to throw the bow to the ground and stomp her foot like a petulant child.

Then Emma feels a pair of arms wrap around her and with a little twist, a strangled sound and a hum that almost manages to settle her trembling hands, half of her weight is no longer on her feet, her fingers grapple with unfamiliar fabric and her face is buried in blonde curls. For the next few minutes she just clings to Alice.

“First time around, I couldn’t even pull it all the way back.”

The words are warm against the side of Emma’s head, the levity inside them isn’t really forced and there is a thread of admiration running through them that Emma doesn’t deny herself from picking up.

“Oh, yes, I’m a natural.”

She feels the vibrations of her and Alice’s laughter undulate against each other and flow together.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Robyn’s voice is tentative behind them and Emma lets one of her arms drop away from Alice so she can turn around and give her an apologetic smile. “It’s not really… an emotional sport.”

Emma manages to chuckle a little and nods.

“Maybe you can give me a proper lesson and demonstration. Tomorrow?”

Robyn’s smile is bright and excited and Alice’s hand tightens on Emma’s waist and Emma feels the little pockets of emptiness that tried to fit themselves into her heart filling again.

“I think papa was just going for a ride.”

Emma gives Alice a grateful smile and Robyn one last hopeful look.

“Tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow. Go on before I make you gather the arrows you shot.”

She doesn’t feel all that childish when she runs off or perhaps she just doesn’t care.

*****

Killian has just swung into his saddle when she rounds the corner of the stables. She supposes the pinkness of her face, the labored breathing and her hair flying all over the place justifies the startled look on his face but she lifts her hand to stop him from getting off his horse and makes her way to him at a slightly more reasonable pace.

“Take me with you, my heart?”

She holds her hand towards him and doesn’t squirm or doubt when Killian looks her over with a raised eyebrow and narrowed eyes before he nods and helps her settle behind him. Roger makes a noise that seems to indicate that this is a one time thing that they are being allowed and then they are off.

They ride in silence until the house looks like she can put it in her pocket. Killian knows where she was, he offered to go with her, she thinks next time she will let him. But she doesn’t regret going alone now, she doesn’t even regret her display with the bow and arrows, she doesn’t regret anything at all as she presses her breasts firmly into Killian’s back, her hands into his sides and her nose into the hair on the back of his neck.

It’s so different from leaning into Alice’s softness and hanging onto a frame no bigger than her own but the certainty that they will hold her up and keep her until she grows warm and sure again is almost identical.

*****

They come back when the sun has almost completely disappeared, both starting to shiver a little from the early spring wind. The damp patches on his trousers hardly help, he has missed one leaf in Emma’s hair and quite a few little twigs that embedded themselves in her coat, so Killian squeezes her wrist and drags his wife up the stairs before anyone can catch sight of them. He will have to forsake the right to grumble and roll his eyes at Alice and Robyn if either sees them in this state. Though they might go easy on Emma today from what she told him – he squeezes her soft hand again and pulls her closer to his side as they rush into their room and start the process of making each other presentable again.

He watches her carefully still, trying to spot a certain rigidness in her shoulders or a tightening around her mouth but it’s all gone now. He runs his hand down her spine as she takes off his brace and kisses the corners of her lips while she tries to tame his hair, just to make sure.

It’s mostly habit that makes Killian peak into the library when they make their way back downstairs and he does a double take when he finds it empty. They exchange a disbelieving look but make quick work of spreading themselves over the pillows left in front of the fire. The look Granny gives them upon entering the room makes it quite clear that she still hasn’t decided who is the most immature individual living under this roof.

“Supper will be another hour, seeing as the Misses decided to take a bath.”

Killian honestly has no idea what possesses him to arrange his features the way he does or say what he does – no idea other than the warmth of the fire and Emma’s head on his thigh where she has buried her nose in a novel she has been trying to snatch from Alice for a week, no idea but wanting to see Granny put her hands on her hips and huff and storm out.

“Ah, that is quite alright. Perhaps, in the meantime, you can bring us some of those biscuits Ruby was making earlier.”

Granny doesn’t disappoint him.

*****

Killian Jones has spent a likely disconcerting amount of his 40 years of life on the floor.

When he was young, the day the summer firmly turned the tide and the heat overpowered even the night coldness, he would sneak a blanket from under his mother’s nose and go to sleep on the still warm grass outside, trying to read words in the stars until his eyes betrayed him. He doesn’t count those years on the grass.

When he was in the Navy, few things rankled more than sharing space with men that were as far from the title of a “gentleman” as one could get and yet, space on a ship was scarce and sharing it was not really a question of preference and sensibility, so he would trudge up from the crew’s quarters and find himself a square of planks that looked almost as fine as the bunks below them and try to remember what stories he used to read in the stars when he was young. He doesn’t count those years on the planks.

When he returned from sea, the concept of earth under his feet at all times seemed preposterous and yet, the sight and feel of chairs and settees seemed even more so, and when he could get away with it – meaning not around Liam or anyone they did business with and not around any ladies (not until Milah) who felt it an offence to be in the company of someone so queer about such a simple matter as sitting – he would much rather sit on the floor than on any furniture designed for that express purpose. He doesn’t count those years on the floor.

When Alice was born, with all her quick little limbs and her devious little mind, with her innocent baby face and all her ideas defying gravity and logic, he found it much sounder to spread his papers and books on the carpet around her, to keep pen and paper and baby all within the reach of his hands – not to mention, how much better he could delight in exactly those devious little tricks of hers when they were sharing almost the same height and surface. He doesn’t count those years on the carpet.

When they came back from the war, it was Liam who would grab two pillows and throw them before the fireplace whenever Killian stayed over after dinner dragged on too long or the rum kept flowing a bit too late, and Killian never quite figured out if his brother did it for him or for himself and perhaps he was reluctant to ask because it was the best sleep he got for the first couple of years after and perhaps because, whoever it was for, they both needed it. He does count those years in front of the fire.

When he got married, nothing felt quite right – not taking her arm when they walked down the street, not introducing her as the mistress of the house to staff and guests alike, not sharing a table with her on the occasion when he slept in too late or got lured into the dining room around supper, not raising a child with her – to whatever degree what she did could be called raising anything, rather than bringing down things that Alice had cultivated herself or Killian had carefully, secretly, nurtured, and certainly not sharing a bed with her, so he was rather glad for all the practice he’d had of sleeping on grass and planks and carpets alike so that, when he couldn’t stomach the thought of lying down beside her and couldn’t escape the room altogether, the floor felt like no big sacrifice. He does count those years on the floor.

When Milah was gone for honour and Eloise was gone because the world had decided to finally let him breathe a little and Alice was gone because he loved her too much, he had all the rooms and beds and linen that one could wish for and that, most likely, was why every other week he would still find himself sleeping on the floor before the fireplace – not with his brother because his brother had grown up and then he’d healed and then he’d found love that he could keep – thinking that maybe the following night he would take a blanket and sneak out into the back garden and see if there has been anything new written in the stars. He does count those lonely years on his own.

Now he remembers the last time he slept on the floor. A month ago? A bit more? They hadn’t made love on the floor the way they had a number of times before, hadn’t even taken more than one pillow and the throw from the armchair a couple of feet away. They hadn’t meant to stay there that long at all and then, the next thing Killian was aware of was the sunshine hitting his face at an unusual angle and his back feeling stiff beneath him and his neck doubly so, and then he opened his eyes to see his bedroom ceiling from a point that he hadn’t in a while, since some weeks before Emma first set foot in the house, with the woman in question, lying on his chest, her arm wrapped uselessly around the only pillow that neither of them seemed to have used and snoring lightly in a way that made him want to laugh and wake her with kisses to the back of her neck all in the same breath. He does count that morning.

All in all, his time lying on the floor has vastly improved as of late but this – this is by far his favourite. So he tries to catalogue and store away all the details – the soft depths of the pillow under his head, the scratch of the carpet under his right elbow where Emma rolled up his sleeve as he was preparing drinks; the smell of chocolate and cardamom tea and something stronger that he and Robyn spiced their respective beverages with; the quiet, random popping of the logs in the fireplace and the faintest traces of smoke in the warm air; the texture of the book he keeps splayed open with his fingers and the light rasp of the page under his thumb; the feel of Emma’s toes digging into his shoulder as they all lie in a circle of their own making, their shoes lined perfectly under the table.

It feels like a scene from a children’s book, he would bet it looks like one as well. He feels his skin itch from the joy of it.

“Now, how does this work exactly, darling?” he tries to introduce some reluctance into his tone but is afraid it comes out just painfully fond.

“You read a page and then I read the next and then Robyn reads the next and then Emma reads the next and then it’s you again.”

“Right. Splendid. But what precisely is the purpose of this orchestrated reading?”

“The purpose is that we all read at the same speed and I do not find out that Beth is going to die because Emma gasped in horror ten pages ahead.”

Killian tilts his head back to watch in amusement as his wife’s face floods with color.

“And I reckon it would be rather nice, don’t you?”

He drops his chin to his chest so he can now catch his daughter who has propped herself on his knee, her eyes bright and wide and so earnest that he can’t do anything but agree.

Before the night is through, the book makes ten full turns around their circle, passing from hand to hand, sighs and grumbles and indignant exclamations when it is dropped and the page lost, but mostly the pleasant change of tone and tempo as they take their turns and experience the story together.

Killian doesn’t know when he falls asleep – it might have been Alice’s too gentle voice or Robyn’s somewhat unadorned reading or perhaps the calming sound of Emma’s tones that his mind associates with safety and rest. He imagines she went to pass him the book, keeping her ring finger carefully marking the page, only to not find his hand waiting to receive it. He imagines Alice rolled her eyes and made a comment and Robyn shushed her and urged her up with a squeeze of her ankle and Emma marked the page and shuffled closer to him. He is quite certain about that last one because he wakes up on the floor, to the fire almost dying and the girls long in bed, with Emma’s front pressed against his side, her fingers running absent-mindedly though his hair and her breath teasing his throat.

