#a birthday story for Marta

[jrob64]

One Thrill Ride Leads to Another - Epilogue (Home for Christmas) NOW a complete story!

This roller coaster of a story is coming to an end and I hope you enjoy one last exciting ride before it does. Massive thanks to @hookedmom and @kmomof4 for all their help, and once again, happy birthday to @snowbellewells, for whom this story was written. What I thought would be a one-shot ended up being 6 chapters, so now your birthday is covered for the next 6 years! 

Story Summary: While working at Universal’s Islands of Adventure, Killian Jones meets Emma Swan, slips his name and number into her phone, and later sends her a text asking her out. His snap decision could lead to her blocking his number, or to an adventure much more thrilling than a ride on a roller coaster.

Rating: M (for smut in chapters 4 & 5)

Words (Epilogue): 2324

Total words: 42,150

Complete story on Tumblr: Ch1  Ch2  Ch3  Ch4  Ch5

Also on ffn and Ao3

And now, please remain seated and wait until the coaster comes to a complete stop before unbuckling your safety belt! Enjoy the rest of the ride!

*********

“Maybe we should’ve gotten a smaller tree,” Emma puffed, pausing to catch her breath on the third landing of her apartment building.

“There’s no going back now,” Killian reminded her. “It’s the first live tree for both of us and we searched for it for hours. This one is perfect.”

“You’re right. Okay, one more flight of stairs. We can do this!” She hoisted her end of the tree off the floor and trudged up the steps.

After they made it to her apartment, she unlocked the door and the two of them wrestled the tree and themselves through. Killian kicked the door closed behind them, then they both collapsed onto the sofa.

“I love that you found a place for us to cut down our own tree,” Emma said, laying her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder.

“And I love you,” he replied, turning his head to press a kiss to her forehead, while he took her hand and wove their fingers together.

“Mmm, I love you, too.”

Nearly five months after their chance meeting in Florida, the couple was getting ready to celebrate their first Christmas together, and Killian was determined to make it the best one of Emma’s life. After hearing her stories of past holidays in foster care which left lasting emotional scars, he wanted to fill this Christmas with so much love and joy, she could finally leave those sad memories behind.

They rested for a few more minutes before getting the tree set up, trimming some branches, and filling the tree stand with water. Emma brought out the shopping bags full of lights and garland they purchased the previous weekend. They unpacked them and proceeded to work together to string them on the tree, while listening to a Christmas playlist Killian had on his phone.

“Why don’t we make hot cocoa and eat some cookies before we start putting the ornaments on, Love?” They had baked gingerbread cookies earlier in the day and the sweet smell of them still permeated the apartment.

“Sure. Do you want me to text Ruby and ask her and Graham to come over?”

The two couples were very considerate of each other’s privacy and usually took turns staying at either one of the apartments, but they also liked to spend some evenings together. Sometimes Liam and Belle or David and Mary Margaret joined them, but with M’s being in her last trimester of pregnancy, the times with that couple were becoming more limited.

“Uh, would you mind if…if we didn’t invite them?” Killian asked.

Emma studied him and noticed he wasn’t quite meeting her eyes. “Is something wrong?” she asked, reaching over to take his hand.

“No,” he hurried to assure her. “I just…sort of wanted it…to be only the two of us tonight. Graham and Ruby already put the little artificial tree up at the other place and, well, I thought maybe…”

“This one can be ours to decorate,” she finished his thought. “I like that idea. Maybe after we’re finished, we can watch a Christmas movie.”

He smiled warmly. “Sounds wonderful. Let’s get the hot chocolate made, shall we? I’m eager to try those cookies, since you wouldn’t let me sample any while we were making them,” he affectionately groused.

“But that would have spoiled the effect of eating them while we decorate the tree,” she pouted.

He kissed her on the tip of the nose. “You’re too damn cute, Swan. You know I can never say no to you.”

“Yes, I do,” she said smugly.

Emma insisted they make the beverage the old-fashioned way. Killian heated milk in a pan on the stove, while she mixed cocoa, sugar and salt together in a bowl, then slowly added it to the milk while he whisked the mixture until it was smooth. When it was heated through, he poured it into matching Santa mugs, topped them with whipped cream and added a dash of cinnamon to each one. She placed several cookies on a snowflake-shaped plate and they carried everything into the living room.

“I know I’m probably going overboard with all the Christmas stuff, but…” Emma started, once they were settled.

“Nonsense, Sweetheart,” he shushed her. “Now is the perfect time to start our own traditions.”

As they sipped their hot cocoa and nibbled the gingerbread, Emma let her mind wander to the previous December. Mary Margaret was still living in the apartment and insisted they decorate, but memories of past Christmases kept Emma from truly enjoying the spirit of the season.

She couldn’t believe her life could be so different in a year’s time. One fateful day in July changed everything, and she couldn’t help but wonder what their lives would be like by this time next year.

“Penny for your thoughts, Love,” Killian said softly, noticing her faraway look.

She gave her head a little shake. “I was just thinking about how different this Christmas is going to be from every other one.”

“Different in a good way, I hope.”

Leaning in to kiss him, she whispered against his lips, “In the best way. I’ll be spending it with the love of my life.”

He set his mug on the end table and took hers to do the same, then pulled her into his lap. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he asked, nuzzling into her neck.

“It was because of your sunglasses,” she said, tilting her head to encourage his caresses.

Killian pulled back with a bewildered look on his face. “My sunglasses?”

She giggled. “Yeah. When you saw I still had my phone that day at the Velocicoaster, you looked at me over the top of your sunglasses and I was a goner. It was incredibly sexy.”

“You never told me that.”

Feathering her fingers through the hair above his temples, she said, “It’s quite possible I began to fall in love with you at that very moment.”

“And yet you thought I could be a serial killer?” he asked with a smirk.

“I was just being cautious. Do you blame me?”

He tugged her closer and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Not at all. Some idiot takes your phone and puts his number in, then sneaks a look at your information? I’m lucky you didn’t try to have me fired…or arrested.”

“Well, giving you a chance turned out pretty good for me.”

He brushed her hair away from her throat so he could trail kisses along it. “Even better for me.”

As he continued to leave a path of pleasurable heat with his lips, she murmured, “Don’t you want to decorate the tree?”

“Aye, Love. I guess I can wait until later to unwrap my gift,” he sighed theatrically.

She rolled her eyes. “You are so corny.”

“I’m sorry - did you say ‘corny’ or ‘horny’, because I’m definitely the latter.”

“Omigod,” she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you love me and can’t live without me,” he grinned.

She dropped her hands and looked at him, her playful expression replaced by a serious one. “You know that’s true, don’t you? I can’t imagine my life without you.”

He framed her face with his hands. “Then don’t, because I’m not going anywhere, Emma. You’re it for me.”

Emma felt tears prick her eyes at his declaration. The months they had been together were by far the best of her entire life, and hearing that she could look forward to a lifetime more with him made her a bit emotional.

Killian saw the lights from the tree reflected in her glittering tears and smiled softly. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

“And you’re too good to be true,” she replied in a slightly choked voice.

Leaning in, he captured her lips for a sweet, lingering kiss. “You taste like chocolate and gingerbread,” he said, resting his forehead against hers and licking his lips.

“So do you,” she laughed. “Speaking of which, our hot chocolate is getting cold.”

He sat back, chuckling. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” He picked up both mugs and handed one to her. “I can’t remember whose is whose.”

“We just swapped spit, so I don’t think it really matters,” she smirked before taking a sip.

“Sometimes you sound a lot like Ruby, you know that?”

“God forbid,” she muttered.

While finishing their cookies and hot cocoa, they discussed movie choices, finally settling on The Muppet Christmas Carol. Emma took care of washing the mugs and cookie plate, while Killian carried the plastic tub of ornaments out of her bedroom.

She joined him in the living room and lifted a box of red satin Christmas balls out of the tub. “I know we bought some ornaments last weekend, but the tree is still gonna look pretty bare,”

“We’ll keep adding more each year,” he assured her, attaching a hook to one of the baubles and completely missing the fond look she sent his way because of the nonchalant way he spoke of their future.

She watched him place the ornament on the tree, humming “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as he did. Home. That was the main reason this holiday season was going to be different this year. Her heart had found a home with him.

They hung all the satin ornaments on the tree and Killian placed the angel at the top, before unboxing the ones she bought in the Disney Christmas store. “I put these away as soon as I got home from vacation,” she said, smiling down at the Beauty and the Beast ornament in her hand. “Do you remember helping me pick them out?”

“Aye, it was a fun day. I recall wondering if I would be fortunate enough to be in contact with you by Christmas.”

She stepped into his arms and looped hers around his neck, stretching up on her toes to share a kiss with him. “And now look at us,” she said quietly, “not only in contact with each other, but in a committed relationship.” After briefly pressing her lips to his again, she turned to hang the ornament on a branch at the front of the tree,

Killian put a hook on the little figures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse and handed it to her. “It’s better than I even imagined. I had no idea you lived in Boston at that time. It all worked out perfectly.”

