#lady chatterley's lover au

[alihightowers]

an intervention of fate- a rhaenicent au (loosely based on lady chatterley's lover, date tbd)

'you can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. so, I believe in the little flame between us. for me now, it's the only thing in the world.' -D.H Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover.

[becometheknifemaster]

The movie lady Chatterley's lover is Sebchal coded.

In this essay I will...

Look Seb can be Connie and Charles can be the game keeper. Or the roles can be reversed as well

[bobfloydsbabe]

dirty mind | eccentric professor!bob floyd x oc

a gold rush fic

SUMMARY: Imogen learns something new about Professor Bob.

WARNINGS: suggestive language, allusions to smut, age gap (mid 20s/late 30s), power imbalance. strictly 18+/minors dni

WORD COUNT: ~ 1k

PROFESSOR BOB MASTERLIST

JOIN THE TAGLIST

SPECIAL THANKS to @ryebecca who sent this delicious prompt. It took on a life of its own, so I hope it's okay that I posted it separately. Your love for Eccentric Professor Bob is one of my favorite things about working on this AU, and I know I can always talk to you about him. You see and understand the vision. Enjoy ✨

She runs her fingers along the book spines in his home office, so much more neatly organized than the ones on campus. She’s impressed.

“What are you doing?”

She glances over her shoulder and finds the professor leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of him. Behind him, the house is dark and quiet. Only a faint beam of moonlight hits the wall near the staircase.

Smiling to herself, she refocuses her attention on the books. “Browsing.”

Illuminated by the lamp on his desk, she can make out several titles that she knows and loves. Fiction mixed with historical texts, old dissertations from former students that send a pang of jealousy through her, and a small section of books he’s written himself.

His footsteps sound behind her as he draws nearer. “It’s not a bookstore,” he tells her, voice still rough from sleep. “Or a library.”

Casting another glance over her shoulder, he’s now leaning against his desk, watching her. He’s only wearing boxers, and the lamplight makes his chest look even broader and more defined.

“I know. No bookstore or library would be caught dead with disorganized shelves like these.”

“They’re organized,” he argues, but she hears the lilt of teasing in his tone.

“Method to the madness,” she agrees for the sake of peace. “If it makes sense to y–no way!”

Through his rumbling chuckle, she pulls the book out and opens to the title page.

She spins around to face him so fast she feels a little dizzy and Bob has to reach out to stabilize her. “You okay?”

“Am I okay? You have a first edition of Fanny Hill. Of course I’m not okay.”

She holds the fragile book in her hands, flipping through the pages as gently as she can, so she won’t damage it further. It’s from 1748 after all, and she tries not to judge him for not storing it properly. As a history professor who works with texts even older than this, he should know better.

“Must’ve cost you a fortune,” she mutters to herself, turning to the bookcase again to put it back, only for her eye to catch sight of another familiar title. “Is Lady Chatterley’s Lover also a first edition?”

“I believe so.”

She scans the entire shelf and finds only novels in a similar genre, and she suddenly feels hot all over at the knowledge that he’s read these books and enjoyed them enough to get first editions.

As if sensing the change in the atmosphere, Bob comes up behind her, chest flush with her back. Sweeping her hair to the side, his fingertips graze her skin. He leans down and places the lightest kiss to her neck, and a shiver runs down her spine, breath hitching at the sensation.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

His hand travels down her body. The dip of her waist, the width of her hips, and the bare skin of her thighs. Her whole body’s on fire. He’s everywhere, low voice stirring something deep inside her.

As his hand trails up her skin, he inches toward her inner thighs where she’s sensitive and the wet patch in her panties should embarrass her, but it doesn’t.

“Tell me,” he whispers, breath tickling her ear.

She stifles the whine rising in her throat, willing it away. “Who knew you were hiding such a dirty mind.”

He chuckles against her skin, and his hand reaches the edge of her panties. “Baby,” he whispers, “I’m hiding so much more than a dirty mind.”

His other hand presses against her stomach, pushing her against him and his hard chest. She tries to rub her thighs together, but his hand there keeps them open. His fingers skim across her clothed clit, making her squirm in his embrace.

“Oh, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you, baby?”