He most certainly counts this one.

*****

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[7deadlycinderellas]

The Ghost of the Red Keep, ch1

Ao3 link

Arya is one and ten when she first hears the voice.

The cat Syrio had been having her chase had led her deep into the vaults and cellars of the Red Keep. Or perhaps she let it lead her there. An excuse to go exploring, if a weak one.

The dragon skulls had been a great find, the pale white figures staring down at her. She can scarcely imagine beasts that big even existing.

She whispers about these to Sansa and Bran when she returns back to the Tower of the Hand.

Sansa threatens to tell on her for wandering off, and Arya privately vows to never tell her fun things she discovers again.

Bran is interested, terribly, but balks when Arya offers to take him down to see them.

“I can’t sneak away as well as you can,” is his excuse, and Arya only feels a little bad when she accuses him of being scared. He’d been scared of the crypts in Winterfell so he’s quick to claim he’s not.

He is right though, since they’ve all come to King’s Landing, it’s been harder for Arya to shirk her lessons. She can only blame getting lost so many times, even if the Red Keep IS huge and unfamiliar and full of interesting hallways.

Thank all the gods for Syrio’s dancing lessons. The strange assignments he gives her are perfect for a getaway. The cats especially, she can blame for having a mind of their own.

The second time she sneaks down to see the dragon skulls, is when she hears the voice.

It’s not a scary voice, though the setting would expect it. It’s awfully dark down here, only with an occasional torch, no natural light whatsoever. It’s dark and quiet, and strangely warm. Arya dislikes that. True as a northerner she’s used to darkness, it’s the artificial nature of the darkness down here that she distrusts. It’s the sort of darkness that hides secrets.

The voice sounds young, and she can’t make out any actual words. She also doesn’t see who the voice is attached to.

When she returns to her lessons, she whispers to Sansa,

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sansa looks at her with a withering gaze. They had supposed to be working on learning the proper depths of a curtsy based on the rank of the person they are meeting.

“You’ve heard Old Nan’s stories. Ghosts are left behind by people who die tragically and can’t move on.”

Arya ponders her words.The Red Keep has been the site of lots of violence, from the battles in the days of old to the execution of her own grandfather and uncle. It made perfect sense to her that it might have a ghost.

“I think there’s a ghost under the castle,” she tells Bran that night.

The two of them had snuck off into the Godswood after supper. Summer, Lady and Nymeria are supposed to stay there all day, so as not to frighten and upset the servants. Sometimes Bran and her sneak theirs up the stairs at night, for the most part, the wolves seem content among the trees.

They scavenged a pair of long branches to use as swords, and he’s trying to show her what he’s been learning during training. Once she offered to show Bran the moves that she learned from Syrio, he became more willing to show her what he learned in return.

“Like a person ghost, or a dragon ghost?”

Arya pauses a moment, in thought. Bran takes that moment to strike the stick from her hands. She only pouts for a moment before answering, because his question caught her off guard.

“Do dragons even have ghosts?”

“They must,” Bran tells her, “They bond with people. They understand words- that’s why the dragon riders all spoke Valyrian. They should be able to die and leave something behind.”

Arya suddenly wonders if their wolves have souls like them. Bran’s right, they must. But then she shakes her head, because it’s beside the point.

“No, it must have been a person ghost, I heard it talking.”

“What did it say?”

Arya frowns.

“I couldn’t hear it.”

Bran makes a face.

“Well it doesn’t sound like an interesting ghost.”

And then he knocks her stick from her hands again, so her focus shifts. She doesn’t think about her ghost again until later that night, lying in bed, trying to sleep.

What could the ghost have left keeping it to the world?

The next week is full of hustle and bustle, and so Arya doesn’t get any time to sneak away and try and catch her ghost.

One morning, someone comes and escorts Sansa away from the breakfast table.

“What’s going on?” Arya asks her mother.

Catelyn reaches underneath the table and squeezes Arya’s hand, both, she assumes, to provide comfort, and also to stop her from bolting.

“Your sister’s betrothal to Prince Joffrey has been made official. The Queen wishes to speak to her.”

“Sansa’s really going to get married?” Bran asks through a mouth of bacon.

Catelyn smiles, but her lips are tight.

“Not for a few years. I convinced Cersei that it would be more appropriate to wait until her moon’s blood comes reliably every moon, rather than when she first flowers.”

Arya notes the pucker on her mother’s lips, and feels a private joy that she seems to find Prince Joffrey as odious as she does.

And once that whole mess has passed through, the end of the week is Arya’s twelfth name-day.

Her gift that year is unexpectedly nice too, a brand new saddle. It’s made of shiny brown leather, and Arya spends the morning in the stable, oiling it until it shines. After breakfast, Myrcella invites her to go for a ride, so she even gets to try it out.

Myrcella’s twice as giggly as Sansa is, but she’s never been mean, so Arya decides to go.

When she buckles the straps, Arya wonders why the saddle has an extra stirrup on one side and the back is raised unusually high.

“Oh, that’s in case you want to ride sidesaddle like some southern ladies do,” Myrcella tells her, mounting her own horse.

Arya makes a face. Of course there’s a catch.

“Not that you have to,” Myrcella tells her, arranging her skirts atop her own mount. “Only the very most proper ladies do. The other couple sidesaddles I’ve seen are basically plush armchairs stuck to a horse’s back, you can’t even control the horse. Even Mother rides astride, on the rare occasion when she doesn’t take a litter or the wheelhouse of course.”

And Myrcella’s riding normally too, so Arya figures it’s okay. She looks back at the princess, who’s chosen to wear a dress with an extra voluminous skirt so that it doesn’t impede her at all. She suspects that might be her mother’s next move when she realizes she won’t be able to keep Arya off her horse. At least the other ladies here enjoyed riding too, Sansa never did.

The hump in the back of the saddle feels really strange pressed in Arya’s rump, but she’s still small enough that she fits over the front easily enough, with her legs astride, and it’s not like they’re riding very fast.

They don’t go very far, or very fast. They can’t really gallop until they go into the Kingswood proper, and Arya knows the guards who are riding with them would never allow it.

It is very nice to not be stuck sitting inside all day though.

About halfway through the ride, Arya asks her,

“Do you ever hear ghost voices down below the castle?”

Myrcella furrows her brow.

“I don’t think so. I think the castle probably has at least a few ghosts, but I’ve never heard them. I did hear some voices down in one of the cellars when my septa was teaching me the going ons of the castle proper. I think she must have thought they were ghosts too, because she sent me away. I wasn’t frightened, I think it was just Varys talking to some of his little birds. They need secret places to do that after all.”

Arya frowns, and lets Myrcella natter on and change the subject. She’s pretty sure she would have recognized Varys’s voice, and it didn’t sound like more than one person.

Her name-day supper with her family is nice. They even bring up lemoncakes for dessert, and Arya’s extra pleased that someone remembered it wasn’t just Sansa who liked them.

She lays in her bed that night and decides that as a now very grown girl of two and ten, that she should go and seek out her ghost.

She begs off Syrio’s lesson in the afternoon, claiming illness. He looks her up and down and declares, “the dance does not wait for good health,” before tapping her with the practice sword and declaring, “Though it would be good for you to develop bad habits so early on” and dismisses her.

She speeds away, excited. She would feel poorly about skipping out on his lessons were it for her justification that she was already using the skills he had taught her.

She’s glad for being small, and being able to make herself quiet now. Quiet as a mouse, that’s what she is, creeping in down below the castle cellars.

It’s quiet down here too, and she doesn’t hear any voices at all, ghost or otherwise. She does find a couple of interesting things though.

She goes by the stores of preserved meats and jams. It smells sort of nice, like spices and burlap. It is also, as far as Arya knows, supposed to be the last of the cellar rooms, but this was where she turned off and found the dragon skulls. Which means the next room she finds isn’t supposed to be there.

She doesn’t see much, a straw mattress with a ragged blanket on the ground and a small trunk at the end of it, before she feels movement behind her and lets out a yelp and pushes.

The figure that she’s pushed falls back against a box full of pickle jars and lands with an “Oof!”. Huh, that was strange, Arya didn’t think ghosts could feel pain.

“You’re not supposed to be down here. The kitchen girls only come down here right before and after breakfast,” he says. It’s the same voice she heard before, Arya’s sure of it.

“I’m not a kitchen girl,” she says with a touch of indignation. It normally wouldn’t bother her, but he was the one who snuck up on her.   “My father’s hand of the king.”

The figure chuckles. Arya can get a better look at him now, despite the low light. He’s a boy- well, close to a man maybe- he’s big even though his face is still youthful. Arya guesses he’s older than Sansa but maybe not as old as Jon or Robb. He has a shock of black hair- it’s messy so she guesses he’s been working- and strangely bright blue eyes. And now he’s begun to chuckle.

“Then you’re really not supposed to be down here, and you really shouldn’t have seen me.”

He looks her up and down, and Arya feels like she will need to defend her messy braid or her worn clothes that used to be Bran’s.

But all he does is look at his feet and add a “Milady.”

Arya feels her indignation grow into annoyance, and so she shoves him again.

He sputters, and Arya’s pretty sure she hears ‘not a very good lady though’, so she says.

“Don’t call me that. And what do you care, you’re a ghost?”

The boy stands up with a huff,

“I’m not a ghost, I’m a blacksmith.”

Well that makes no sense.

“If you’re a blacksmith how come you’re down in a cellar during the day instead of in the forge doing blacksmith-y things?”