“Yeah, it did.” She stepped back and looked at the tree. “I’m gonna put the Rapunzel and Flynn Ryder one right here,” she said, pointing to an empty branch near the top.

He knelt in front of the plastic tub and found the one she wanted. “Do you have a spot picked out for the Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse statue, Love?”

“There’s a bare spot down there.” After hanging both of the ornaments he gave her, she appraised the tree with her hands on her hips. “I think it looks good, don’t you?”

He continued to kneel on the floor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I think it needs something there,” he said, gesturing toward the center of the tree.

She threw up her hands. “Well, we’re all out of ornaments, so what do you suggest?”

“How about this one?” he asked, holding up a round ceramic box with a sun painted on top.

Emma turned to see what he meant and gasped. “The Tangled music box! You went back and bought it?”

“I saw how much you wanted it that day and I knew you had to have it.”

“But it was so expensive, Killian! You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t have to, I wanted to.” He pushed it toward her and she carefully took it, immediately winding the little key on the bottom. When she opened the lid to hear it play “I See the Light'', she nearly dropped it in shock. Nestled inside was a beautiful, sparkling ring. Her eyes shot up to see Killian on one knee, a nervous but hopeful look on his face.

“Emma, ever since I laid eyes on you, you’ve taken my breath away and made my heart beat faster than any roller coaster ever could. My life with you has been a wild and thrilling ride so far, and I never want it to end. Will you make sure it never does and marry me?”

With shaking fingers, she reached into the music box and removed the ring from inside. Her gaze shifted from the gorgeous pear-shaped diamond, atop a twisted gold and diamond encrusted band, to her boyfriend, who was anxiously awaiting her response. Words escaped her, as tears filled her eyes and she slowly nodded, still stunned by his proposal.

“Does that…are you saying…yes?” he managed to ask, his throat constricting with emotion.

“Y-yes!” she cried, dropping to her knees and flinging her arms around his neck.

He held her tightly as she sobbed into his shoulder, feeling his own happiness bubbling up inside his chest. When she finally took a deep, shuddering breath, he loosened his grip around her and pulled back, looking into her tear-stained face. “Are you alright, Love?” he asked, tenderly brushing aside strands of her hair.

“Yeah,” she hiccuped, “I just…I…I love you so much and I’m so happy!”

His dimple flashed as he beamed. “I love you, too, Sweetheart.”

She dropped her arms and opened her right hand, allowing Killian to take the ring she’d been clasping. He lifted her left hand, looked up at her from under his eyelashes and, at her encouraging smile, slid it onto her finger, kissing the knuckle above it once it was in place.

The kiss they shared afterwards conveyed all the hope they had for their future - an exciting ride that would most assuredly include highs, lows, curves, twists and loops, promising them the greatest adventure of their lives.

*********

Emma’s engagement ring - from the Enchanted Disney Fine Jewelry Collection inspired by Rapunzel. Thanks to @kmomof4 for finding it! This picture also includes the diamond wedding band. 

Thank you so much for coming along for the ride! 

Tagging: @xsajx @hookedmom @kymbersmith-90 @kmomof4 @lassluna​ @pirateherokillian @teamhook @stahlop @elizabeethan @whimsicallyenchantedrose @resident-of-storybrooke​ @therooksshiningknight @jennjenn615 @lfh1226-linda​ @ilovemesomekillianjones @killianswannn @stories-enchanted​ @eleveneitherway @withheartfulloflove @kday426​ @lyssapup27​ @swanlovato @djlbg @kristi555 @laschatzi @xarandomdreamx​ @lkles08​ @wyntereyez​ @bubblegum1425​ @xhookswenchx​ @yasbio2015​ @tiganasummertree​ @winterbaby89​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @hollyethecurious​ @let-it-raines​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @searchingwardrobes​ @dreamingdreamsalways​ @oncechicagolove​ @andiirivera​  @gingerchangeling​ @everything-person​ @klynn-stormz​ @qualitycoffeethings​ @vampcoffeegyrl23​ @enchanted-swans​ @ohmakemeahercules​ @donteattheappleshook​ @bluewildcatfanatic​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @demisexualemmaswan​ @lavenderbudd​ @grimmswan​ @spartanguard​ @flslp87​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @thisonesatellite​ @captainswan21​ @zaharadessert​ @mariakov81​ @snowbellewells​ @xouatxcs​ @kiwistreetswan​ @batana54​ @nadine200179​ @probalicious17​ @courtorderedcake​ @julesep3026​ @jackieorioncat​ @whatthehell102082​ @jarienn972​ @sthonour​ @linda8084​  @pirateprincesslena​ @daxx04​ @winterbythesea​ @artistic-writer​ @cocohook38​ @captainswan4life85​ @molly958​ @kingofmyheart14​ @badwolfreturns​ @itsfridaysomewhere​@fallingforthecaptain​  @onceratheart18​ @strangestarlighttree​ @omgmarvelousmorgan​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @mrs-potato-but-likes-tomato​ @anothersworld​ @deckerstarblanche​ @purplehawkcaptain​  @superchocovian​ @k-leemac​ @citygirlscowboy​ @laughterandbooks​ @sotangledupinit​ @apiratewhopines​ @huntressandlioness1​ @cosette141​  @gingerpolyglot​ @motherkatereloyshipper​ @cs-rylie​

[astudyincontrasts]

Penance IX (redux)

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (nsfw)

A/N: Its my birthday! Last year everyone in this fandom and all the friends I have made because of it made today one of the most special birthdays I have had in a long time. I felt more loved and surrounded in celebration with sweet friends then I had in years, and the cup of that happiness has not stopped running over. There are not enough ways to express my love and gratitude for everyone I've had the joy of meeting here.

So this year, I wanted to offer a gift to all of you. Everyone has been exceedingly patient about my writing struggles to continue Penance, so I'd like to give you the alternate Penance XI chapter- blood I have managed to wring from that stone of writers block. The fate of the continuation of this story may still be up in the air until inspiration comes knocking again, but at least I can share this with you today.

To all my fandom friends, and everyone who has been so supportive of this silly little smutty story. You have my heart.

This picks up after Chapter VIII

“Girl, are you listening?”

Sister Marta’s sharply scolding voice brought you back down to earth with a little jerk, blinking as you turned attention back to the tall, thin, sallow faced nun to meet the exasperated gaze of her cataract-hazed grey eyes.

“Sorry Sister.”  You mumbled, casting about for a context clue of whatever it was she might have been speaking about while you’d been off daydreaming about the priest of her parish.  Nothing jumped out at you in the dusty old store room of the basement where you both stood in the dim light of one naked and straining lightbulb still swinging gently upon its cord from the nun’s yank of its chain a moment before.

You hadn’t meant to drift off, but it had been four days since you’d seen Father Silco last and that painful, sweet contrition you’d done across the desk of his office was still fresh in your mind as if it had just happened.  You ought to have been angry at the fact he’d left you such an unsatisfied mess, and the fact he’d spanked you like a wicked child, in spite of his promise he’d never hurt you as they had back in school.

Truly, he had not.  Those sharp little slaps of his open hand were nothing compared to the cruelty of a sharp ruler across knuckles or the backs of thighs delivered by an angry, bitter nun.  You smiled faintly at Sister Marta’s increasingly irritated, withered old face and privately thought perhaps she could teach the Father a few things about corporal punishment.

“The candles, girl!”  Sister Marta exhorted at last, the thin limit of her patience snapping.

Unlike the ‘my child’ diminutive that the other nuns like Sister Eleanor or Sister Angelica were so fond of using with you and other parishioners, Sister Marta had no use for any such hollow faithful endearments.  You hadn’t yet made up your mind if it was an honest gruffness about her you liked, or an insulting mein you did not.  You had the notion it would have hardly mattered to the old woman either way.

She nudged one of the pair of low boxes with the toe of her sensible black shoe from under her long, dark habit.

“Take them to the Father to be blessed and then kindly refill the votive stands.  You can remove the spent ones and toss them.”  She explained, slower this time as if she was speaking to a simpleton.

You bore it with a tight little smile and bent to lift the box on top, surprised by the weight of it, staggering a bit upon rising only to catch a smugly satisfied look on the wrinkled old pucker of a face before Sister Marta reached up to pull the chain of the light and leave you to struggle out the door of the closet and back up the rickety old stairs of the basement in the dark, save for the light from the open door at the top of the steps.

Quietly you wondered if you accidentally fell and broke your neck, if the church would have their endowment free of the burden of your presence that came with it.

Cold comfort, knowing you’d crush the brittle bird-boned old woman climbing up, wheezing softly behind you, and take her with you if you did pitch backward down the steps.

The real trial wasn’t making it to the top of the stairs with the heavy box full of candles, though.  No, that one still lay ahead once you’d reached the top without incident.  The real trial lay in taking that armload into the rectory to face Father Silco once more and ask his blessing.