She wants to say no. She wants to tell him to fuck off, try to convince him she’s playing a game, and he can’t reduce her to a stuttering mess with just a few words and touches. But she doesn’t. She can’t. Not when she can feel his growing desire against her back, and not when he pushes her panties to the side, drawing slow, torturous circles on her clit.

“In your dreams,” she manages, but it comes out airy and needy.

He pulls his hand away from her aching pussy, and the high-pitched whine that leaves her throat seems to shock them both. He recovers quickly, spinning her around to face him, his features half illuminated by the lamp on his desk.

“You’re always in my dreams,” he tells her, walking her backward until he’s crowded her against the bookshelf. “And in my dreams, you’re always desperate for me, for my mouth.”

He’s sinking to his knees, and one hand trails down her leg, placing it over his shoulder. He glances up at her, a cocky look on his face as his fingers hook into the waistband of her panties. “You want me, baby?”

She nods furiously, unable to form the words when he’s right there, so close to where she wants him. Needs him.

“Tell me,” he demands, voice dark and dangerous.

“I want you.” She’s trying to hold on to some semblance of self-control, but she’s babbling. “I want your mouth.”

“Good girl,” he praises, and then he pushes her panties to the side again.

His lips close around her clit, sending her into orbit.

likes are nice, but comments and reblogs are golden

TAGLIST: @joaquinwhorres, @kmc1989, @roosterforme, @just-in-case-iloveyou, @rosie-posie08, @attapullman, @sweetwhispersofchaos, @millieb-3199, @auroraseddie, @keyrani, @solo-pitstop-vibes, @hangmandruigandmav, @cremebruleequeen, @cherrycola27, @seitmai, @bradshawsbaby, @sio-ina-bottle, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @bcarolinablr, @bluezraven

[orange-peony]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💙

Thank you so much for the ask, lovely! 💙

This was a super hard choice, but I've narrowed it down to these in 5, in no particular order:

Broken (Snowbaz, 43K, rated E) - Lady Chatterley's Lover AU, so many feelings. There's star gazing and a Simon with a fever, plus Buckle the dog.

Monster (Drarry, 71k, rated E) - my first collab with the wonderful @pato-roldnart. Such an amazing experience! Featuring Veela + werewolf Draco and an extremely touch-starved Harry.

Chilly Feet (Drarry, 13k, rated E) - soulmates AU with soulmarks that are not there. Draco knows so many facts and is possibly a little bit on the spectrum in this one. He's one of my very favourite Dracos.

On your skin (Snowbaz, 30k, rated E) - tattoo parlour/flowershop AU that I posted before My Rosebud Boy came out, so it felt very special. I love these Simon and Baz an awful lot.

Graceless Heart (Drarry, 132k, rated E) - I've recently re-read it and decided that I really like it. I poured an awful lot of myself into this fic, and it still feels quite raw, but I like how it turned out.

I'm going to tag (feel free to do it for art as well) @pato-roldnart, @bubble-gumhead, @rockingrobin69, @avenueofesc, @artsyunderstudy, @captain-aralias, @larkral, @cutestkilla, @facewithoutheart and anyone who fancies doing this (honestly, feel free to say that I tagged you!)

[under-the-weirwood-tree]

There are a bunch of things I want to write this summer, but here are some Rhaenicent AU’s that have been plaguing my mind. I hope that writing them out like this will motivate me to write them 🙃.

- Lady Chatterley’s Lover: Lady Alicent contemplates an affair with her husband’s daughter from his first marriage.

- Pirates: Rhaenyra is a pirate captain that takes Alicent hostage.

- Star Wars: Alicent is an imperial officer that starts to question her allegiance when she becomes involved with Princess Rhaenyra

- Witness: Alicent is an Amish woman who becomes entangled with police detective Rhaenyra in the wake of a murder investigation.

- To Catch A Thief: Wealthy heiress Alicent becomes enamored with suave cat burglar Rhaenyra.

I have to finish my other AU’s first, but I hope to write at least one more this summer if motivation allows 🙈.

[gabessquishytum]

'Ullo again ! Small idea while listening to 'young love and old money' : Dream and Hob being in love in Regency London, except Hob works at the press in newspaper industry and Dream being from the ton. They manage to last 4 season until Dream's father arrange a marriage with Burgess' second son for the money. Dream is miserable and then one day Burgess hire a new man to clean the stable and surprise! It's Hob who immediately see that Dream is dying of sadness.