“Ask myself that a lot. I used to be an apprentice in Flea Bottom. Wasn’t great but I got to see the sun at least. Then old Jon Arryn shows up asking me questions, next thing I know he’s dragging me off, and the queen shows up and she tells me I’m going to work in the castle smithy but I have to sleep down here and get up to the forge before the sun comes up and be back down here right after dinner, and- wait, why am I telling you this?”

Arya furrows her brow and shrugs. If he wants to tell her this, he can, he seems nice enough. Maybe he’s not a ghost, maybe he’s just lonely.

“Jon Arryn’s dead though,” she blurts out.

The boy looks alarmed.

“He is?”

She nods,

“Six moons ago. That’s why we came here, because my father’s King Robert’s new hand. “

His eyes become downcast.

“That must be why…”

“What?”

He sits on the end of the bed, his mouth set in a hard line.

“I’m not supposed to go anywhere but the smithy, or to use the privy around the corner. Master Mott brings us both dinner every midday, and when I first got here someone would leave a basket of food every few days. But for about six moons, it hasn’t happened, and the queen warned me that everything in these cellars are strictly inventoried”

Arya is horrified.

“You’ve been doing blacksmith work on one meal a day?”

She had used to watch Mikken in the forge at Winterfell, watched him pour the molten metal into molds and hammer at the results. The work had looked hot and sweaty and most of all, strenuous.

Arya jumps up,

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

She leaves the cellars, and makes for the castle gardens. Most of the plants in it are ornamental, only planted to look pretty. Useless for Arya’s goal. But against one wall, several trees from the walled-off kitchen gardens hang their branches over.

On the end of one of them is a huge, rosy pink, fuzzy cheeked peach. She can nearly reach it if she just stretches a little bit further-

“Arya!” she hears a voice admonish behind her. Arya jerks stiff, turning her back to face the wall, tucking her hands behind her back.

It’s just Sansa, dressed in an immaculate gown and not a hair out of place in her fancy Southern style.

Arya sticks out her bottom lip and looks at her sister through her eyelashes. That look used to get her out of quite a bit of trouble when she was younger, Jon in particular had a hard time saying no to it. As she’s gotten older, she’s done her best not to abuse it.

This isn’t abusing it, it isn’t even for her at all.

“I just wanted a peach,” she tells her sister, in her most pleading of voices.

Sansa looks exasperated for a moment, but then the face Arya’s seen her wear less and less often appears. The face of her sister.

Sansa reaches up and plucks the peach with ease. It’s not fair, Arya thinks, why does Sansa get to be so tall when she’s not even going to do anything with it? She hands it to Arya, and turns to leave with a,

“Don’t spoil your supper.”

Arya sneaks a cheese tart off a plate, left behind for a servant, before returning to the cellar.

She presents them to the boy with the blue eyes with a grin, and a,

“Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

The boy eyes the bits in her hands, before taking the tart, and chomping down on it in two bites. He wipes the crumbs from his chin before beginning to work on the peach.

“S’okay,” he says through the crumbs, “I didn’t ask yours either.

“I’m Arya, of House Stark,” she tells him with pride, her chest slightly puffed up.

“Seven hells,” he mutters through his full mouth, “What’s a fine lady doing running around in a cellar? Shouldn’t you be learning how to curtsy, or look down your nose at people like me?”

Arya wrinkles her nose.

“I’m not that kind of lady. And besides, I thought you were a ghost, that’s why I came down here.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you were looking for ghosts in cellars.”

Arya looks up and down at him guiltily.

“Because otherwise I’d be upstairs learning to curtsy. It’s not fair! My brother Bran gets to learn to swing a sword and shoot an arrow, but I’m not even allowed to watch anymore! He has to sneak out and show me what he learned at night. I’m stuck learning needlepoint and manners!”

“Isn’t that the sort of thing you need to learn to be a lady?”

Arya makes a face.

“If that’s all being a lady is, then I don’t want to be one.”

The boy snorts,

“Well you’re halfway there, sneaking around in a dirty cellar, dressed as a stable boy and sneaking food to a bastard blacksmith who’s kept hiding like a naughty dog.”

Arya frowns.

“You said that the queen saw Jon Arryn bringing you here and she was the one who makes you stay down here?”

He nods.

Arya did not like the queen. She didn’t like the way she fawned over Joffrey. She didn’t like how her face always looked like she was smelling something bad. And she really didn’t like how she had insisted that all the children’s direwolves be confined to the Godswood, just because Summer had tracked mud in one day.

But keeping a boy down in the cellars, hidden from nearly everyone…

“I should tell my father you’re down here,” Arya tells him with a firm voice.

“No!” he tells her standing up suddenly, his voice loud and firm. It surprises her, but does not frighten her, even with his size. Arya must have stiffened though, because his voice softens before he continues.

“I don’t think you should tell. The queen, when she saw me, she was...I’ve never seen someone so angry. “

Arya purses her lips,

“The queen doesn’t scare me.”

“She should. She scares me. I’d almost thought she’d have done something...worse to me if Jon Arryn hadn’t been there.”

“My father will protect you, he’s not scared of the queen.”

The boy’s face goes white.

“He should be too. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out she had something to do with how Jon Arryn died, especially since no one’s bringing me food anymore.”

Arya feels her chest go cold, the thought of losing her father a shock. She also feels anger, at the queen’s hypothetical role in Arryn’s death. And, a rush of pity, for how scared the boy seems to be.

But Arya is nothing if not defiant.

“Well someone’s going to need to bring you food again. You’ll get sick trying to do smith work on one meal a day.”

An idea sprouts in her mind.

“I could find a basket and start sneaking you things every few days. I’ve been down these cellars like four times and no one’s caught me!”

She expects him to push back, to tell her it’s too dangerous, or inappropriate. She doesn’t expect him to say what he does next.

“You would go out of your way to do that for a bastard blacksmith you just met?”

Arya blinks.

“Why wouldn’t I? I don’t want you to starve.”

The look on his face does its best to make her mad again.

“Just don’t get in trouble on my account.”

Arya rolls her eyes,

“I’m always in trouble anyway.”

She turns to run back up around the cellar stairs when she freezes,

“You still never told me your name!”

He looks up at her.

“Gendry Waters.”

“I’m Arya,” she half whispers while partially up the steps.

“You told me that already.”

“I know, but I wanted to make sure you would remember.”

She takes another step and turns back,

“And so you can quit calling me ‘milady.’”

Arya bounces up the cellar steps and back into the normal world of the Red Keep.

Before supper, she searches through her trunks trying to find the little cloth basket she had used on the road to gather nuts and berries. She tucks it into the top of her boot, and changes back into the old woolen dress she’s supposed to be wearing so that the skirt will hide it.

During supper, she keeps surveying the table for things she could nick and slip inside. The turnips in gravy were an obvious no go. The duck had a dry, crispy coating, but she didn’t think she could get a whole leg to herself without anyone noticing. She settles for a pair of bread rolls for this time.

She’s just dropped one into her lap when Ned says,

“It’s good to see you feeling better Arya, your dancing master was concerned.”

“What? Oh yeah, it was strange. I just came back up here and laid down for a few minutes, I’m fine now.”

Her mother reaches out and lays her hand across Arya’s forehead.

“You feel fine now, you must have tired yourself with all the excitement this week.”

Excitement, Arya thinks, that’s a good way of putting it.

In one swift movement, she slips the roll into the basket.

After supper, Bran quietly asks her if she wants to go to the Godswood.

“I told Mother I wanted to see Summer. We’ll stick to that if we get caught.”

Arya nods.

“Go first, I’ll come down in a few minutes.”

Instead, she leaves right behind him, dashing up corridors and down steps on little cat feet. Maybe it was good practice, she thought, though she can’t imagine Syrio had this in mind.

She slips into the cellars, just as dark now as they were in the day, and leaves the basket perched behind the box that Gendry had shown her earlier. She doesn’t see him, he must be sleeping if he has to wake so early.

She hopes the rolls make a decent breakfast.

She looks back over her shoulder as she leaves, wishing she could have said something when she left the basket. His eyes had looked so lonely.

Arya is two and ten when she decides that maybe the ghost could be a friend.

[kmomof4]

A Mistress to No One Part 2 Ch6

We are back with the concluding chapter of part 2! This was one of my favorite chapters to write and I so hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! 

I have invited folks who have read the book to guess what scene inspired the fic, and I think I’ve received one guess, so here’s a hint. The scene is in this chapter! So I will expect some speculations in y’all’s comments! Thank you so much for coming along on this journey with me! It means more than I can say!

All the love and thanks to @hollyethecurious​, for whom the fic was written, @jrob64​ and @zaharadessert​ for their betaing expertise, and @motherkatereloyshipper​ for her manips of Leroy and Astrid and Killian I used in the artwork. Love you all to bits, ladies!

Summary: Bastard Emma Swan enjoys one night of pure magic and romance in the midst of a life of drudgery and abuse- attending a masquerade ball and meeting aristocrat Killian Jones. Two years later, the same man she met on the best night of her life reappears, saving her from a dire fate in the process.

Now, she must keep herself from falling in love with a man she can never have. But when that proves impossible, is there any hope for a happy ending between two people from such vastly different worlds?

Rating: M (smut in a later ch)

Words: 5900 of approx 61,6K

Tags: Birthday Fic, Inspired by Benedict’s Story in Bridgerton, Smut

On ao3 from the beginning/ current ch

On Tumblr Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5

New Tag List! Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

@jrob64​ @teamhook​ @winterbaby89​ @hollyethecurious​ @xarandomdreamx​ @undercaffinatednightmare​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian​ @pirateprincessofpizza​ @tiganasummertree​ @anmylica​ @cosette141​ @motherkatereloyshipper​ @zaharadessert​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @jennjenn615​ @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713​ @kymbersmith-90​ @booksteaandtoomuchtv​ @wistfulcynic​ @mie779​ @snowbellewells​ @lfh1226-linda​ @aprilqueen84​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @pirateherokillian​ @elfiola​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @poptart-cat-78​ @myfearless-love​ @goforlaunchcee​ @searchingwardrobes​ @gingerpolyglot​ @gingerchangeling​ @djlbg​ @cocohook38​ @cs-rylie​ @thisonesatellite​ @donteattheappleshook​ @deckerstarblanche​ @veryverynotgoodwrites​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @fleurdepetite​

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

Dearest Reader,

In spite of an answer in the affirmative, Killian Jones was absent from the Rosen ball last evening, much to the quite vocal dismay of the resident debutants, and their mamas.