You’d thought you’d be safe if you came on a Thursday.  You’d avoided the parish planning committee on Monday, as well as your usual Wednesday session with the Father.  You’d hardly doubted you’d be missed at the planning meeting, and Wednesday, well.  You’d chosen to skip it half in a little act of spite, half just to see what might happen.  When no scolding phone call or visit had been forthcoming after shirking both of those commitments the victory felt hollow.  

Turning up to make yourself useful to the nuns on Thursday seemed like a good way to cover for your failed gambit and to keep from looking as if you were avoiding the church.  Foolishly, you’d thought perhaps you’d manage to skim by with just catching a glimpse of Father Silco in passing.  

Unsure if it was because you wanted to see him, or wanted him to see you.

You’d been on rocky footing ever since your little transgression in the confessional, and you knew it.  

The door to the rectory lay open just across from the basement door in the open nave of the large narthex, and you waited until Sister Marta crested the steps behind you and shut the basement door to hobble off heavily upon her cane, before you started the slow walk toward his office.  You didn’t let yourself hesitate in the doorway, and didn’t have a free hand to knock on the open door with anyway.  Instead, summoning all the calm composure you could muster, you simply walked in and paused before his desk.

He sat there, scribbling away in an open book, papers and letters and other books opened in a slightly scattered mess about his work, dark head bent and eyepatch on.  He left you standing there until he’d finished what he was writing. Until your elbows and wrists had begun to ache a little from the weight of the box you held.  Only then he sat back, letting his pen drop upon the desk as elbows found the armrests of his tall-backed chair and he turned the cool glint of that duplicitously calm ocean colored eye upward.

The thin, scarred cut of his mouth tugged a hint of a smile at one corner.

“Lamb.”  He stated mildly, as if unsurprised in the least to see you there and only half interested as to what you might want with him.

Infuriating, how badly you liked hearing that little endearment again.  How flustered it made you feel to get hooked on the edge of that smile.

The box shifted heavily in your hands as you juggled its weight and stepped forward to set it upon his desk.  Damn his paperwork.  

“Sister Marta asked if you’d bless these candles so I could put them in the votive holders.”  Your attempt to keep your voice as even and disaffected as possible only resulted in it coming out far softer than you’d meant for it to be.

Leaning forward a touch, Silco flipped one of the flaps of the cardboard lid back to glance at the candles inside with a little hum.  One by one he folded each of the other three flaps back and rose to his feet.  Elegant fingers stroked absently along the edge of one packaging dividers hashed between the votives within before he plucked a single candle out and set it aside.

Letting that cool eye of his drift shut he made the sign of the cross over the open box of remaining candles before opening both hands before himself, palms cupped upward.

“Lord Jesus Christ, true light that enlightens every man who comes into this world, bestow thy blessing upon these candles, and sanctify them with the light of thy grace. As these tapers burn with visible fire and dispel the darkness of night, so may our hearts with the help of thy grace be enlightened by the invisible fire of the splendor of the Holy Ghost, and may be free from all blindness of sin.”  

His eye opened and fell upon you, and suddenly you were profoundly aware of how you just stood there, staring at the tall, lean lines of him in that dark cassock, soaking in the sound of his voice and very obviously not with your hands folded in reverent prayer or eyes downcast as they ought to have been. Something entirely ungodly flickered at the edge of Father Silco’s mouth as he continued on, holding your immobilized gaze. 

“Clarify the eyes of our minds that we may see what is pleasing to thee and conducive to our salvation. After the dark perils of this life let us be worthy to reach the eternal light.”  His eye closed once more and again he made the sign of the cross over the box as he finished, “Through thee, Jesus Christ, Savior of the world, who in perfect Trinity livest and reignest, God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

His hands lowered, one coming to settle over the glass edge of the candle he’d set to one side, and he considered you as you crossed yourself hastily and reached forward to gather the box back up again.  He stopped you lifting it with a touch of the fingertips to its lid.

“When you are through with these, perhaps you’d come back here?”  Couched so carefully as a question, yet all you could hear was the quiet order in it.  Come back here.  Your head was nodding before he even finished speaking and the thin, dark brow not covered by his eyepatch quirked slightly.

“Yes, Father.” Your correction of yourself came nearly automatically.

Another little humming assent and with a slow blink he removed the touch that had stopped you lifting the box, resuming his seat.  You hoped he’d resume his work as well, but instead he sat there, watching you go, fingertips drumming thoughtfully upon the little glass votive.

You took your time with the candles, mostly because your hands were shaking and the very last thing you wanted to do was drop one of the blessed things and have it shatter across the church floor.  But also, to give you time to scrape yourself together, collect calm and poise.  It was no good, heart hammering anticipation equal parts nervousness and excitement.  The part of yourself that had wanted so badly to keep up this little charade of wishing to avoid him had succumbed without so much as a whimper.

Again thoughts drifted back to Sunday.  To the stinging warmth of skin under his hand, to how he’d teased you to a sodden mess without once slipping fingers beneath the barrier of cotton that had separated you.  To how he’d left you wanting and writhing and nearly in tears.  A perfect act of contrition, indeed.

It was a struggle not to let yourself wonder what next punishment he could possibly have in store for you.

Spent votives replaced with fresh ones, and the box filled with the clatter of the empty candleholders, you made your way back to his office.  Dropping the detritus of other people’s prayers off in the dumpster out back could wait.  You had your own worship to attend to.  

Father Silco’s desk was far less littered with papers when you returned, open books stacked neatly to one side now and everything else put away save for the book he was still writing in.  And that little candle he’d taken.  His dark head didn’t even lift as you set the softly clattering box down upon the settee against the wall.

“Office hours are over.”  He intoned flatly as you wiped palms nervously over the skirt of the dress covering your thighs.  

It froze you, cold like ice water suddenly filling the pit of your belly.  Had he just dismissed you after ordering you to return?  

“...Father?”  It came out a strangled little question and you almost hated how needy the note of your voice made that singular word.

He glanced up and you realized with a start that he’d removed that eyepatch, the hellish orange-red fire of his darkened eye a constant little shock every single time.  Ruined eye and teal flicked from you to the door and back again as if in blatant explanation.

“Lock the door.”  He elaborated.

It should not have been a matter of pride that you managed to turn and do his bidding without falling all over yourself or scrambling in an embarrassing rush of eagerness, and yet.  Far more collected than you felt within, you managed to push the door shut soundlessly and throw the latch, pausing for a moment with your back to him, safely sheltered in the little alcove of the doorway, to breathe through the easing of that sudden cold panic that had surfaced at your earlier misunderstanding.

When you returned to him he’d shut his notebook and set it aside atop the others, and reached to slide that pilfered votive candle before himself as he watched you sidle up to his desk.  Watched you stop, smooth the skirt of your dress only to fist it again in fitful hands, watched the tight little press of thighs as he drew out the silence.

“Do you know what these are called?”  He asked, nudging the little candle forward with the press of one elegant fingertip before rising from his seat.

“Devotionaries.”  You answered, and watched him cross to the wall to the right of you, to a tall coat stand that stood near the door to his quarters.  

“Very good.”  

A child could have answered that question, but it did not stop the little smile of pleasure that tugged at the corners of your mouth.  His praise as euphoric as a drug and twice as addictive, even for the smallest of successes.

Your mouth went dry however, as he turned profile to you, tugged a button or two open upon the throat of his cassock, and then turned his back to undo the rest before shrugging out of the long, dark cloth to hang it upon the coat stand.  The black fabric fell in a long and shapeless mass without him, hem puddling ever so slightly on the floor.  

It put you in mind of Peter Pan hanging up his shadow, or it would have done, had you not been so preoccupied with the shape of him divested of the dark habit.  Of that petulant posture and taut lovely lines, proud set of shoulders and careless, dangerous beauty in how he moved.  It was patently unfair that a man sporting licks of sliver at his temples and etched crows feet at the outset edges of his eye should have the lithe shape of youth the way he did.  

Devoid of the cassock, he was left instead in the black roman-collared linen shirt and dark, sharply pleated trousers he wore beneath. 

He turned back to you and came wandering back toward the desk, unbuttoning the cuffs at his wrists.

“Do you have a lighter?”  The question was so casual it caught you off guard and you had to shake your head, tugging at the pocketless skirt of your dress on either side of thighs by way of explanation.  

His mouth twisted the merest fraction of a smile as he tucked the cuff of one of his sleeves back, began rolling it neatly toward his elbow.  Lean hips turned a fraction as he stepped closer.

“Left pocket.”  He instructed, helpfully.

Hesitation grasped you but a moment before you inched forward, stepped into his space and paused.  Glancing upward, you found his attention fixed upon meticulously still folding his sleeves back, crisp turn by turn.  The focus of those mismatched eyes not even flickering to you, to how every fine hair upon your bare arms stood on end like they were aching toward him, toward that magnetic draw of snapping static thrumming in the air between you both.

Easing half behind him, you reached for the little gap of the pocket and slowly slid fingers into the warmth of its silken confines.  Over the bone of his hip and down, wrist deep until you hit the bottom of the pocket and touched the smooth, rectangular shape of the lighter within.  Metal heated to body temperature from where it nestled.  