Cue to months of getting it in the back of Burgess' and son and fishbowl rescue except it's more a gilded cage than a fishbowl but you get me.

Thanks again for all your prompts, they are my joy, and I always run to read whenever I have a notice from your blog !

-

🦩

This is wonderful!!! I don't know if you guys have seen or read Lady Chatterley's Lover but it's one of my favourite little aus for dreamling. The original novel annoys me a bit but whatever. I just need to see Dream with a rich husband who doesn't satisfy him, getting it on with the gardener/game keeper/stable lad (aka Hob).

Like... the sneaking around, the secrets, Dream slowly coming out of his shell and brightening up even though his marriage sucks, sending coded messages to Hob, spending hours out riding with Hob as his "escort"... his husband having no idea that Dream is cheating on him with his own stable hand!! Ahh!! Burgess is basically paying Hob to fuck Dream at this point. It's amazing.

If we're in a universe when Dream can get pregnant, I love the idea of all his kids being obviously Hob’s. Everyone else can see that Burgess definitely didn't father that baby. And then Burgess dies in mysterious circumstances, oh dear (Dream poisoned him, with a little but of help from his siblings). He inherits a bit of money and he's an independently wealthy widower... what's stopping him from marrying Hob now?

[the-engdyssey]

@hetalia-rarepairweek

Day 3: Celebrity

Title: A Lady and Her Lover Pairing: Arthur Kirkland (England) x Elizabeth I Rating: M Warnings:  Nation x human relationship, reference to historical figures, Actor AU, (An au that @phantom-wolf and I have created together for our OT3, in which Alfred joins Arthur and Elizabeth’s relationship, though this drabble is strictly Arthur x Elizabeth at this point in the au), sexual content though more talking about sexuality rather than anything overly graphic, and a reminder that I ship this pairing in canon/nation verse and many other aus.) Summary: Arthur moved back to his seat in their bedroom and watched in quiet reverence for a long moment as his wife finished ready. He was forever awestruck as Elizabeth transcended from the tangible, familiar, divine beauty of his wife into Elizabeth Kirkland the acclaimed actress. Elizabeth was so ethereally beautiful no matter where they were, what she was doing or wearing, that at times he could still hardly believe this goddess was his wife. --

Arthur and Lizzy are a famous acting couple promoting their adaptation of Lady Chatterley's Lover, and a certain American is swooning from across the pond.

[all-the-words-necessary]



Ok, fuck it, lady Chatterley's lover au Steve comes back from the front not quite as he went off. He's got a new wife waiting for him and a huge old manor home that is now his own. Everything would be fine, great even, if it wasn't for his fucking legs not working. The doctor said he was lucky to be alive, but, Steve thinks waspishly, not so lucky that he's not practically paralyzed from the waist down. Nancy is taking it in stride, still bright eyed and hopeful for the future they both wanted when they said 'i do'. Right before he was shipped off. 

He loves her for it, but at the same time every kind smile and gesture from her makes him feel like he's swallowing glass. It hurts because Steve knows there is no way he can keep those promises he sees shining through in her eyes. 

When they reach the old manor home the cracks start to show up right away.

"Steve, Let's take in the air!" she says, bouncing out of the car. The trip had taken five hours to get out to the country, the car stopping in front of the old imposing manor looming in front of them. He can see her stretching, reaching up to the clear blue sky as her curls shine in the sun. It takes him longer to get out of the car needing Nancy, and a servant that quickly hurries out of the house, to lower him into his wheelchair. 

It quickly becomes apparent that, despite its recommendations for being top of the line, the wheelchair can barely manage the gravel drive in front of the house, much less the wooded path Nancy is not so covertly eyeing. 

"It's fine," Steve says, catching her eye and giving a smile, "I wanted to check out the house first. Go on ahead and tell me what you find when you come back."

And so he's wheeled into the massive family manor, the doors closing behind him with an air of finality that sinks deep into the pit of his stomach. 

He remembers this manor. Knows it well from his childhood, every floorboard and every window reminds him of his recently passed father. He thinks, idly, of taking a sledgehammer and smashing the foundation so thoroughly that no one would ever know a house once stood here.

"Would you like anything else, sir?" The servant says, after he's wheeled to the library.

Steve gives a polite smile and waves him off, turning so he faces the window. It's where Nancy finds him when she gets back. 