According to Lady Jones (his mother, not his sister-in-law), he’d left for the country over a week ago and has not been heard from since. But fear not for his health or well being, Gentle Reader, for Lady Jones seemed more vexed than concerned for her wayward son.

In the past few years, no less than two couples each year met their future match at the Rosen ball. But if any matches are to come out of this year’s soiree, Lady Jones’ second born will not be among the grooms.

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

April 7

~*~*~

There were certain advantages to a long, drawn out recovery from illness, Killian soon learned.

The first was the sheer quantity and quality of food he’d partaken of from Mrs. Miner’s kitchen. He’d always been well fed when he stayed at My Cottage, but Mrs. Miner had truly gone above and beyond as he recovered.

Second, for the first time in his adult life, he had time to himself. He could read, draw, or simply daydream without feeling guilty about neglecting some task or other.

But the best advantage to lying abed, by far, was Emma. She popped in several times a day just to check on him, bring him food, sometimes simply to read to him. He had the feeling her care for him came from a desire to show him with actions her thankfulness for his saving her from Neal Gold. He didn’t actually much care why she came, he was just glad she did.

She’d been quiet and submissive at first, very much a servant in every way, but Killian put a stop to that behavior quickly. She was absolutely delightful- beautiful to look at, engaging to converse with, pleasant to simply be in the same room with- but he had to admit he also rather enjoyed her when she was mad enough to spit in his eye. He would ask her to join him when she brought his meals or tea, then he’d purposely engage her in conversation- sometimes needling simply for the pleasure of getting a rise out of her. They discussed all manner of things- from history, to politics, to literature. She constantly surprised him with her knowledge, and while she kept many things about herself hidden, he was beginning to get a clearer view of her upbringing.

She reminded him slightly of his mystery woman. It was no wonder that when he dreamt of her now she looked more like Emma than his rather faded memory. Yes, they were similar in appearance- both with long blonde hair and a very pleasing form- but the ladies' differences in station made Emma an unsuitable match for him. No matter how much he desired her.

And desire her, he did. Whenever they traded barbs back and forth in their rather animated discussions, he thanked God above that she was physically out of his reach, because if she hadn’t been, he would have been hard pressed not to haul her against him and kiss her within an inch of her life.

A sharp knock brought him out of his musings and a grin broke over his face as he raised himself up in the bed.

“Enter.”

Emma poked her head in. “Mrs. Miner thought you’d like some tea.”

Killian raised an eyebrow. “Tea? Or tea and biscuits?”

Emma giggled adorably and Killian couldn’t help but grin. “Of course, tea and biscuits.”

“And you’ll join me?” he asked. She hesitated, as she always did, still feeling restrained by propriety, before she nodded, as she also always did.

She set down the service and went about preparing his tea and plate. “You are looking much better, Mr. Jones. Your color is back,” she commented as she handed them to him, “and you don’t look nearly as tired. I should think you’ll be back to your normal self soon.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he agreed. “I do feel stronger.”

She sat down and he raised his eyebrow at her again. She sighed, even as the corner of her lips lifted, and fixed her own tea cup and plate. He was secretly pleased, or maybe not so secretly, that he no longer had to say a single word about her fixing her own cup and plate when she brought him tea.

“So what have you been doing?” he asked.

“Since I last saw you two hours ago?”

Killian just grinned delightedly.

“Mrs. Miner is preparing beef stew for supper and needed potatoes peeled,” she informed him, “Then I found a novel and spent some time reading in the garden.”

“Oh, really? How was the book?”

Emma smiled and sipped her tea. “It was silly and romantic,” she said with a small shrug. “I was enjoying it.”

Her cheeks blushed a lovely pink and Killian didn’t think she could be any more adorable if she tried. It also brought his musings from before she entered the room back in full force. He changed positions on the bed and bunched the coverlet around his waist.

“Are you alright, Mr. Jones? Would you like me to fluff your pillows?”

Killian inwardly groaned. If she came anywhere near him right now, he wasn’t sure he could control himself. And he was quite sure the visions going through his mind would not sit well with Emma herself.

“No,” he squeaked, before clearing his throat and repeating himself, in more of his normal tenor, “No, that’s not necessary, I assure you.”

Emma raised her eyebrow at him, expressing her disbelief at his words without a single one of her own. It probably should have alarmed him how easily they both seemed to read the other- much like an open book- but at the moment he was too agitated to care.

“Why don’t you choose something from my collection to read?” he suggested, anything to take his mind off his desire.

“Very well,” she agreed. “What would you like to hear?”

“Oh, anything.” He was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. Even her voice was affecting him.

“Poetry?”

“Splendid,” he assured her. Although he rather thought he’d have answered the same way if she suggested a book detailing the mating habits of creatures living in the arctic tundra.

She perused the books on his shelf before turning to him again. “Byron? Or Blake?”

“Blake,” he said decisively. If he had to sit through a single stanza of Byron’s romantic drivel, he’d probably lose his mind.

She moved back to her chair, gathering her rather unattractive skirts underneath her as she sat down. Killian frowned. It was the first time he’d noticed how ugly the dress she wore really was. Even the dress and cloak she wore the night they arrived was more becoming than this thing. He ought to buy her a new dress. She’d never accept it, of course, but perhaps if the clothes she now wore were accidentally burned…

“Mr. Jones?”

But how exactly would he be able to burn her dress? It would have to be off of her, of course, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Hmmm?”

Her face clearly conveyed her indignation. “You’re not even listening to me!”

“My apologies,” he said sincerely. “My mind got away from me. Please continue.”

She shot him a look that was equal parts resigned and perturbed and Killian nearly chuckled out loud. She began again and Killian fully focused on her face, but even more, her lips, which proved to be a severe error in judgment. Because now all he could think about was capturing those lips with his own. He squirmed in discomfort again. If one of them did not leave the room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to do something for which he would owe her a thousand apologies.

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

Her eyes widened and Killian cursed himself. She looked hurt, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He simply needed to get her away from him before he hauled her into the bed.

“I- I- I,” he stammered, “I have some personal business to attend to.”

Relief flooded her countenance and Killian relaxed as well. “Ohhh,” she said in realization. “I see.” She dropped a small curtsy, before speaking again. “I’ll just leave you alone, then.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She all but ran out of the room and Killian jumped from the bed, running to the window. Good. No one was in sight. He removed his dressing gown and pulled on a shirt and breeches before looking out the window again. Still no one around. He prayed his luck held as he searched for his boots. Once he got them on, he went to the window again. Excellent. Still no one in sight. He swung one leg over the window sill, then the other, and finally shimmied his way down the large elm tree outside his room.

Once on the ground, he took off for the very cold lake nearby, to take a very cold swim.

~*~*~

Emma descended the stairs, heading for the kitchen, grumbling to herself.

She just couldn’t understand why Killian had so much trouble treating her like what she was, a servant. He kept saying he would find her employment in his mother’s household but he also expected her to join him for tea and engage in conversation with him as if she was of his same class.

If he would just treat her like a servant, her life would be so much easier. She’d have no trouble remembering that she was nothing but a bastard, an illegitimate nobody, while he was a member of one of the ton’s most wealthy and influential families. Every time he treated her like a real person- because in her experience aristocrats did not treat their servants like real people- it took her back to that night, that one perfect night, when she had been a lady of the ton. A lady of grace and beauty. A lady who had the right to dream about a future with Killian Jones.

He treated her as if he enjoyed her company. And that was perhaps the cruelest aspect of all. Because he was making her love him. More than she had these past two years, when he was no more than a dream. For now he was flesh and blood, and close enough to touch. But then reality would come crashing in and it hurt so damn much.

She entered the kitchen to see Mrs. Miner standing over the stove stirring the stew.

“Can I help with anything?” she asked, surprising the woman.

“Oh, no, dear,” she said, waving aside her offer. “The stew just needs a few hours to simmer. And besides, Mr. Jones has not been pleased that I’ve allowed you to do anything around here.”

Emma snorted. “I don’t know why,” Emma began. “I’m just a…”

“No arguments, if you please,” Mrs. Miner interrupted her. “He’s quite right. You are not a servant here, you are a guest. And I should have been treating you as such more than I have.”

“You already have been, Mrs. Miner,” she said, an affectionate smile on her face. Mrs. Miner reminded her of Granny in a way, especially from that night. The way she fussed over her, making sure everything was just right. “But I’m not a guest.”

Mrs. Miner looked over at her, an astute look on her face. “Well then, what are you?”

Emma didn’t expect the question and faltered for a moment. “I have no idea,” she finally said. “But, a guest…” she stammered, trying to make sense of her thoughts and feelings, “a guest would be someone from his social class, or at least close to it. A guest would be someone who had never scrubbed floors… or… waited on another person… or… or…”

“A guest is someone who the master of the house has invited into the house,” Mrs. Miner interrupted gently. “Don’t belittle yourself, dear. If Mr. Jones has seen fit to invite you into the house, then you are a guest. When was the last time you were able to live in comfort and not have to work your fingers to the bone in return?”

“He can’t truly regard me as a houseguest,” Emma said quietly, “because, if he did, he’d have installed a chaperone to protect my reputation.”

Mrs. Miner huffed. “As if I’d allow anything untoward to happen under this roof.”