Fingers curled around it before you stopped.  Let it go, and moved just a little closer, pressed fingers flat to that join between hip and thigh his pocket lay against.  Pushed the delve of that pocket just a little deeper and felt his stomach tense beneath your fingertips as your cheek brushed the outside of his upper arm.

“The lighter, lamb.  If you please.”  His tone was darkly amused at least, though if you kept pushing your luck it would be at your own cost.  That much was clear.

You scooped up the lighter once more, but withdrew your hand slow, knuckles grazing softly along the cut of muscle you could feel running from his hip inward and down.  Air felt unwelcomely cold against your skin once you pulled your hand free, and before you could step back, he moved away for you.  Walked away to resume his seat behind the desk as he finished doing up his other cuff to just below his right elbow.

A small push of his foot made space between the seat and the desk, and you only needed the flick of his eyes from you to the room he’d made to set you in motion to come and stand before him, his lighter clenched tight in your closed fist, unwilling to relinquish the little bit of his heat you held in your palm.

Gazing up at you, his attention licked over the details of your dress, your posture, your hesitant composure, as he tugged at the give of trousers a little at the bend of thigh and hip and settled himself more comfortably.

“You weren’t here yesterday.”  He observed as he relaxed back against the tall chair, a flicker of a blink over that oceanic eye.  You held your tongue and his gaze fell to the candle upon the desk just beside where you stood, and you wondered if your absence had made him angry, filled him with regret, or perhaps just left him lonesome.  You wished there was a way to tell, any little crack in that stoic mask of scarred features and sharpness to let the truth of what he was thinking seep out.  Nothing there though but that calculating, penetrating gaze and a subtle shrug of broad, lean shoulders,  “I suppose we might make up for lost time, then.  Contrition may be an important facet of faith, but so is devotion.”

He reached forward to scoop into fingers the loose end of the bow that tied the wrap of your dress shut beside your waist.  His good eye narrowed, the fine lines of crowsfoot deepening.  He’d seen that dress before, yes– the same one you’d worn to catch him by surprise in the confessional.  

You allowed yourself the most innocent little smile you could manage when those mismatched eyes flicked sharply to your face, and willed breath to stay even, slow, no matter how skin had begun to sing his name in soft coursing waves of prickling goosebumps.

“I don’t suppose you have your rosary?”  He asked archly, letting the ribbon of the bow drop from his open hand as he sat back once more.

He’d every right to ask it of you so dryly, given your lack of pockets.  And you had every right to feel as smug as you did when you lifted a hand, reached into the low, criss-crossed neckline of your dress and drew out the strand of little purple beads from the nestle of your bra.  

The war between shock, dark delight, the struggle to keep his poker face, and perhaps even a hint of righteous outrage that overtook the sharply handsome ruin of his features was nothing short of spectacular.  You’d replay it, over and over again at night.  Reveling in how well you toppled the high and mighty cold ivory pillar he so often perched upon.

Out and out you drew the beads until the little cross popped free and the rosary hung, swinging, upon your forefinger.

His hand, resting upon his knee, tightened, fingers twitching slightly, before it stilled, then lifted, palm open in demand.

You dropped that little holy object into his hand and watched his fist close around it, knowing full well he now held a little piece of your heat as surely as you held his within your other hand.  There was a slight softening to the creases where thin brows met over that sharp nose that told you he felt it, too.

“Good girl.”  He murmured, and the flush that crept up to warm your ears was nearly as delicious as the thrill that both chased up your spine and tugged at the backs of your knees to fold, to kneel.  You rested the heel of your palm upon the desk behind you and let it take your weight so that you did not cave.

By the time he turned his face back up to you he’d mastered his expression once more, beatific calm singed at its hard edges.

“Turn around,”  He instructed, making the simple order sound heavy, dangerous.  Bringing thighs together from their slight sprawl, he patted the top of one, “Have a seat.”

Heart thudded hard in your ears as you did as you were bade, turning to sink onto his lap carefully, perched upon his knees.  He sucked chipped teeth softly at it.

“Have a seat,”  That grit velvet voice scolded gently from behind you as both his hands curled about your waist and urged you backward, until you sat comfortably fully upon him, back fitted to his front.  

A hand upon your hip skimmed over stomach and waist, back to the bow of your dress.

“Why do we say devotions?”  He asked, and you could feel the question purring through his chest against your back as he claimed the thick ribbon of the bow and tugged.  The knot gave with no resistance, and the part of it he held served nicely to pull the cross of your dress open, just enough to part the skirt of it and leave you bare from stomach to thighs.  

The shudder that overtook you was sweet and slow, wringing from core to limbs, leaving a little shivering tingle rising over scalp and curling toes, that familiar little throbbing ache back with a hot and hungry vengeance.  Hips shifted in your seat as his fingertips ghosted skin to part fabric and push it aside, leaving your lower half bare save for the dark, smooth satin of underwear in the same shade of inky black as his habit.

“To remember the dead?”  You chanced, feeling halfway there yourself, pulse racing erratically.

“Sometimes,” He agreed, and you swore you felt the whisper of scarred lips at your neck.  Certainly felt the wash of warm breath plume over skin, “More generally devotions are an act of prayer or private worship.  Remembrance is one act, as are service, reflection, beseeching, prostration… your rosary, for example, is considered a devotion.”

His hands slid along your arms, touch warm, bringing your hands together to press in prayer before he began to wind the beaded strings around your wrists again to bind them together.

“I thought that was a penance.”  You exhaled in a shuddering little rasp.

“It can be, but not today.”  The tip of his sharp nose drew a long, slow line against the rise of your spine, above the neckline of your dress between shoulder blades and to the base of your skull, “although that can be a devotion too.”

The heel of his foot caught the floor and pulled the seat with you both in it forward towards his desk, so that he could reach around you and lift the candle from where it sat before pushing you both back again.  He held the votive before you.

“Light it,” he asked, free arm curling about you, fingers trailing the soft of your stomach from navel on down, “I owe you a devotion, lamb.”

Fingers bound in prayer fumbled with the thick golden rectangle of the lighter as you struggled not to simply sink back against him with a little shiver and beg that he stroke that little path across vulnerable skin once more.  A flick of your thumb sent the hinged lid open and the circular little flint struck on the second attempt, hot flame bursting to life.  Silco turned the candle so that you could light it and then pulled it away as you flicked the lighter shut and slipped it back between folded hands.

“Do you know the devotional prayer?” He asked, hand holding the candle coming to settle upon an armrest as his lap shifted beneath you, lean legs pressing together beneath your own and lifting before spreading wide, the hook of his knees beneath your thighs opening them in an indecent slow splay.  

It set you writhing; the kissing chill of the air of the room contrasting sharply with the heat of him beneath you, so very bare, bound in his lap, spread open like an invitation.  The door was locked, yes, you’d made sure of it but what if you were wrong?  What if someone had a key?  There’d be no explanation for the position you found yourself in, no way to hide.

The thrill of that little licking fear warred with the light caress of his free hand as it curled over the top of one thigh and smoothed toward your knee, only to hook it better in its drape over his own before it began the slow teasing, lazy circles that drew it back toward the little throbbing want hidden beneath the black satin gusset of thin panties.

“Bare legs.”  He murmured, and you gave another little squirm, folded hands pressing together tighter.  You’d not worn what you were coming to suspect was his favorite item of your clothing because you’d not expected to see him, and also to spite him if you did.  The move seemed to have backfired spectacularly.  When you had no excuse or answer, Father Silco simply carried on, a note of pleased amusement in his tone, “The prayer?”

“N-no.  That is, no I don’t know it.”

“Hmn.”  His little hum of disapproval at the gaps still existing in your liturgical knowledge colored your cheeks, and you could only hope that from his position he could not see the frustration that joined the embarrassment upon your face.  

You watched him lift the candle slowly from where he’d held it at your side, bring it to hover over your open lap.  His hand upon your thigh stilled its toying little strokes and instead closed in a taut grip of your leg, soft skin denting tenderly beneath his fingers.

“That’s alright,” he reassured you quietly, and you could hear the dark little smile in it, “This is my devotion anyhow.”

The flickering little candle he held hovering before you began to tilt, turn, and the inward gasp of breath caught in your throat as the clear melted wax welled at the lip of the red glass before spilling over, heat spattering in a little drip against the sensitive skin of your knee.  

He paused, and you could feel him shift under your restless hips, feel the little roll of his own and the way his breath strained ever so slightly for just a moment.

“Does that hurt?”  Low and velvet that voice mumbled up against the skin behind the fold of your ear and again he tipped a little burning drop of wax onto waiting skin.  

Your knee jumped the barest fraction, reflexive little jerk at the soft scalding that faded quickly into gentle warmth, and you nodded, folded hands pressing the knuckles of forefingers tight to your lips.

“A little.”  You breathed, raggedly.