~NANCY AND STEVE DRIFT FURTHER APART, WORKERS ARE HIRED FOR THE MANOR, STEVE FINALLY SAYS 'FUCK IT, IM TAKING THIS WHEELCHAIR OFF ROAD'.~

It had, he thought, seemed like a good idea at the time. 

He ordered the new chair weeks ago, planning to surprise Nancy by joining her on one of her walks. When it had finally arrived, she had been out of the country visiting her family, and a test run really didn't seem like the worst idea. 

He just hadn't accounted for the mud. 

So here he was, about three kilometers from the house, stuck on a path in the middle of a muddy field. 

"This stupid piece of, fucking, bullshit, motorized my ass…" he slams his fist down on the armrest of the chair in frustration, hearing a satisfying crack. 

"Everything alright over there?" 

Steve jumps, whipping his head over to the man walking up the bottom of the path. His voice is rough, from the village obviously, but he looks familiar. 

Heat prickles up his face as the man gets closer and he hates this. He knows just how he's going to see him. Helpless. Stuck in the mud. A burden. 

"I'm fine, thanks." He says, pasting a smile to his face. He hopes it conveys the message that he loves this. Being stuck in mud is his passion. Prehaps then the man will leave him alone and he can go back to sulking.

The man stops next to him, his brown curly hair under his cap a bit longer than it should be. It frames his wide brown eyes, currently looking at him like he's full of shit. 

It's then that he makes the connection

"You're the new gardener, aren't you?" He thinks back to a couple of weeks ago, when the house had been filled with those seeking employment. "Mr. Munson, was it?"

"Aye, sir. You've got a good memory," he crouches down next to Steve as he says it, fiddling with the back of his wheelchair.

"It also looks like you've got a busted engine." 

 "It's new," Steve sniffs, "it's engine is supposed to help with out-of-doors travel." because it's not his fault, and he didn't ask for help, and he probably would have figured it out on his own. Probably. 

"Can I take a look?" He asks, probably a bit too late Steve thinks, uncharitably. He inclines his head regally and looks off towards the edge of the trees. If he squints hard enough, he thinks, he can maybe pretend none of this is happening.

There is a minute of silence, maybe two, before Munson says,

"Y'know, when I was younger I hated reading. Hated it." 

It's such a non sequitur that Steve turns blindly back towards him. 

He's still hunched over the engine in the back of the chair, hands fiddling with god knows what, not really looking at Steve.

"I had such trouble with the words all blurring together, I never wanted to do it. It was embarrassing." He's gesturing wildly as he talks. Steve doesn't think he even realizes he's doing it and he finds himself relaxing in his chair for the first time since the trouble with the mud started.  

 "My uncle found out from a teacher who, well, probably thought I was hopeless. He came over that very night. Started reading books to me, no pressure or judgement whatsoever- ah here's the bugger." He pulls a small piece of machinery from the back of Steve's chair with a showmanship he wouldn't have expected from a gardener. 

"Sorry for the language, sir." he says with a cheeky smile, implying that he's maybe not that sorry at all. 

It's an astounding bit a familiarity that Steve knows he should put a stop to. He knows his father would. There's just something about the man that makes him…pause. Possibly brain damage from the war, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. 

"Anyways, long story short, I started to want to read as well, and when I did, he helped me with that too. Took ages, but that man never faltered once. Sometimes now I even read for fun."

He holds out the busted piece of machinery for Steve to take, his hands dirty from the engine and mud. When Steve takes the part he can feel how rough and calloused the pads of Munson's fingers are, a direct clash to his own.

He clenches the small piece of machinery firmly in his lap, the grooves imprinting on his palm like a vulger tattoo. 

It's then that Munson looks directly into Steve's eyes.

"It's okay to ask for help sometimes." 

There are a lot of different responses Steve knows he could have to this. He's affible and popular, knows how to work his way around a conversation. He could be cold and direct making sure this "Mr. Munson" remembers his place, or he could make a pithy joke at his own expense, have them both laugh off the entire exchange. 

He hears cicadas in the distance, Munson's honesty still hanging raw in the air between them. In the end, he decides the man's truth deserves his own in reply.

"I don't want to be a burden." He says quietly.

The words hang between them for a moment. 