Emma smiled. “Of course you wouldn’t. But in this world we live in, appearances are just as important as reality. And in the eyes of society, a housekeeper does not qualify as a chaperone, no matter how pure and strict her morals may be.”

“If that’s true,” Mrs. Miner sent her a significant look, “then you need a chaperone, Miss Emma.”

“No, I don’t,” she protested. “Don’t be silly. I don’t need a chaperone because I’m not of his class. No one cares if a housemaid lives and works in the household of a single man. No one thinks any less of her, and she wouldn’t be considered ruined by anyone who would consider her for marriage.” Emma shrugged. “And Mr. Jones thinks the same way, though he’d never admit it, because he has never said a single word about my presence here being improper.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Mrs. Miner informed her. “I don’t like it one bit.”

Emma smiled. Because it really was quite nice for her to care in the first place. “Well, if you really don’t need any help in the kitchen, then I think I’ll go outside for a walk, as long as I’m in this hazy position. I’m not a guest, not really,” she added when Mrs. Miner’s mouth opened in protest, “but I’m also not a servant, so I shall enjoy this freedom while it lasts.”

Mrs. Miner nodded in agreement. “You do that, Miss Emma.”

Emma left the cottage and started down the path that led to the nearby pond Killian had told her about. The sun was unseasonably warm, and she turned her face up to it, closing her eyes against its rays. The sunlight had always made her happy and she could feel her spirits lift from the anxiety and turmoil she’d experienced in the last few minutes, both with Killian and Mrs. Miner.

She opened her eyes, seeing a rather dense patch of forest up ahead. If she remembered correctly, Killian had told her the pond was hidden from view of the house by the trees, so she knew she was going in the right direction. She lifted her skirts slightly as she entered the canopy. The trees were dense and she had to step over tree roots and push stray branches out of the way to make her way forward. She could see a clearing up ahead and guessed the pond must be contained within.

But as she drew closer, she could hear splashing. With a gasp of fright, she realized she wasn’t alone. Who on earth would be swimming at this time of year? she thought. The water had to still be freezing this early in the season. She was only about ten feet from the edge, easily visible by whoever was in the water, so she ducked behind one of the large trees that lined the pond. Whoever was in there hadn’t spotted her and continued cavorting around in the water. Emma slowly poked her head out around the trunk and gasped in surprise.

It was Killian Jones.

And he was naked.

It was wrong of her stay. So very wrong. But she just couldn’t bring herself to leave. She moved back behind the tree and tried to find another hiding place. Perhaps something that would hide her and yet would give her a good vantage point. Was it terribly wicked of her to want to get a better look? Yes, yes it was. And she didn’t care one bit.

All her life she’d done the right thing, the safe thing. Only once had she deviated from that path and it was the single best night of her life. She’d tried to keep her eyes averted the other night when she’d undressed him, and when she did have to look at him to get his undergarments off, the shadows made by the candle kept him pretty well hidden from her curious gaze. But this was in the bright daylight. After all, what did she have to lose? She had no job, no prospects beyond Killian’s promise to secure her a position within his mother’s household. And she still wasn’t sure that was a good idea.

She spotted a large boulder off to the left with a low bush sitting in front of it, obscuring it from view. If she sat on the boulder, the bush should be high enough to keep her hidden. She moved slowly and carefully until she was seated on the rock, sitting as still as possible and keeping her eyes wide open.

~*~*~

Killian had never considered himself superstitious. Nor would he have said that he had a sixth sense. However, there had been a couple of times in his life when a sudden awareness washed over him. A kind of tingling sensation that told him something important was about to happen.

The first time was the day his father died. He’d been racing Liam on horseback when a sort of numbness had overtaken him, starting in his fingers and toes and rushing up his extremities until it centered in his chest, making it hard to draw a deep breath. It left him with a feeling of terror he’d never known in all his life. When they arrived back at the house, they received the news their father was already dead, having collapsed after being stung by a bee.

It was the kind of sucker punch none of them was prepared for. His youngest sister, Tilly hadn’t even been born yet, with Tink and Henry still young enough that it was unlikely either of them would even remember him. How someone so strong and vital could be suddenly taken from them, he just couldn’t comprehend.

The second time it happened was the night of his mother’s masquerade ball. Like the first time, the feeling had started in his extremities, but instead of numbness, it was a tingling sensation, as if he was waking up after sleepwalking. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end in the moments before he turned and saw her. Then, once he did, he knew exactly why he attended the ball that night; why he’d been born. He’d believed all of that then, but she’d proven him wrong by disappearing into thin air.

Now, as he stood in the pond, naked as the day he was born, he was struck again with an odd sense of being more alive than he had been just moments before. It was a good feeling, an exciting feeling.

Something was about to happen. Or perhaps, someone was near.

His life was about to change.

He stepped into a little deeper water before turning in a complete circle. He scanned the trees and bushes as best he could, but he could see no one.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Silence.

He hadn’t really expected an answer, but it had been worth a try. He squinted and did another sweep of the shore in the direction of My Cottage but could still see nothing. Moments later, something came over him and he suddenly knew exactly who was watching him.

“Emma!”

He heard a gasp, followed by a flurry of activity behind a bush on the shore.

“Emma Swan,” he yelled, “if you run from me right now, I swear I will follow you, and I will not take the time to don my clothing!”

The rustling of the bush slowed, but didn’t stop completely.

“I am stronger and faster than you, and I will catch up with you,” he continued. “And I wouldn’t put it past me to tackle you to the ground, just to be sure you won’t escape.”

“And you call yourself a gentleman,” she called, still hidden behind the bushes.

“Says the lady spying on a naked man,” he called back. Silence. Killian huffed in satisfaction. “Good. Now show yourself.” There was no response from the shore and Killian grew exasperated. “Emma, I already know you’re there. Just come out, already!”

He could almost see the petulant frown on her face as the bushes rustled again and she finally emerged. She was wearing the same dress, and seeing her there framed among the spring leaves and flowers made his desire to burn the awful thing that much stronger.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I went for a walk. What are you doing here?” she asked in return. “You’re supposed to be ill! I can’t imagine that,” she gestured vaguely at the water, “is going to help your recovery!”

“Were you following me?” he asked, purposefully ignoring her question and comment. It certainly wouldn’t do for him to tell her the truth about why he was here.

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. He knew from her expression she was telling the truth. He knew she didn’t possess the acting skill to feign that level of righteous indignation. She was too much of an open book to him. “I’d never follow you to a swimming hole. It would be indecent.”

Killian raised an eyebrow at her, not bothering to point out her hypocrisy, and her cheeks flamed in embarrassment. He lifted a hand from the water and motioned for her to turn round. “Give me a moment to get dressed, if you please.”

“I’ll just return home so you can continue your bath in privacy.”

“You will stay right there,” he demanded sternly.

“But…”

He raised his eyebrow again and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do I look like a man to be argued with at the moment?”

She stared at him mutinously.

“I will catch you if you run,” he warned her again.

Emma eyed the distance between them and then tried to guess the distance from here back to My Cottage. If he stopped to pull on his clothing, she might be able to make it, but if he didn’t…

“Emma, I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears,” he said, thoroughly exasperated. “Please stop whatever mathematical computations you’ve got going on in your head trying to decide if you could beat me back to the cottage and just do what I asked.” She still didn’t move. “Now.”

Sighing loudly and grumbling under her breath, Emma turned away from him. The infuriating man wasn’t being quiet as he emerged from the water. Now he was out, now he was picking up his breeches. She couldn’t help herself. Her wicked imagination ran away with her and she couldn’t say she minded. He could have allowed her to return to the house, but she supposed he did have the right to confront her with her wrongdoing, even if it was accidental. Her entire face was on fire and she dreaded his response when she finally faced him.

This was torture. He was purposely taking his time and her toes were falling asleep from how rigidly she was holding herself as she waited. She wiggled her toes in her shoes, and he must have noticed for he growled behind her.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not!” she protested. “My toes were falling asleep.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “And hurry up! It can’t possibly take you this long to get dressed.”

“Oh?” he drawled. She could practically see the raised eyebrow and smug smirk on his face.

“You are doing this just to torture me,” she accused.

“You find it torturous to be this close to me while I dress?” He sounded inordinately pleased at his statement. “I’m flattered. But you may turn around at any time. I asked you to turn around for the sake of your sensibilities, not mine.”

Emma huffed. “Asked, huh? I don’t recall you asking. Sounded more like a demand to me.”

“Point granted,” he acknowledged. “But you would concede that I have the right to speak to you about your indiscretion.” It was a statement instead of a question and Emma simply acknowledged it with a half shrug of her shoulders. “You may turn around, now,” he informed her gently.

She was a bit nervous to do so. Some of their banter back and forth and the way he almost seemed to enjoy getting a rise out of her made her worry that perhaps he wasn’t as decent as propriety demanded.

She lowered her head and peeked over her shoulder to see his pants on his body and so she turned fully, gratified, yet mixed with no small amount of disappointment, that he was quite decently dressed, unless one counted the damp spots on his clothing where the water had seeped through.

“It’s very bad form to spy on one’s host, you know.” He leaned back against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles with one toe digging into the ground. He looked utterly relaxed and breathtakingly handsome.

“It was an accident,” she insisted, her voice a bit more breathless than she’d like.

“Oh, I believe you there,” he informed her. “But even so, given the opportunity, you took it.”

Emma’s cheeks flamed again. She was damn tired of how easily he flustered her. “Well, do you blame me?”

Killian shrugged. “Nope,” he said, popping the p. “I might have done the same thing myself.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “You would have spied on me?”

“I said ‘might’. I am a gentleman, after all.” He pushed himself away from the tree and slowly moved toward her, his blue eyes intense. “You’re a very beautiful woman,” he said, “in case you hadn’t noticed. And I have a hard time believing that you’re completely unaware of this thing between us. About how you affect me. About how I know I affect you.” He was standing right in front of her, his voice a whisper.