“Enough to stop?”  He pressed, and the soft moan of a sigh that broke from you when the warmth of his mouth touched to the hard thrum of your pulse answered well enough for you before your shattered little ‘no’ eked out.

His fingers had strayed far up the leg they’d been casually toying across, toward the heat that he had to feel absolutely radiating from the apex of thighs.  One long forefinger drew a tracing line around the triangle of slippery black satin, up both edges and across your lower stomach slowly.

Air seized in your throat as his fingertips plucked at the smooth waistband.

“Lord, may this candle which I light illuminate all my difficulties and decisions.”  Silco began, waiting to feel the tension stringing through you begin to ease before he spilled another dollop of wax, and then a second and third a bit further up each time.  The soft sting of it had you writhing, the little shock of burning heat fading to a warm tickle as the wax rolled down in heavy drips, cooling against your skin.

Behind you, Silco’s breath caught in a little huff once more, a soft whistle between clenched chipped teeth on the inhale.

“May this candle be a fire,”  He continued after a beat, spreading the warm little shocks and sudden pinching stings to the tender inner thigh of your other leg, “that burns away all my pride, selfishness…” 

Writhing and shifting, you struggled in his lap, not wanting to escape yet fighting the way every fibre of you recoiled from the spattering searing sting of the wax in a reflexive, uncontrollable urge.  Several of these squirming jerks of your hips and the hand teasing at the edge of your panties caught suddenly in a taut cup between your legs as you felt Silco’s own hips give a hard little shove upward.  

Stilling breathlessly, he kept you waiting a long moment while he seemed to struggle to master himself, the fingers cupping you picking up an almost absent little up and down stroke over the satin covering the shape of your sex, unerringly finding the cleft between lips.  

Cooling wax flexed and tugged at skin as you tried to spread a bit further for him, to press into his touch, scared if you were to beg for more with words that it might stop the tease entirely, as it had the last time he’d had his hand between your thighs.  God, how he’d tormented you, brought you so terribly close… Hips rolled hard and slow against him in retaliation as you relived your humiliation.

As if reading your mind, his touch skimmed higher, and fingertips tucked themselves beneath the satin confines of the upper edge of panties, teasing little strokes at skin that tensed and trembled beneath his touch before they began to slip lower, “and all my other sins.” 

Wax was flowing freely, dripping to punctuate each word, taking his sweet time as you wriggled and bucked in his lap, swallowing little gasps and hisses as your skin sang.

At least one shift of your hips must have caught him just right because for a moment you could hear him choke on his words, feel him tense beneath you again.  Determined to give as good as you got you did it again and felt the rush of his breath fan against your neck.

His free hand tensed where it lay, fingertips so tremulously close to the cleft of lips, and delved to catch a second taut grip over the shape of your bare sex.  The sudden hard grasp of naked contact had you spiraling, arching hard back against him.  He was hard beneath you, you could feel it, and caught between his hand and that hint of hardness digging into the soft of your bottom you rocked slowly, only to be rewarded with a long pour of hot wax up your thigh that turned the gentle motion of hips to a wild little ride.

“May this candle be a flame,” He continued, and the broken rasp of his voice was nearly, nearly as sweet as the single slow caress of his finger that found the slick part of your folds and pressed between slippery skin to drag upward.  Unerringly found the proud, eager little swell of your clit and sent your lower back into a hard strung arch with one little nudge, “that warms my heart and incites me to love.”  He concluded, raggedly, and you swore you felt the graze of chipped teeth scrape over your shoulder.

Riding the light touch of his fingertip and behind you, the hard press of his cock through his pants and your open dress, you sprawled redolently back against him, let your neck find a home in a comfortable arch over his shoulder before turning your head, nestling forehead in the hollow of his throat before shifting to tuck a begging little kiss to the sharp of his jaw.

“Amen.”  You finished for him, and felt the sting of wax hit your hip and then your stomach that made you hiss and buck hips once more.  Your reward a groan of breath from him and another lingering stroke of his fingertips through soaked folds to flick caressingly at the sweet throbbing ache of your clit.

How long, how many bitter nights now had you wished for this, how many feverish and filthy dreams had you endured, just longing to feel his bare touch?  It had become so much worse after your last meeting, all that sharp longing redoubled after his heartless punishing teasing.

No more, no more thin cotton or sheer lace or anything at all between his touch and you.  The heat of his hand was nothing to the splashes of searing wax you’d endured, yet it was so much sweeter.  That little flicking touch came ghosting over the sensitive little nub of your clit and you writhed unashamedly, trying every which way to force his touch more, closer, deeper.

The prayer was far too short for your liking.  What good were hollow words meant to convey something as strong and fervent an ideal as devotion if they were over in mere minutes?  Grumbling a little whinging protest you pushed back against him with a hard roll of hips.

“Father…” You objected, voice cracked with pleading.

“Who?”  The grit dark velvet of his voice asked at your ear, delighted and tormented as the devil himself.

“Daddy.”  The word was out before you could even think it, like it teetered perpetually on the edge of your teeth ever since the first time he prised it out of you,  “P-please, please, daddy…”

The sharp blade of his nose shoved hard behind your ear, his ragged breathing a hushed tickling whuffle from narrow nostrils, and any further pleading you were on the verge of was stifled with a squealed little gasp as he spread the sodden petals of your pussy with the splay of three fingers, and the center one of those long, elegant digits found its way down between slicking folds, delving deep into the welcoming clenching grip of your want… only to withdraw his entire hand in a long, slow drag, tracing a line of accusatory wet all the way up to the dip of your navel.

It left you sobbing tearlessly, gasping and gulping and lifting hips in a wordless eagerness that only earned you another splattering of scalding wax across the strain of thighs.

Father Silco ignored your plight as steadfastly as any man of the cloth could ignore temptation, and began a new prayer.

“Earnestly I seek you;

I thirst for you,

    my whole being longs for you,

in a dry and parched land

    where there is no water.”

The psalm he recited washed over you like a slow caress while you squirmed fitfully on his lap and watched his hand lift, middle finger glossed to its base with your wet.  Vanishing in your periphery, the sound of him sucking that long digit thoughtfully clean acted perfect punctuation to the sacrilege of his misappropriated prayer.  

Guilt spiced the edge of half-denied pleasure and soft pain.  As his hand slid back down your skin and toward the clenching, shivering yearning of your core, you’d never felt so debased, so deeply wicked and wrong.  Burning wax hit your thigh once more in heavy, rolling drops and you arched, straining, hissing between clenched teeth; become more serpent in the garden of Eden than Eve.

“I have seen you in the sanctuary

    and beheld your power and your glory.

Because your love is better than life,

    my lips will glorify you.”

He teased the upper edge of soaked panties once more, tracing the pucker of their hem, slipping fingertips just beneath them, savoring the softness of skin and the way the taut of your stomach quivered beneath his touch.  Desire welled like a dark stone filling your throat, heart coated in the sticky sap of filthy blasphemous sin as his scarred mouth tickled at the hook of your jaw and tender line of your throat.  This was wrong, so wrong, so deliciously perfectly throbbingly wrong.

Heat flooded your face as you crushed the press of prayer folded hands to your forehead, eyes shut tight against the rushing high of mortifying lust.  Forbidden, taboo, illicit; whatever you wanted to call that gut-deep and undisputed knowledge that this was unforgivably wrong, it excited you in a way nothing else ever had.

He could see it in you, you knew he could.  He saw how horrible your deepest darkest thoughts could be and he just kept dragging them out into the light, smiling as he let you dirty yourself with the honesty of your predilections.  

The line of his arm tightened against your side as he reached to slip fingers back into your heat, another lazy circling tease to against clit that left you wrung out and breathless before he delved back inside of you and let you ride the slow pumping slide of one long finger.

“I will praise you as long as I live,

    and in your name I will lift up my hands.

 I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;

    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.”

Your head rocked as he butted his forehead gently to your temple, words a warm, seeping whisper at your cheek, that stern, gravel worn seduction of his voice undoing you, taking you apart at the seams until you felt sure you’d fall open there in his lap like a ragdoll with the sin-like sawdust spilled out.

Inside of you, he was inside of you- and just that knowledge, just the wretchedly wonderful wrongness of it made the whole of you jerk in a taut little shiver of surrender.  That slender artful finger kept up its torment like he had no notion of your mortal struggle; curling, thrusting, buried deep.  It had you in a tailspin, hips working devoid of conscious thought, all sensation dialed down to the hard, hot, fluttering building to a crescendo within.  Greed, gluttony, lust… were they called deadly sins because you felt fit to die if you did not satisfy each one right this moment?  

The stinging pain of the wax he kept dripping in erratic little patterns jerked you from the sinking, seeping pit of ecstatic bliss over and over again, a cruel and wonderful see-saw that kept you gripping white-knuckled on the sharp edge of insensible pleasure.

“On my bed I remember you;

    I think of you through the watches of the night.

Because you are my help,

    I sing in the shadow of your wings.

I cling to you;

    your right hand upholds me.”