"Well, excuse me, sir if I'm being impolite, but I don't think I was one at eleven and I don't think you are now." His voice is strong and steady, the words feeling as set in stone as if they were given to Moses himself.

Munson then slides up to standing, clapping his big hands together.

"Now, I know you could get out of the mud yourself, but you seem like a busy man and your engine wont work until you order a new replacement part. What say I get you out of this patch here and you can roll on back to the house."

Steve looks up at him. He cuts a clean figure with his waistcoat half unbuttoned, arms crossed with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, to account for the heat. His fingers idely tap out a nonsensical beat as he waits for Steve's reply.

He realizes Munson is right. Steve could do it himself, but that wasn't the point. He didn't have to.

"Ok, but just with the mud" he replies, grinning.

[talesofpassingtime]

‘What I mean,’ he said, ‘is that if you go to Venice, you won’t go in the hopes of some love affair that you can take au grand sérieux, will you?’

— D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover 

[alihightowers]

heavily imagining a rhaenicent au loosely based on lady chatterley's lover...

[f1-stuff]

Hello mal! For the ao3 wrapped. 3,12 and 15! 🫶🏽

Hi! ❤️

3. What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)? I think I'm most proud of my Lady Chatterley's Lover AU, bc I just felt like a lot of the pieces of that story fell into place really naturally, and it was one of the first times I didn't feel like anything needed to be changed after posting.

12. How many WIP’s do you have in your docs for next year? There are 11 F1 WIPs in my docs, but I'm hoping to post at least one of them before the year is over. Otherwise, hopefully I can spoil you all next year lol

15. What WIP are you taking into next year with you? This is similar to the last question, but I'm taking it to mean a work that I've posted part of already that's still in progress. Unfortunately, the only WIP I have posted is actually on anon 😅 So y'all will just have to guess...

ao3 wrapped ask game

[orange-peony]

20 questions for fic writers!

Thank you @artsyunderstudy for tagging me in this game!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

65 works, one active WIP and several works in the making.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,365,752 (wowsers, I am very verbose)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mainly HP and Carry On, but I used to write in loads of other fandoms back in the days.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Constellations on your skin (drarry, 56k, E) Feather (drarry, 35k, E) New Slang (drarry, 25k, E) Graceless Heart (drarry, 132k, E) The birds and the bees (drarry, 32k, E)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I usually do because I like thanking people for their kindness. Receiving a comment usually gives me a spark of joy, so I feel like replying is the least I can do. Sometimes I get overwhelmed with a particular fic, and I end up not replying, but I still read every single comment and cherish even the ones with an emoji.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I only write happy endings, sorry.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them? I've been told that some were sappy, but I genuinely can't say which are happier than others. For me they're all just as they should be.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yes, sometimes. I used to get upset, but now I just reply with an a "write your own fic, then" or delete and move on.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Always and the emotional kind (hopefully).

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I have only written one, and I've deleted it from AO3. It was a snowbaz story set at Hogwarts, so an HP crossover. I had a lot of fun writing it!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Hopefully not!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, only once because I don't usually allow translations of my stories.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have for a fest, and also did it ages ago with friends for fun.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

This question is way too hard! Drarry and snowbaz. Don't make me choose because I can't.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have quite a few that are in the planning stage but are kind of languishing at the moment. I don't want to jinx it, but there's a very angsty malepreg drarry fic that I don't think I have the heart to write (I can't put them through that much drama) and the snowbaz where Baz writes fics, because someone told me it already exists and it has shitloads of kudos, which put me off the idea because my brain went "why bother?".

16. What are your writing strengths?

No idea. Feelings? I pour a lot of them into the mix and somehow people find some kind of resonance.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Descriptions. I suck so much at describing places and things. Always have, and I do try to describe more, but I just forget to. I'm bad, I know...

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've done it, and it was a lot of fun.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Gosh, that was a million years ago. I want to say Lord of the Rings, but I am not sure.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

I can't pick one, but I've got my favourite five here:

Broken (Snowbaz, 43K, rated E) - Lady Chatterley's Lover AU, so many feelings. There's star gazing and a Simon with a fever, plus Buckle the dog. Monster (Drarry, 71k, rated E) - my first collab with the wonderful @pato-roldnart. Such an amazing experience! Featuring Veela + werewolf Draco and an extremely touch-starved Harry. Chilly Feet (Drarry, 13k, rated E) - soulmates AU with soulmarks that are not there. Draco knows so many facts and is possibly a little bit on the spectrum in this one. He's one of my very favourite Dracos. On your skin (Snowbaz, 30k, rated E) - tattoo parlour/flowershop AU that I posted before My Rosebud Boy came out, so it felt very special. I love these Simon and Baz an awful lot. Graceless Heart (Drarry, 132k, rated E) - I've recently re-read it and decided that I really like it. I poured an awful lot of myself into this fic, and it still feels quite raw, but I like how it turned out.