Her skin was hot and her heart hammered in her chest. The breath caught in her lungs and her hands trembled. Everything she’d ever dreamed of was swirling in his blue eyes and if he didn’t take her in his arms soon, she might collapse at his feet.

“Killian,” she breathed.

A slow smile spread across his face and she realized her mistake immediately.

“I like to hear you say my name.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t say that,” he urged, touching a finger to her lips. “Please. Don’t you know that’s not what a man wants to hear?”

“I don’t have any experience with men.”

Killian smirked. “Now that’s exactly what a man wants to hear.”

Emma raised a brow in doubt. She knew men wanted innocence in their wives, but Killian wasn’t about to marry a girl like her.

He touched a fingertip to her cheek and ran it down until he cupped her jaw with his hand. “It’s what I wish to hear from you.” He stared into her eyes for a moment and Emma could barely breathe. “Sometimes I have trouble believing you’re real.” His other hand came up and cupped the other side of her face. “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

“You think?” she whispered.

“I think I have to kiss you,” he amended. “It’s like breathing. Rather hard to live without.”

He lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. It was achingly tender and soft and Emma whimpered as his arms came around her and held her close. His tongue touched the corner of her lips and she opened to him eagerly. It was exactly the same as before, a gentle request, full of passion and desire. Two years of remembering the single most exquisite experience of her life and now she was reliving it.

“You’re crying,” he said, pulling back and catching a tear that had fallen unbidden from her eye on the edge of his finger. “Do you want me to stop?”

Emma shook her head vehemently. No, she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him to continue, because this time the clock would not strike midnight and she would not have to flee.

His lips took hers again. This time with more passion, more desire than even that night at the masquerade. Her mouth opened under the onslaught and his tongue took full advantage, searing her, branding her as his. His hands were not idle as his mouth made love to hers, fully possessing her. One held her tightly against him, where she could feel the desire he had for her, while the other stroked her side until he cupped her breast. His mouth left hers, as he peppered small kisses along her jaw and down the slope of her neck, making her shiver.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured into her skin. “Tell me you want me, please,” he begged.

Oh, how she wanted it. How she wanted him. She wanted him to kiss her, hold her, love her. She wanted him to know who she was, that she was the lady from the masquerade, and yet at the same time, she never wanted him to recognize her. She was so confused, but one thing, one shining emotion rose above them all. She loved him. Well and truly loved him. And she would do anything for him.

It was that thought and that thought alone that pierced the fog enveloping her mind- the one that would have given him anything he asked for- making her pull back from him. As much as she wanted this, as much as she wanted him, she couldn’t forsake her own convictions, her own pledges to herself. If she didn’t maintain her own integrity, her own honor, what else did she have? For Killian would never love her the way she loved him. He would never marry her and bring her into his world, the one that, by rights, should have been hers. Even if he did fulfill his word to find her a position within his mother’s household, he would someday marry and leave her behind to continue on with his life, but if she broke every promise she’d ever made to herself for this one time, this one chance to be his, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

He looked at her somewhat dazed with desire and it nearly brought her to her knees.

“I can’t.”

“What?” The dazed look in his eyes gave way to confusion.

“I can’t do this.” Sudden clarity took over his countenance and his brow furrowed.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

The question made her pause as she truly pondered it.

“Won’t,” she whispered.

Killian swallowed hard at her response and his nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. “And why is that, I wonder? You certainly seemed willing a moment ago.”

“You want me to be your mistress,” she accused, and he couldn’t help the wince that overcame him at her words. “And I can’t do that. I won’t do that,” she repeated.

He reached for her, grabbing her around the waist. She stiffened in response. “I want you to be with me. Today. Tomorrow.”

“But you don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” she reminded him. “You will have to marry one day. And we both know you will not marry someone like me.”

Her words completely floored him and sudden clarity came upon him. “You’re illegitimate. Aren’t you?”

The blood drained from Emma’s face and he knew he was right.

“H- how…” she sputtered.

“But that doesn’t matter,” he interrupted her. “I don’t care that you’re illegitimate. Who was your father? Your mother?”

She almost told him she didn’t know, but then remembered her promise that she wouldn’t lie to him. “What does it matter?” she cried instead. “My mother died at my birth, and my father died several years ago. Yes, I’m illegitimate. And I will not condemn a child to the stigma I’ve lived with all my life.”

The heartbreak in her eyes and voice was breaking his heart as well. He really couldn’t blame her, given the life she’d lived, but he had to try one more time. Only once had a woman he cared for rejected him, disappearing as if she was nothing more than a dream, and he didn’t think he could survive it again.

“I thought you said your mother was a housekeeper?”

Emma gasped. She’d forgotten that she’d given him the same story she told everyone who commented on her manner of speech or her obvious education. Thankfully she’d told him that before she’d promised she wouldn’t lie to him.

Emma closed her eyes, not wanting to see his expression as she told him the truth.

“I told you the same thing I’ve told anyone who noticed the way I speak. I did it to keep my background secret.”

Killian watched her intently as she stood before him, eyes shut, wound tightly as a spring waiting for his response. Another possibility suddenly occurred to him. “Was your father a member of the ton?” If Killian hadn’t still been holding her by the waist, he was sure she would have collapsed. “Nevermind. Nevermind. Forget I asked. It’s not important. But, don’t you see? You wouldn’t be. I would care for any children we had. I could give you a roof over your head, fine clothes, jewels, good food to eat. I could give you everything you could ever want or need.”

It took her a moment to recover from his astute speculation, but once she did, she looked into his eyes and saw her own heartbreak mirrored back at her. “If you think that’s everything, Mr. Jones, then you probably wouldn’t understand why I must refuse.”

Her simple words cut him to the quick. He knew what she wanted, what she deserved, but she was right. Even though he didn’t hold a title, it would be socially unacceptable for him to marry a servant, even if she was an illegitimate daughter of a member of the ton. But there was one thing in her last statement that was also unacceptable. He pulled her closer to him and wrapped her in his arms.

“Mr. Jones!” she exclaimed. Her hands landed on his chest in a half-hearted attempt to keep him at a respectable distance, but he simply tightened his arms around her. “Let me…”

“Killian,” he interrupted. “I want you to call me Killian.” He lowered his head toward hers, waiting for her consent. She held herself stiff as a board for a moment and then relaxed in his embrace. As soon as she did, he closed the distance between their lips and gently kissed her. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted, but as a gentleman, he had to honor her wishes. He wanted her close to him. He could still pursue her- perhaps he’d be able to change her mind. “I’m still going to take you to London and find you a position in my mother’s household.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she protested. “You’re not responsible for me.”

“You became my responsibility when I realized what they had planned for you,” he bit out angrily. She knew exactly who he meant, and it made her heart melt in her chest. His finger ran along her jaw gently. “I will not see you cast adrift.”

Emma looked into his eyes. They were filled with heartbreak, but they were resolved as well. She wouldn’t be his mistress, but she could not deny him this.

“Very well, Killian,” she whispered. “I’ll come with you.”

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! Sneak peek of the new chapter will be posted on Wednesday! Don’t forget to guess what scene inspired the fic!

[funkytoesart]

An Anonymous Donor: Ch3

Has Updated! After an Entire Year!!

Summary: Astrid Hofferson’s biological clock is ticking. The problem? She's not in a relationship. So she gets an anonymous sperm donor. Problem solved. New problem? Turns out the sperm donor is her obstetrician, Dr. Hiccup Haddock. [Modern au | Hiccstrid]

AO3: Ch1 | Ch3 FFnet: Ch1 | Ch3

:D (Also this fic is Ridiculous, Cheesy, Not Realistic At All, Romantic, Fluffy (and a bit smutty) so please don’t expect like, incredible writing cause it’s basically just a major guilty pleasure fic written for my own (and hopefully other’s) amusement lol)

[daglout]

Hot Rocks, ch1??

I know I said in a tag I’d be writing tonight, but I did not write all of this at once like please I just topped off a WIP I had lying around and figured out what to do with it. When Hiccup shows up is when I started tonight. You can tell since the quality goes down. I had been tweaking the other 3/4th for some weeks last year.

Less of a chapter and more of a HEY ARE YOU INTERESTED!?? thing.

unbeta’d. I won’t add this to my ao3 unless someone asks.

The sun was hovering just above the ocean horizon, its warm rays breaking through the heavy, dull clouds that blanketed the sky. The first snowfall of the season didn't even stick to the ground of the Edge, but the paths were already coated in ice.

Snotlout didn't feel any of the growing cold, not with an oven of a dragon to his back. Hookfang’s long neck curled around his human and his head rested upon Snotlout’s lap. Their soft snores echo off the walls of the barn, mingling with the tapping of little snowflakes against the roof. Berk never experiences gentle autumn weather like this, and everyone has been lazing at a snail's pace because of the change. Even morning-bird Astrid, who nearly slept-in.

Of course Snotlout loves it, he’s been getting plenty of “beauty sleep” these past few weeks.

He hears the footsteps of a person entering the barn, and cracks an eye open to see. Dagur's back is to him, unarmored and striking with muscle, scars, and freckles. Okay, Snotlout is fully awake now. He shuts his eyes and pulls his helmet over his face, pretending to be asleep before Dagur notices.

Hookfang finally wakes up to Dagur's presence just as it looks like the ex-chief is about to leave. The dragon lifts his head off Snotlout's lap, but Snot quickly grabs Hookfang's face and pulls him back down. "I'm not done napping yet," he whispers as quietly and as sternly as he can. Hookfang does not look amused in the slightest. The testy dragon shakes Snotlout's hands off his muzzle and he stands up.

Dagur is alerted to the movement of the large dragon and turns around. Snotlout feels like burying his face into his helmet again. He tries to avoid looking at the other man, and instead glares at Hookfang for blowing his cover.