His right hand was all that stood between you and heaven; the grinding press of the heel of his palm to the throb of your clit, the smooth slow fucking his single finger was giving you, all of it an overwhelming agony of delight but just shy of what you needed to crest the rising wave of tense bliss he was intent on drowning you with.

Head tossed back, you groaned that little, broken, sordid version of his holy title once more, hands bound at the wrists with your rosary clenched in fervent prayer to your chest that he’d let you come, please God just let you come... 

And with that one word, beneath you Father Silco went suddenly still and rigid, something like a strangled gasp caught in his throat as hips pinned under your writhing ones jerked their own stilted thrust upward… and held for a long and breathless moment before you felt him sag with a rushing, panting release.  His hand cupped to you had gone quite still, and you could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Had he… had he just…?  You shifted hips experimentally and heard him hiss a wordless scolding as his hand gripped the shape of your pussy hard.  Stilling obediently, you had to struggle not to smile sinful bliss.  

Just a little touch of you combined with the friction of your hips working in his lap and he’d cum those dark, well tailored pants of his.

In spite of being robbed of your own relief, for the moment you felt nothing but powerful, smug and heady with the evidence of how your infatuation was not one-sided, just as you had in the confessional, and it made you foolishly proud.

Proud, right up to the point when he withdrew his finger from within you and in the space of a half second, just before your mouth could open in complaint, caught a little pinch of your clit between thumb and middle finger only to assault that overstimulated cluster of slick nerves with his forefinger in such lashing that you pitched clean into the waiting arms of your release.  

It was hard and fast, unmerciful, the lovely strain nearly ruined by how long he’d kept you waiting and how hard he’d teased you up to it.  

“Amen.”  He was purring in your ear, voice near drowned out by the hard thrumming pound of blood rushing in your brain.  Thighs shivered in their hook over top of his own, gone weak as every ounce of tension bled out of you, leaving you lolling, warmly pliant and sighing devoutness far more fervent than any stale saint could have possibly understood. 

There was a little click of glass as he set the remains of the candle back upon his desk and turned your face toward himself where your head lay back upon his shoulder.  Fingers traced the curve of your cheek, and when he licked at the open part of your lips the faint taste of yourself mingled with him lingered.  Bless me father, for I have sinned.  

Profane and perfect, you felt his smile stretch against your mouth.  

“Do you doubt my devotion, lamb?”  He asked quietly, hands smoothing away the cooled and peeling wax in long strokes that left gently welted and red splotched skin stinging sweetly.  

Your head shook infinitesimally, not wanting to break the scant contact of his mouth to your own.

“Do you pray for me, Father?”  The urge to know felt crushing, the weight of guilt creeping in to gnaw at the edges of sordid bliss.

“Oh lamb.  You’re the only thing I pray for anymore.”

[didalexiabreakupwitholgayet]

do you think that jenni hermoso and misa are more than friends ? they are together in vacation

no, no, no. jenni and misa are bros. 😅

first of all, misa is dating marta cardona. cardona has been in the photodumps and stories from the larger group in ibiza, including the one from today. and misa still will pop up with cardona every time the atletí girls hang out, like from leicy's birthday a few weeks back.

also, it's a larger group of friends that went to ibiza, including jenni's friend and atletí assistant, ana ecube.

it's super common for the girls to vacation in larger groups, including those who are coupled up. as far as i am aware, jenni is not in a serious relationship as of yet.

[kmomof4]

To Sir Graham, With Love - A New Fic for @snowbellewells Birthday!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARTA!!!!! We FINALLY made it, and I am SOOO EXCITED to finally be posting this fic for your special day!!! I love you dearly and I'm so thankful to have you in my life!!! I so hope you enjoy this fic featuring another one of your favorite couples, or at least one of your other favorite characters!!! I hope your day is as wonderful as you are and that this makes it even better!!! Love you, my friend!!!

@jrob64 and @whimsicallyenchantedrose are my FABULOUS betas for this story and they deserve all the love and long distance hugs I can give them for betaing this monster of a fic!!

@motherkatereloyshipper is responsible for some GORGEOUS artwork that is going to take some doing to share, because it's too big for Tumblr. But let me assure you, it is gorgeous and it WILL get shared, just as soon as I figure out how. I wish I could swim the ocean so I could give Kit a tackle hug!! Please go give her all the love!!! Update- we got it and the artwork is below the cut!!!! Please go give Kit alllllllll the love!!!!!

As Graham is one of Marta's favorite characters, this was the perfect Bridgerton story to adapt to him and Ruby. It is inspired by Eloise Bridgerton's story, To Sir Phillip, With Love. This fic is set in the same universe as my first Bridgerton fic, A Mistress to No One, though it's not necessary to have read it to enjoy this one.

Today's prologue is very short, so I'll be posting ch1 on Saturday and then weekly thereafter.

I so hope you enjoy my adaptation and let me know what you think!!!

Summary: After a year long secret correspondence, twenty-eight year old spinster Ruby Jones decides to accept Sir Graham Humbert's offer of a visit to see if they might suit for marriage. Unfortunately, he failed to mention that he was the father of twins, and they are not thrilled with Ruby's appearance.

Rating: M (smut, mentions of abuse)

Words: Almost 2k of almost 68k

Tags: Red Hunter Fic, Birthday Fic, Inspired by Eloise Bridgerton's Story, Smut

On ao3

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615

@donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza

@djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic

@anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling

@caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite

@captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose

@thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones

@mie779 @kymbersmith-90 @suwya @veryverynotgoodwrites @myfearless-love 

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

Prologue

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I know you say I will someday like boys, but I say NEVER! Do you hear me? NEVER!!! With THREE exclamation points! From Ruby Jones to her mother Alice, shoved under her door during Ruby’s eighth year

~*~*~*~

I never dreamed the season could be so exciting, David! I’m sure I’ll fall in love straight away! How could I not? When the men are so handsome and charming? From Ruby Jones to her older brother David, on the occasion of her London debut ~*~*~*~

I’m starting to believe I’ll never marry. If there was someone out there for me, don’t you think I’d have found him by now? From Ruby Jones to her dearest friend Mary Margaret Blanchard, during their sixth season as debutantes ~*~*~*~

This is my last chance. I am grabbing destiny with both hands and throwing caution to the wind. Sir Graham, please, please be all that I’ve imagined you to be. Because if you are the man your letters portray you to be, I believe I could love you. And if you felt the same… Ruby Jones, writing on a scrap of paper, the evening she ran away from home to meet Sir Graham Humbert for the first time – A scrap of paper that fluttered to the floor behind her writing desk when the created breeze as she opened and shut her bedroom door, reached it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was another sunny day. 

A sunny day after a string of gray.

Just like before.

Could that be why he was feeling so melancholy? God, he hoped so. Because that’s a plausible reason why he couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave his seat in his study and why he couldn’t remember actually drinking the whiskey he’d poured himself when he’d entered the room quite some time ago, if the angle of the setting sun told him anything.  

He couldn’t bear it if he became like her.

Melancholy for no reason at all. A melancholy that permeated her very being. They’d been married for eight years and he’d never heard Jacinda laugh. And he could count on one hand how many times he’d seen her smile.

He probably should have expected it. Who was he kidding? He did expect it; he just didn’t allow that thought, that sense of foreboding, to penetrate the front of his consciousness. 

He never would have thought she’d do it on such a beautiful day, though. 

A beautiful day after such a long stretch of… not beautiful… melancholy… days; days much more suited to her incessant mood.

Graham had been in his greenhouse that fateful day, recording the results of his latest experiment with peas - he sought to breed a new strand that grew fatter and plumper inside the pod, though he hadn’t yet succeeded - when he looked up through the freshly washed glass of the greenhouse and saw a flash of red. Jacinda’s favorite color. She must have roused herself from her bedchamber to come outside and enjoy the lovely sunshine. The thought made him smile. Perhaps the sun would bring her some modicum of joy.

He watched as she disappeared into a copse of trees between the greenhouse and the small lake on the estate, then bent back down to his work.

Suddenly the thought occurred to him that he should collect his children and bring them outside to see their mother. They saw her every evening, but they craved more time with her, even if all they could expect was a trembling of her lips and a pat on the head. He hadn’t yet seen his children today, but with the sunshine, he’d left instructions for their nurse to take them on a walk outside before he’d come down to the greenhouse, but he could just as easily take them on their walk, and he ought not shirk that responsibility.

A wave of guilt came over him. He was not the father they needed. He tried to assuage his conscience by telling himself that he was quite definitely succeeding in his one and only goal he had pertaining to fatherhood - to not be the kind of father his father was. But he was succeeding in that matter only because he spent as little time as possible with them, more often shooing them off to their nurse for her to deal with. It was easier that way.

He rose from his workbench and left the greenhouse, intent on bringing Nicholas and Ava outside to spend a few minutes with their mother, but as he strode toward the house, he realized that he should probably ascertain Jacinda’s mood before springing the children on her. He hated for them to see her in one of her moods, so he changed direction and went in search of his wife.