Tagging @crazybutgood, @bubble-gumhead, @avenueofesc, @rockingrobin69, @larkral, @facewithoutheart, @martsonmars, @hushed-chorus, @captain-aralias, @cassiaratheslytherpuff, @m0srael, @toast-the-unknowing, @vukovich and anyone who fancies doing this.

[edsonlnoe]

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[jennakyu]

... the fact that I already have a lady chatterley's lover!AU jeankasa fic planned 😃😃

Watched Lady Chatterley's Lover, and all I could think was Jean and Mikasa dancing in the rain, naked like the day they were born when they had their first night together in their new house

[hookedonapirate]

Lady Cassidy's Lover

Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.

Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.

At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.

But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.

A/N: Despite Emma's last name and marriage to Neal, this NOT a swanfire fic! This definitely ends with Captain Swan so if you're expecting swanfire, this is not for you.

This is the Lady Chatterley's Lover au no one asked for. I had never read the novel but when I watched the newest movie adaptation (there are 4 that I know of), I simply had to write this for CS even though I already have a mountain of wips in my doc. This fic will mostly be following the 1981 and 2022 versions. If you haven't watched the 2022 version, I highly recommend it, if no other reason than to watch Jack O'Connell.

This fic deals with mature themes (some of which the book was banned for back when it was written), adultery, postwar, language, smut.

Hope you enjoy!

Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9 I Ch 10 I Ch 11 I Ch 12 I Epilogue

We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen—D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover

Chapter One

Emma releases a heavy sigh as she slumps down onto the sofa, relieved the ceremony is over with. If only the day were done too, so she wouldn't have to be subjected to dancing and all the other useless traditions of a wedding reception. Now she has to listen to dreadful toasts and her and Neal's family drone on about how perfect she and her new doting husband are together.

"So, how does it feel?" One by one, her sister, Mary Margaret unbuckles Emma's shoes and pulls them off her tired feet.

Emma shakes her head. "I don't know. Ask me tomorrow." Perhaps then she'll feel differently about exchanging vows with a man she barely knows.

She and Neal had met and courted shortly before he was shipped off to war, and during his leave, he had confessed he'd hated being without her and asked her to marry him. She had said yes and they were quick to get married before he returns to the front. Their fathers may have had a hand in rushing things along as well. Britain declared war with Germany three years ago, heightening Sir Rumpelstiltskin's long-held desire to see his only son marry and produce heirs to their fortune.

Emma's father, Sir Leopold, wants her to have a stable husband, and who better than a man with a hereditary rank and title? She and Mary Margaret were raised in Kensington by Sir Leopold, a royal academician and their mother, Eva, a well-educated socialist, and had what one might call an aesthetically unorthodox childhood. They had been taken to Paris, Florence and Rome to breathe in art, and to the Hague and Berlin for socialist conventions where the speakers spoke in every civilized tongue.

Emma comes from wealth and Neal from aristocracy, so some could say it's the perfect match, except for the fact she has not known him long enough to truly love him. But from her perspective, this marriage is the perfect arrangement. The perfect way to get her father off her back about finding a suitable husband like her sister's. Furthermore, she does not have to worry about getting hurt by someone she does not love. She has experienced what it's like to lose someone she loves. She lost her mother ten years ago to illness and had to witness her father almost become a shell of a man without her. Emma made up her mind long ago she would never give her heart to a man. She would never submit to him emotionally.

She has been with men before, of course, but none she had loved.

A man is like a child, and if he doesn't get what he wants, he whines and fusses, exposing an unpleasant side of himself. But a woman can yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. A woman can take a man without truly giving herself away. Certainly, she can take him without giving herself into his power. Rather, she can wield the power over him.

"You need to eat something."