"Snot-hat and Shookdang!" Dagur smiles a bit tensely.

Hookfang is visibly offended at the misnaming. The proud dragon blows a puff of smoke in Dagur's face.

Snotlout grins, mischievously pleased at Dagur's expense. He crosses his arms. "It's Snotlout and Hookfang."

"Right.” Dagur rubs the back of his neck. “I should remember that."

For whatever reason the three of them had never gotten fully acquainted, and for all of younger Snotlout's secret pining after the Berserker chief's son, they had never spoken much before the.. dragon everything. And Dagur’s madness kinda ruined any chance of close ties.

An awkward atmosphere hangs in the crisp air as if the two were complete strangers stuck in a room together. Snotlout wishes it would dissipate, because the longer it lasts the more he's aware of how naked Dagur's torso is.

Dagur clears his throat. “I was actually looking for Shattermaster, have you seen him around the barn? Or have you just been asleep this whole day.”

“No, I haven’t seen him,” the insulted Rider snaps back. “Maybe you should take better care of your dragon and not leave the rest of The Edge to raise it.”

Dagur’s eyes go sharp and it sends a thrill through Snotlout. Of course insulting an annoyed Berserker is never a bright idea, but Snotlout hasn’t been known for having bright ideas. He watches as Dagur’s face goes from crazy to calm within a breath; and he can’t help but feel a little disappointed at that, and yet his interest in Dagur has just perked up again.

“I was with him and Fishlegs with Meatlug just a while before,” Dagur says in a normal tone. Or whatever ‘normal’ is for Dagur the Deranged. “We were relaxing in Fishlegs’ tranquil garden, enjoying this clear day together…”

Snotlout guffaws, the sound sharper than he intended.

“Why were you half naked in Fishlegs’ garden, Dags?” The question also sharp. He raises his brow at him, pointedly looks the other Viking over (suppressing the blush fighting to form on his face and the jealousy sitting in the pit of his stomach).

“Don’t … call me that.” Dagur gives him a rude look before continuing on. “I had my back turned to Shattermaster, and he must have wondered off! I looked for him at the rock piles, even snuck over to Meatlug’s special granite pile. Not even the sign of a munch on a pebble. I figured he couldn't have run off too far. Oh, but he’s such a good little dragon, why would he have even run off in the first place?”

Snotlout rolls his eyes. “Hookfang and I don’t have all day for you, y’know.”

Dagur mocks Snotlout’s eye roll and crossed arms. “Ah, yes, don't want to interrupt your valuable beauty sleep.”

“Hey!” Snotlout points accusingly in Dagur’s face. He stops short when he realizes “… That’s exactly what that is!”

A grin cuts across Dagur’s face, sharp and hysterical.

“Whatever,” Snotlout huffs out. He turns away from the other man, giving him the cold shoulder and glaring back, hoping to look intimidating, though it probably looks like he's just pouting. He sighs. “Fine, I guess we can help you look for your dragon, if no one else is available,” he adds sardonically. “Just… Put on a shirt, or something.”

Of course no one else was available to help Dagur.

“Heather and the twins already left to scout near Fireworm Island,” Hiccup explains to them. He’s all suited up, laying out enough dry food on the hearth table to last an overnight flight.

“And you're headed to Berk,” Dagur offers. Snotlout eyes him from his peripheral sight. He’s clearly anxious, with his big hands set on his hips, mindlessly tapping his foot. The shadows from the fire deepen the creases in his frown.

“Yes,” Hiccup says as he starts to pack three small saddlebags with the perishables. “Word just came in of a union between the Ingermans and the Hoffersons,” he smiles.

“Aw, what!” Snotlout slaps his palm against his forehead. “I can't believe this!”

Hiccup blinks at him. “Snotlout, it’s not Astrid and Fishlegs, it’s different people.”

He rolls his eyes. “Obviously I know that, Hiccup. But this means Astrid and Fish-face are going with you! You’re all leaving me behind and I’m the only one to look for Shattermaster with crazy-eyes over here!”

He can practically feel Dagur’s crazy-eyed stare burning the back of his head.

Hiccup lets out a small, tired sigh through his nose. He shakes his head and finishes packing by adding a sheep-stomach waterbag, filled to the brim with clean spring water, to each saddlebag husbanding perishables. He picks up all three bags before turning back to the two irritated Vikings before him.

“He doesn't have to follow me after Shatty,” Dagur cuts in before Hiccup starts giving orders. “It’s not like I’d want his company anyway.”

Snotlout whirls around. “What’s that supposed to mean, ex-chief?” He glowers at him, “I’m great company!”

“Snotlout, you know the island better than Dagur,” Hiccup starts, “and Dagur knows his dragon better than anyone. If he’s wanting to look for Shattermaster, you and Hookfang take him. No Jorgenson-but’s.”

Snotlout moves his glower to his feet as Hiccup moves out of the Clubhouse.

The island authority stops to look back and adds one last thing, “and Dagur,” he says, “don’t kill my cousin while I’m gone. I know it can be tempting.”

Dagur looks at Snotlout, and behind Hiccup’s back, he sticks out his tongue at him.

[chiyalawritesrewind]

Rewind, Chapter 11

Fanfic: [ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6] [ch7] [ch8] [ch9] [ch10] [ch11 on AO3] [ch11 on ffn]

Podfic: [ch1] (Rest coming soon)

Pairing: Gratsu - Gray Fullbuster / Natsu Dragneel

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Major Character Death; Graphic Depiction of Violence

Summary: When a mission turns out to be fatal for one of the team members, Natsu finds himself being given another chance to change the events.

Additional information: weekly updates; every Sunday.

Beta by @serpenttailedangel <33

Tagging list: @f-r-f-t @truedreamchasing @mushi0131 @eitomagical @thatartcorner @eternalsterekbitches @becausewhenyoupracticeyouimprove @oliversantics (if somebody else wants to be tagged [or not tagged anymore] in the future, please let me know!)

Notes: I’m so excited to announce that the extremely talented @yuurivoice is recording a podfic for this!! I highly recommend it, his voice is so beautiful! Please also give him feedback ~ he’s putting so much time into the creation of the podfic.

Enjoy!

Day 7 Part 2

The Magic Council was a huge and posh building with an expansive foyer. All the marble statues, armors, and adorned pillars attracted attention so that Natsu nearly overlooked the old receptionist who eyed them bewilderedly. No, scratch that; he eyed their joined hands bewilderedly.

Out of spite, Natsu didn't let go of Gray's hand as they walked over to the reception. "Hi there! We want to talk to the Oracle!"

The receptionist scrutinized the pair, and when his gaze landed on Natsu's guild mark, his eyes narrowed. "And which Oracle would that be, young man?"

"Well... The Oracle of the Magic Council."

The receptionist rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Which one of them? We have three."

Did they? "Err... Is it possible to see all of them?"

Gray squeezed his hand tighter as if to warn him, but Natsu didn't care. Yes, the protruding vein was obvious, but was it his fault that this man held a grudge against Fairy Tail?

However, before the man could answer, a woman with long blond hair and a light blue silk dress rounded the corner, asking in a sing-song voice, "Fairy Tail's Salamander, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Come with me."

They followed her, but not without Natsu sticking his tongue out to the old man before.

When they entered the office of the Oracle, Natsu was surprised to find it empty, aside from a blue magic circle on the floor.

"You came here to ask me for help."

Natsu clenched his teeth, but Gray gave his hand a warning squeeze. Natsu's grudge against her was still strong, but for some reason, he wasn't at all in the mood to fight her. Strange.

"Yes."

The woman walked across the magic circle until she stood on the outer line that was farthest away from the door.

"Please step onto the rim opposite of me and close your eyes."

Natsu hesitantly did as he was told. He didn't want to trust this woman, yet there was something about her aura that soothed him and convinced him that she was trustworthy. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to be angry.

As soon as his eyes were closed, a strange feeling flooded his body. It was like a mixture of wind and water, running through his veins, tingling his insides. It was so different from the heat of his own magic, yet it didn't feel unpleasant. The feeling intensified, and after about a minute he found it hard to breathe, almost as if his lungs were slowly filling with water. But he wouldn't be subdued so easily. He found that if he breathed very slowly, it was alright.

Another few minutes ticked by, and the increasing feeling of malaise slowly made it more and more difficult for Natsu to stay upright. He felt nauseous, choked, his heart ached, every single muscle in his body felt like he'd exerted them far past the point of exhaustion. His brain told him to take a step back and end this. His gut told him to stay and endure it.

Just when the pain got so bad that Natsu was about to take a step back, it ended abruptly.

Natsu's eyes opened wide and he sank to his knees. The ground was invisible, the room or anything else around him non-existent. It was like drifting in space, everything black. He heard a weak whimper from behind him and turned around.

The Oracle lay on her side on the invisible ground, dozens of scratches and stabbing wounds all over her body, bleeding heavily. Her hair fully covered her face.

Panic rose in his gut, and Natsu stumbled over to her. He'd seen too many deaths already; he didn't want yet another person to die in his presence, let alone die because of him.

When he pushed her hair aside, he shrieked when he found her staring wide-eyed at him. Where her pupils should have been, there was only whiteness.

She inhaled deeply and then talked with many different voices, "Natsu Dragneel, you are not ready yet. Please go your way, and come back when you are ready."

"How should I know when I'm ready?"

"You will know. Go now. Your time has not come yet."

"No... I refuse to give up. Can't I assist you somehow? Can't we try a bit harder?"

With a jolt, Natsu came to, and the first thing he noticed was that he was falling sideways. Just when he expected to hit the ground, he felt something soft beneath him. 'Gray...'

"Natsu!?"

Gray was right there, arms wrapped around Natsu's torso, asking whether he was alright, if he could stand, and what happened.