Her footprints were clear in the soft ground when he entered the woods he’d watched her disappear into, but once he emerged from their cover, he cursed, having forgotten about the grassy meadow he now stood in. Her footprints would be invisible now, so he looked up, shading his eyes against the morning sun, looking for a flash of red. Nothing at the old abandoned cottage, nor near the field of experimental grains he grew, or at the giant boulder he’d spent many hours scrambling over as a child. He finally turned north toward the lake and spotted her.

The lake. 

He was frozen for a moment, as he watched her slow progress toward the shore of the small body of water. It wasn’t until she was nearly there that his paralysis broke, his feet somehow recognizing what his eyes and mind hadn’t yet comprehended. He was still too far away to do anything but call her name as he ran toward her. 

If she heard him, she gave no indication, never halting her progress. She entered the shallows and just kept walking until she came to the drop off, disappearing under the water, the red cloak she wore floating for just a moment before it was dragged down with her to the depths. 

It was another full minute before Graham arrived at the edge of the lake, even at a full run. He had just enough presence of mind to take off his boots and coat before following 

her into the freezing water. She’d only been underwater a minute, but he had no idea how long it took for someone to drown, and every second more was another second closer to her death.

He plunged under the water, and with strong strokes, swam to where he’d last seen her. He peered through the murky water looking for the telltale flash of red. 

There.

She didn’t fight him as he grabbed the cloak and hauled her to him to bring her to the surface. When he got her to the shore, her skin had the gray pallor that he’d only seen twice in his life. Once on his father and the other when his beloved brother’s body was returned home after losing his life at Waterloo. The second thrusting him into the position he now held as well as laying the duty to marry and beget an heir on his shoulders. He didn’t love Jacinda. He never had. But he cared for her, and he knew underneath the persistent melancholy, she was a good person, and he’d never wish for her death.

He shook his head, flinging droplets of water from his hair and face, but was shocked to realize it wasn’t just lake water, it was tears. How could she do this? What about the children? In the balance of life, did her sadness really mean more than their need for a mother? How was he going to tell them? He was barely a father to them. How in the hell was he now supposed to be a mother as well?

He barely remembered carrying his wife’s body back to the house, the persistent hope in the back of his mind that the children and their nurse hadn’t yet left for their walk. He managed to avoid them the rest of the day - sending for the priest and making the arrangements for Jacinda’s burial. But when evening came, he knew he had to face them.

They said hardly a word when he told them their mother was gone, which was unusual. Just turned seven years old, they stared at him with their wide unblinking eyes. They didn’t look surprised, either, which disturbed Graham just a bit.

“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap. He loved them so much, but he’d failed them in so many ways. How could he face them?

“It’s not your fault,” Nicholas said. Graham met his dark eyes as his son lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “She fell in the lake. You didn’t push her.”

“Is she happy now?” Ava asked quietly. Graham looked at her and sighed.

“I think so,” he murmured. “She gets to watch you now from heaven, so yes, I think she’s happy.”

“I hope so,” Nicholas finally said. “Maybe she won’t cry anymore.”

That caught Graham’s attention. He hadn’t realized they could hear Jacinda’s sobs. It was normally so late at night that they should have been long asleep, but with their room directly above hers, he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

Ava nodded in agreement with her brother’s statement. “If she’s happy now, then I’m glad.”

And it was the truth. Graham could only hope her soul had finally found the peace and happiness that eluded her in life. And if that was the case, he would take solace in it.

Pulling himself back from the bleak direction his thoughts had taken, he looked down at his empty glass again. He hated remembering that day two months ago, but the similarities between that day and this were too much to be ignored and he couldn’t help himself. On the day her mother died, Ava had asked if he was going to leave them too and he swore that he wouldn’t - he’d never leave them. But his presence wasn’t enough. They needed more. They needed someone who knew how to be a parent. Someone who knew how to speak to them, love them, understand them, get them to behave. 

He needed a wife.

Almost any wife would do. He didn’t care what she looked like, how much money she had, or if she could do sums in her head. She just needed to be happy. Was that too much to ask?

It was too soon, of course. He couldn’t marry until the prescribed mourning period was completed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t start looking.

“Sir?” His secretary, Miles, interrupted his musings. “A letter for you. From London.”

He took the small envelope, noting the feminine slant to the script, and dismissed the man with a nod. Opening it, a single sheet of paper fell out. It was heavy, clearly expensive. He turned it over and began to read.

No. 5, Bruton Street

London

Sir Graham Humbert-

I am writing to express my condolences on the loss of your wife, my cousin, Jacinda. Although it had been many years since I’d seen her, I remember her fondly and was saddened to hear of her passing.

Please do not hesitate to write if there is anything I can do to ease your pain in this difficult time.

Yrs,

Miss Ruby Jones

Jones. Jones. Did Jacinda have Jones cousins? She must have. The evidence was right here before him. He had received very few notes of condolences since Jacinda passed. She rarely left her bedchamber, after all. It was easy to forget about someone who was never seen.

Miss Ruby Jones deserved a reply. Besides being common courtesy, he just felt it was the right thing to do. 

Graham picked up his quill, and with a weary breath, began to write.

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! Happy birthday, Marta!! Hope you've had a wonderful day!!! Ch1 will be up Saturday!!

[adamwatchesmovies]

Knives Out (2019)

Knowing the way Knives Out ends doesn’t diminish its enjoyment one bit. This is a wonderfully original whodunnit that breaks the rules and comes up with all sorts of new tricks - the kind you can’t believe no one has thought of before. It’s an instant favorite.

The morning after his 85th birthday, wealthy crime novelist Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer) is found dead of a suicide. As the police go through the usual procedures, everything seems cut and dry except for one detail: Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig). He’s been hired anonymously to investigate. How could whoever slipped him that fat envelope of money in the middle of the night know Thrombey would die… unless they knew something the police don’t?

The genius of Knives Out is that we’re told very early what happened to Harlan Thrombey. Harlan’s nurse, Marta Cabrera (Ana de Armas) mixed up his medications. He convinced her to walk away while he killed himself so no one would find out about the fatal mistake she’d made. Despite this, it takes no time for you to bond with Marta. Firstly, because she’s a good person who simply made a mistake. Secondly, because Benoit Blanc’s interrogation allows us to meet the members of the Thrombey family. Each of these characters is so unique and so memorable that a film with all of them together can only be categorized as a delight. It doesn’t matter that you already know “the ending”. You’re just having a great time (you’re not the only one; the performers are clearly having a lot of fun) sitting down and watching these people.

Then, this funny thing happens. You spend enough time with Linda Drysdale (Jamie Lee Curtis), her bumbling husband Richard (Don Johnson), their son Hugh (Chris Evans), Harlan’s son Walt (Michael Shannon), his wife Donna (Riki Lindhome), their son Jacob (Jaeden Martell), and Harlan’s daughter-in-law, Joni (Toni Collette) to think something might not be quite what it seems. Come to think of it, we know what happened to Harlan, but not who hired Benoit Blanc, so we really don't know after all. It gets to the point where you even suspect people who couldn’t have possibly had anything to do with Harlan’s death, like his housekeeper Fran (Edi Patterson), his elderly mother Wanetta (K Callan) or his gentle granddaughter Meg (Katherine Langford). There’s something amiss. You know Marta caused Harlan to kill himself but there’s more to this story. You know it. Before you think maybe the accident wasn’t an accident at all, let me stop you because writer/director Rian Johnson gives her one of the best quirks you could in a movie like this: the inability to lie. Now you see how complex a situation this is. If Benoit asks her directly if she contributed to Harlan’s death, she has to tell him. She’ll lose everything. Worse, the movie will end and we won’t get to find out what the deal is with the children and grandchildren.

The worst part of Knives Out is that these characters are not going to show up in a sequel. Benoit Blanc will but this film is filled with all of these great, memorable people. Some are slimy from the get-go, others are not what they seem at first. I had seen the film before. I knew the twists but it didn’t matter. I enjoyed seeing these people again and watching the hints pay off. Knives Out is a terrific screenplay and loads of fun. (December 31, 2022)

[missnight0wl]

Hii Marta 👋👋👋

First off, happy (very) belated birthday! I hope you're resting up and you're getting better :)

Then, I just wanted to ask if you're caught up on the latest HPHM chapter... I don't like where they're going with this, and it feels really cheap. The only way they could save this is, in my opinion, by showing how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but I really don't think that's gonna happen. What are your thoughts about it?

Either way, I hope you have a nice rest of your day, and stay well ^-^

Well, first of all, thank you so much! 💖 I really appreciate it! I hope you're doing well, too!

As for HPHM, I’m actually not caught up. I still haven’t started Chapter 9, and to be completely honest, I don’t feel the need to catch up. I don’t want to say I’m quitting the game and I’m actually still opening the app pretty much every day just to collect my energy, but at the same, it���s just... eh. The whole “Beyond Hogwarts” often feels like the battle with R from the end of Y7: the characters seem to believe that whatever they’re doing makes sense, but it really doesn’t. Also, there’s basically nothing left in the game anymore from the things that made me love it all those years ago.