"I need to get out of this dress first." She doesn't quite care for the high-waisted empire line, the tiered skirt made of dreadful lace or the sleeves that fall to her elbows. It reminds her of a tablecloth rather than a dress. Don't get her started on the extravagantly large bouquet of flowers that nearly touched the ground when she held it. And she'd tossed away the Juliet veil as soon as she had returned to the bridal suite.

Mary Margaret agrees as she takes her hand and pulls her up, helping Emma out of her wedding gown and into a simpler dress for the reception.

"How do I look?" Emma asks once she's in it, twirling around in the green dress to give her sister the full effect.

Mary Margaret smirks. "Well, I doubt Neal will want to stay long at the reception."

Emma's cheeks warm as she stands in front of the mirror and removes her earrings, replacing them with emerald ones that will match her dress. She and Neal have not even had sex yet, so tonight will be their first time. "You don't think his mother would've approved?" Neal's mother was the daughter of a viscount before she died.

"Well, I'm not entirely sure I do."

Emma rolls her eyes at her sister as she recoats her lips in red lipstick. "Are we talking about the dress...or the wedding?" Not everyone can find their prince charming as she did. Mary Margaret's marriage to David was definitely not forced or rushed. They are true love, as she always likes to boast. "We had to marry quickly before he returns to the front in the morning."

"Yes, but couldn't you have just had sex with him instead of marrying him?"

Emma laughs. "Mary Margaret! Be serious." She studies herself in the mirror, turning and running her hand over her dress, deciding to leave her blonde hair braided into a crown atop her head. She looks like herself, but somehow different now that she's married. She had honestly never thought this day would come.

"I am. It's much less commitment, and it's all Neal will want anyway."

"Neal's not like that. He's kind and thoughtful. He makes me feel safe."

"You mean safe from getting hurt?"

Emma looks up to see Mary Margaret's reflection in the mirror as the brunette narrows her eyes. But Emma knows she can't lie to her sister. Mary Margaret would see right through her. Emma stands and turns around to face her. "Precisely."

Mary Margaret places her hands on Emma's shoulders. "See, that's just it. If you never open that heart of yours up to anyone, you'll grow old and gray without ever experiencing the wonderful things life has to offer."

"I do experience the wonderful things life has to offer." Not that sex is really that wonderful. It has always been merely a way to let off some steam.

Mary Margaret tilts her head. "I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about love."

The clearing of a throat interrupts their conversation when Neal steps into the room with a tray of three wine glasses. "I brought reinforcements."

The two women blush when they realize he must have heard the tail end of their conversation.

Mary Margaret goes over to Neal and grabs one of the glasses, taking a sip. "You read my mind."

"I nearly drank yours on the way up," he tells her, chuckling as he hands one to Emma and takes the other one for himself. Setting down the tray, he clinks his and Emma's glasses together. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Emma smiles at her new husband and takes a sip.

"Our fathers are preparing their toasts."

Emma groans, not looking forward to going downstairs. "Can we face them together?"

"Of course." He smiles at her, and she has to admit, Neal is not the worst man she could've chosen for a husband. He's handsome and charming, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. She can tell he cares for her. "You look beautiful, Ems."

She offers a smile in return. "Thanks."

After they finish their wine, she takes his offered hand, allowing him to lead her downstairs, where their fathers give speeches and announce their hope for a new heir to Goldby.

~*~

Two years later

Dearest Mary Margaret,

I knew the war would change us all, I just didn't know how much. It feels as though it ended half a lifetime ago, not half a year. Neal and I have already moved away from London, and we've just arrived at Goldby, his family estate. Once we get settled in, I expect to write to you often.

Your loving sister,

Emma

Lady Cassidy gazes vacantly through the window as the motor-car winds through the park of oak trees. The sky is about as gray and murky as the future, for who knows what tragedies it may hold. Clouds of smoke rise from the chimney of the pit in the distance where Misthaven village struggles to stay afloat beyond the park gates.

The car pulls up in front of the eighteenth century home made of brown stone that sits on the top of a knoll, overlooking the park. This is her new home in the smoky Midlands where she and Neal will finally begin their married life at Goldby Hall, the family seat. His father had died of heart failure, and Neal is now baronet. But he claims his father died of chagrin since he and Emma are without a child. And they most likely will be childless forever. Not only did they never get the chance to consummate their marriage the night of their honeymoon since she had been too exhausted and he had been too anxious about returning to war, they never will.