All the pain was gone. Natsu could breathe freely again. He looked up, nodded reassuringly, and then turned his attention to the Oracle.

She was on her knees, breathing heavily, clutching her chest. Relief washed through Natsu when he saw that she wasn't wounded. She locked eyes with Natsu, an earnest look on her face.

"It is impossible. You cannot pluck an apple from a sapling, no matter how hard you try."

Natsu wanted to voice a complaint, but Gray beat him to it.

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "I cannot help you. Please leave and only come back when you are ready."

Natsu sat up, indignant to accept the failure. "Tell me how I can help you. Let's try again."

"Plants need time to grow. You cannot force them to grow in a matter of seconds. It is impossible. Please leave."

"But I need to save Gray! What should I do?"

"Carry on. Live. Love. Enjoy. Do not rely on me. Now leave."

"Wh-what?"

"Leave."

An invisible power pushed Natsu and Gray out of the room, and the door slammed the second they were outside. Natsu scrambled to his feet, only to find that the door was gone. There was only a solid wall, far and wide no door in sight.

Anger suddenly rose in his gut. "Damn it!!" he shouted, slamming his fist into the wall, partly hoping to break through to the office that was supposedly behind it, but also wanting to make room for his frustration.

The wall crumbled, but all it revealed was solid stone. Where had she gone? How dare she tell them that they should enjoy their time when Gray was about to die! Did she know what they were going through? Did she even care?? Or was she the one behind it after all? Was she secretly laughing about them, satisfied that her plan had worked out?

Natsu bared his teeth, flames encompassing his body. "That bitch. Who do you think you are?! Come back here and fight me! You coward!"

His mind blanked out completely as rage took over.

Nothing could withstand his flames and the sheer power of his fists, and soon he was surrounded by rubble. He hadn't found the room of the Oracle yet, so he kept going, completely ignoring Gray's shouts and poor attempts to stop him with ice magic.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE, NATSU!"

A fist hit him so hard it sent him flying into the wall at the other end of the corridor. He looked up, noticed Gray's figure coming closer rapidly, and spew flames into his direction. Gray wanting to hold him back made him even angrier.

"I'm trying to save you here, bastard!"

Gray broke through his flames and hit him hard in the gut, pressing all air out of his lungs.

"How is this helping me in any way? You're in a blind rage! Stop it!"

Stop? And let Gray die again? No way. If Gray didn't want to help, then Natsu would have to do it alone. Gray was in his way.

A fight ensued in the middle of the Magic Council. Gray shouted at Natsu to stop like a mantra, and Natsu could tell he didn't use his whole power, but even so, Gray managed to land quite a few hits.

Natsu was inattentive for a split second, and suddenly found himself pinned down to the floor with Gray sitting astride his hips, pinning his wrists to the floor. He was about to kick Gray in the back, fight him off, but then he noticed Gray's forlorn expression and paused.

"You imbecile! Did you think I appreciate you running berserk to fight a woman who tried to help us?!"

"Help?"

"Yes, help! What happened in there? What made you so angry? Tell me!"

A tear dripped onto the torn fabric on Natsu's abdomen, and it was like a bucket of icy water hitting his face, making him realize what he'd done.

He gulped and turned his head sideways, closing his eyes. "I... I believe that she is the reason for your death."

He heard Gray gasp. "Wh-what? Oh god... What did she say? What did she do to you? What happened during those few minutes?"

"I was in extreme pain..."

Gray snarled, then punched his fist into the floor next to Natsu's body. "Something else?"

"I was pulled into a... dream? Something like that. She lay on the floor, hurt, bleeding, no pupils in her eyes. She told me that I'm not ready yet with a weird voice. She said I should come back when I'm ready."

"Well... She looked like she was in pain, too. Did she threaten you?"

"No... all she did was tell me that I'm not ready. And of course, she told me to enjoy my life, did you hear that?"

Natsu looked up defiantly at Gray, just in time to see a shadow passing over his face.

"I did. I wanted to be angry at her... but somehow, I couldn't. But still, running berserk and destroying half the Magic Council didn't help, now, did it? You could try asking for something for once!"

"She made it pretty clear that she doesn't want to see us again. Do you really think they'd let us if we asked nicely?"

Gray opened his mouth, but a male voice beat him to it. "Damn right, we wouldn’t."

And in the next moment, they were under attack from various directions. They fought side by side, defeating their attackers in no time at all—the soldiers protecting the Magic Council were incredibly weak.

"We surrender!"

Natsu stepped towards the man who'd spoken, asking him where they could find the Oracle. Instead of giving an answer, the soldier begged Natsu not to kill him, and after being asked a second time, he said that he didn't know a thing, that he was just hired to protect the Magic Council.

"What's the meaning of this commotion?" a loud, dark voice echoed.

Natsu shouted, "We want to see the Oracle!"

A tall, fat man with a huge, white beard emerged from the smoke. He stopped close to Natsu, eyeing him curiously.

"Oh, Fairy Tail. Well, I think Makarov has a separate fund to pay the costs for this repair." He smiled. "Which one of the Oracles do you want to see?"

"The one with pale skin and long blond hair."

In a creepy voice, the fat man said, "Ohhh, you mean Lydia. She's my favorite. Good choice." Natsu's jaw dropped, and the man cleared his throat, blush on his cheeks. "I mean, she's the best at fortune telling. Her prophecies are always so helpful."

Gray and Natsu exchanged a meaningful look before Gray spoke.

"Well, we don't understand one of her prophecies, that's why we'd like to ask her some questions."

"Oh, alright. But, may I ask why you didn't just... you know, ask for it?"

Gray regarded Natsu with a death glare while Natsu looked around awkwardly, taking in the destruction.

"Ah, well, you're Fairy Tail mages after all. Can't be helped, I guess. Give me a moment. I'll call Lydia."

And with that, he retreated, stumbling over rubble a few times.

"Who was that?" Natsu asked.

"The chairman. Geez, you should know that at least."

Gray let out a heavy sigh, closing the distance between them with a few quick steps. Warm arms wrapped around Natsu's torso, making contact with his skin where his clothes were torn. Natsu sighed, reciprocating the hug. It calmed his nerves and dissipated a huge part of his anger.

"I'm sorry..."

"It's okay. Your nerves must be strained from all that happened so far. And she wasn't exactly nice to us at the end, too. I should've gotten mad at her, too, and I was a bit mad, but... There was something that prevented me from getting too upset."

Gray had felt it, too?

Natsu pushed them apart, shooting Gray a suspicious look.

"Me too! I felt something, and I had to trust her, had to believe her, couldn't attack her. Did she manipulate us somehow?"

"U-uh... Maybe...?"

"Shit, that nasty witch! I'm going to fucking roast—"

Gray slapped his flat hand against Natsu's face and kept it there, covering his mouth.

"Would you please wait with that until we know what's actually going on?"

As much as Natsu wanted to complain, he knew that Gray had a point. He recalled the situation that had happened the day before when they'd been talking about Zeref, where Gray had been the stubborn one. He recalled the feeling of helplessness when Gray refused to listen to any reason. That had to be what Gray felt right then.

He reached for Gray's wrist and removed his hand. "I'm sorry. You're right."

Gray nodded, and then pulled Natsu back into his arms.

The chairman arrived with some healers a minute later. He beckoned the two of them so that they wouldn't hinder the healers, and led them into a corridor that was still intact. The look in his eyes was reproachful to say the least.

"Lydia is being treated right now. She over-exerted herself, used too much of her magic power. She won't be able to cast magic for the rest of the day."

His expression turned cold, his eyes narrowing. "Tell your master that I've repaid the favor and that he now owes me one."

Natsu let Gray do the talking this time, knowing full well that Gray didn't trust him not to fuck this up otherwise.

"We will. Thanks. Err, actually, we still have a question..."

The chairman raised his brow in a silent invitation to go on.

"We've been wondering... There's this strange... aura around Lydia..."

"Ah, it was your first time meeting an Oracle?"

"Yes."

"They're very special mages. They're born with the magic ability to receive prophecies. However, they can't learn new magic like a normal mage can. The Oracle magic can't be used for fighting, so to protect them, they have another inherent magic that makes everyone around them peaceful. It also prevents them from lying, which is... mostly a good thing for the people around her, but as for how she feels about it... Well, don't ask her about it."

They couldn't lie? What kind of stupid magic was that?

"What happens if they try to lie?"

"They just can't. Lydia once tried to lie to me... Her words were cut off, and nothing came out of her mouth anymore until she decided to tell the truth."

"And is there a reason why they're born with this kind of magic? It seems suspicious."

Good that Gray asked. Natsu would've voiced his concern otherwise.

"We're not entirely sure... The records are sparse, but there seemed to be a time when all the Oracles formed an alliance, delivered wrong prophecies, and thus caused a civil war beyond comparison. That supposedly happened millenniums ago."

Gray nodded, but Natsu wasn't convinced.

"Well, I have other business to tend to, if you may excuse me. Please wait here. I think Lydia still needs a bit time to recover. She'll come here once she's ready."

He bowed his head, and then left them alone. Natsu let out a heavy sigh, unclenching the fists he hadn't noticed he'd clenched in the first place.

The fact that Mirajane has a note, too, seemed to be confusing to some people, so here's the explanation: When Lucy and nearly all the others read Natsu's diary in Chapter 8, Natsu was outside with Laxus and Gray was lost in thoughts. Mirajane used the opportunity to secretly cut out a page of the diary (one of the last pages) and hid it from everyone. She made the cut clean so that it wouldn't be noticed easily. The paper stays where it is because the pages of the diary are enchanted to keep the state they are put into (or else writing would vanish), while the diary itself will return to its place when the day starts anew.

In short: Everything that's still in the diary will return to Natsu's room, everything that's not attached to it (anymore) won't.