The chauffeur opens Emma's car door and grabs her luggage.

"Thank you." She steps out, taking in her new home. This place is nothing like her childhood house in London. Goldby certainly needs a lot of work.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Potts, who worked for Rumpelstiltskin, approaches with her husband to greet them. "Welcome, Sir Neal. We've been praying for you."

Mr. Potts helps him out of the car, picking him up and placing him into his wheelchair. An explosion during the war left Neal paralyzed from the waist down, and the doctor said he may never be able to walk again.

Emma tries not to think about that, however. She tries not to think about how she may never get pregnant or be able to give birth to a child as long as she's with Neal. She will never get to raise children or watch them grow up and run around the park at Goldby. She can't think of herself anymore though. She is married to a baronet, whom she vowed to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health until they are parted by death. After he returned from war, he told her he could never lose her, and she promised he never would.

She will spend the rest of her life keeping that promise.

"Mr. and Mrs. Potts, this is my wife, the new Lady Cassidy."

Mrs. Potts turns around to greet her with a curtsy. "It's so nice to meet you, milady."

Emma smiles, bows her head and steps toward her. "Nice to meet you."

Neal wheels himself over to his wife, and the four of them avert their attention to the worn-looking house towering over them. "There's plenty of work to be done," Neal comments. "Hire back all the workers we can, Mrs. Potts. Old girl's seen better days."

Emma places a hand on the back of his chair and tries to be optimistic. "We'll bring her back to life."

~*~

"Killian Jones." Sir Neal looks up from the application in his hand from where he sits at the other side of the desk. "You, uh, worked for my father before the war?"

"Aye, sir. For two years." When he returned, he heard Rumpelstiltskin had passed and that Neal would be taking over and hiring new staff.

"And you were an army lieutenant?"

Killian nods. "I was very sorry to hear about your father. My condolences, sir." He wishes he could say Sir Rumpelstiltskin was a good man, but that would be a lie. He was ridiculous, chopping down trees in the forest and weeding men out of his colliery to shove them into the war while he, himself, was a coward who stayed safe at home and buried his country in heaps of debt while claiming to be patriotic.

"Thank you." Neal looks at him skeptically. "Do you honestly believe returning to gamekeeping will be satisfying after your time as an officer?"

Killian shrugs, his fingers drumming along his wool cap. If he could, he would leave. Every night, he dreams of escaping to a new place where a new voice says his name with warmth, where eyes filled with love look at him instead of ones filled with hatred and betrayal, where he is not dismissed. There is no freedom here, there never will be. Milah doesn't love him, but nevertheless she holds him close. One more possession.

"Bit of quiet would do me good. I've seen enough of what war does to men." Not only had he seen men brutally die in battle, but his brother had been one of them. Every day, he tries to push away the horrific images that have plagued him since the war. Every day he tries to forget. About the war, about her. Being a gamekeeper, tending to the animals, breeding them, enjoying the quiet of the forest while protecting it will be therapeutic for him.

"Hmm. As have I." Sir Neal has learned firsthand what war can do to men. He himself was paralyzed from the waist down.

Rumors about his injury had spread before Neal came to Goldby.

Neal sets the application down and joins his hands on the desk. "Very well then. Welcome back, Mr. Jones."

"Thank you, Sir." Killian turns around and heads out of Neal's study, moving past the long line of men seeking employment. He was lucky the baronet had hired him so quickly, and he is grateful. Killian receives a monthly war pension, but since he and Milah are still legally married, she's entitled to half of it. So now he is stuck in Misthaven, barely skimming by to make ends meet while Milah prances around with various menfolk of the village, spending the money he had earned by going to battle and risking his life.

Now he spends restless, lonely nights in his cottage, thinking about his brother and the war and everyone else he has lost.

But at least he has Jolly to keep him company.

He returns home to his cottage, where she's waiting for him at the door. His lips crack into a big smile when he sees her. "There's my good lass." He kneels down to ruffle a hand through her fur as she yaps, wagging her tail excitedly.

She truly is a good dog and the best companion he could hope for. She's loyal and trustworthy and always appreciates his affections, unlike his wife who betrayed him to be with other men.

After everything that's happened, Jolly is the one good thing in his life.

All he has left.

[fandomsandhappiness]