On top of all of that, I’m just not having the best time of my life – as you know. It’s nothing bad in particular, really, it’s just… life, I guess. And the main thing is that I just have a hard time finding motivation, so the quality of HPHM dropping down so much doesn’t help.

(Also, I just want to mention in this place: dear Anon who sent me the ask about Flump, if you see it, I swear I’m not ignoring you. I just have a lot to say about this character, and as I mentioned, I have no willpower to write my thoughts down. It’s gonna be a long rant, though. In short: I fucking hate Flump.)

Now, as for the events from the recent chapter you’re referring to… I assume it’s about Jacob and Olivia? Please, correct me if it’s something else because I didn’t check the whole chapter, but if that’s what we’re talking about: I absolutely hate everything about it. EVERYTHING. It actually might be a deal breaker for me. Like, I still don’t want to say “I quit”, but after I learnt about it, my motivation to come back dropped from low to barely existing. I’m still super bitter about that “too dry chicken”, and it’s beyond me how anyone could think it’s a good way to introduce this plot to the story. You know how it could’ve gone? Olivia could’ve said something like: “I was thinking the whole day about messing up the chicken yesterday, EVEN THOUGH JACOB SAID IT WAS FINE”. But no, the writers for once decided to be consistent about something and portrayed Fugly Slut as an absolute jerk.

I think that the only way to save this is to kill Fugly Slut. Olivia deserves so much better. And of course we’re simply ignoring Olivia’s past feelings for Duncan.

[changingplumbob]

Rotation 8 Wrap-up

3 promotions: Calista, Marta, Adam

6 skills maxed: Calista 1, Aaron 2, Keira 1, Rahul 1, Bob 1

4 new house builds: York, Villareal, Pancakes, Knightstone

3 renovations: New Goth 3rd floor, Moonwood Mill Library, Reece and Samir's Dusty Murder Shack

1 recreation centre: Tartosa

1 set build: Police station

10 birthdays: Deanna, Paris, Milton, Alfred, Rillian, Onyx, Bob, Reece, Silas, Carson (I don't think I've ever had so many before)

1 birth: Viola

2 new pets: Turtle, Seven

York Household, Chapter 8

Calista got promoted and is now a Captain in the military. Aaron worked hard and maxed a couple of skills. Deanna aged up to YA and was awarded valedictorian for her graduation. She dabbled with robotics and asked her girlfriend to move in. Kelly hosted a gold level slumber party and became bracelet BFFs with Anya.

2. New Goth Household, Chapter 3

Hamlet aged up from a kitten to a cat, he and fellow cat Gertrude became companions with James. James looked after Milton who aged up to a child while Alexander and Keira worked on finishing university. Joey started in the tech guru career and woohoo'd two more women. Finally the reappearance of Marta's ex Liam almost resulted in arrest, but he couldn't keep Keira from proposing to Marta.

3. Chopra Household, Chapter 5

Cassandra got a work rival but pregnancy and the near constant need to express milk has pushed him to the back of her mind. Rahul adopted a mini goat and mini sheep and discovered he's a perfectionist. Savannah and Mercedes were busy plotting against new baby Viola who is a cautious infant.

4. Villareal Household, Chapter 5

The household moved to a new home. Devin won a starlight accolade for her acting, discovered she was self-assured and became a 4-star celebrity. Luna mostly worked from home, bonding with the twins. Alfred showed me infants can push plates and Rilian blew a million raspberries before they became toddlers.

5. Pancakes Household, Chapter 8

We found our Pancakes in Brindleton Bay. Bob aged up to an adult amid working at his food stall and chef job to become a level 2 celebrity. Eliza completed 3 out of 4 promotion requirements, and the two agreed to try for a baby once Fergus is a teen. Onyx had their birthday, joined the cheer squad and expressed the wish to have a horse. Fergus bonded with his friends.

6. Woods Household, Chapter 1

In Moonwood Mill Samir got to work trying to figure out what happened to his parents. Following an encounter in the tunnels it became clear they were killed by a werewolf, but he doesn't know why yet. Being bit he has embraced becoming a werewolf. His boyfriend Reece mainly coped with helping Samir through the chaos but did fit in a birthday and some zen time before he commits to university.

7. Knightstone Household, Chapter 8

Adam and Suzanna traveled to Sixam only to find it devoid of aliens like them. The on earth aliens decided to move out to Chestnut Ridge, an area much friendlier to their kind. Silas aged up to a music loving kid and Pollock hit many milestones as he approaches toddlerhood. Adam was promoted to a syndicated superstar.

8. Foster Household, Chapter 8

Carson aged to a teen which turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. Between discovering he has asthma and getting a detention while sitting in class, he has developed OCD. Kayleigh completed two new masterpiece paintings and started to go grey. Harvey spent time with his fishing club and caught a couple of new ones for his collection.

9. Nishidake Household, Chapter 5

Clover was spayed meaning no chance of puppies. Charlie invited her parents around to give them a break from managing Carson and reached level 5 rock climbing. Kaori talked to the mayor and his wife about purchasing a neighborhood park. This led to her seeing Kiyoshi again, who says he will buy the park and gift it to her.

I think I'm allowed to say I'm proud of keeping up with the writing despite some ick bugs and am happy for all the stories and sims I see on simblr that keep my imagination running. Thanks for tuning in everyone, adieu Rotation 8! Here's to Rotation 9!

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Girls' Trip Fairy Tale Ending--Chapter 5 of 6

Summary:  This is my combined birthday gift for Joni (  @jrob64​  ), Marta ( @snowbellewells ) and Krystal ( @kmomof4 ).  Happy birthday ladies! Four fandom friends are nearing the end of their annual girls’ trip when they’re suddenly visited by Isaac, the author before Henry.  He gives them an each a gift–an opportunity to jump into any scene in the storybook they want and fix it.  Large focus on CS, although other characters and relationships will be explored.  A big shoutout to @hollyethecurious​ and @winterbaby89 for betaing!

Word Count: 2420

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list): @sailormew @annaamelll @flslp87 @emmateo26 @bethacaciakay @ultraluckycatnd @effulgent-mind @ilovemesomekillianjones @kat2609 @brooke-to-broch @missgymgirl @galadriel26 @the-lady-of-misthaven @charmingturkeysandwich @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma @daxx04 @nickillian  @gillie  @britishguyslover @ginnyjinxedandhanshotritafirst @kmomof4  @linda8084 @golfgirld @captain-swan-coffee @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @laughswaytoomuch  @allyourdarlingswans  @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82 @therooksshiningknight, @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree  @jrob64  @anmylica   @booksteaandtoomuchtv​ @elfiola

Other chapters:  (1) (2) (3) (4)

Can also be found on: (ao3) (ff.net)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jen didn’t know what she expected transportation via storybook to be like, but she was delighted to discover it was something like entering a snowglobe.  Snowflakes swirled around her, and she watched with delight as they landed on her arms, her shoulders, the ends of her hair.  Each one was different, but each was thoroughly exquisite in its own way.  She knew that most people didn’t get her love of winter and snow but it was beautiful and fascinating, and she would go on loving it despite what anyone else might say.

So engrossed was Jen in the snow swirling around her, that she barely noticed moving from her place in the cabin until the air cleared and she found herself just inside the Charming’s flat.  Her eyes fell first on the tremendous, festively decorated Christmas tree in the sitting area and then the simpler evergreen wreath hanging on the inside of the door.

So it was Christmastime in her version of events?  Well, why not?  Wasn’t Christmas the time for magic?  And she would need some heavy duty, industrial strength magic to fix the mess Isaac had made of the latter part of season 6.

“So Hook….he killed my father?  Okay, that’s a little tough to process.” she heard David say from the kitchen area, and suddenly she knew just exactly where they were in the story.  She hung back for a moment, trying to figure out just the right time and the right way to intervene.

“I was hoping I didn’t have to tell you,” Emma said, sounding defeated from her perch on the breakfast bar.

“Where the hell is Hook anyway?” David asked, aggressively pacing the kitchen. “He didn’t have the guts to come tell me himself?”

If anything, Emma looked even more dejected. “There’s more.  Hook, he … he left town.”

“What?” David exclaimed, finally coming to a stop and staring at his daughter in disbelief. 

“We had a big fight about him hiding this, and I told him if he wasn’t ready to trust me that, that we shouldn’t talk for a while,” Emma said, “so I guess he wasn’t ready, because Leroy saw him on the docks, and he got on the Nautilus and just…sailed away.”

At this, Jen found herself shaking her head, hurrying forward to intervene.

“Emma,” she said gently, “are you sure?  Are you absolutely SURE that’s what happened?”

Emma looked up, anger and pain written all over her face.  She spread her hands wide.  “He’s not here, is he?  What am I supposed to think?”

“I know how hurt you are by all that happened,” Jen said, “but hasn’t he shown you yet that you don’t need to put up your walls to protect yourself from him?  Hasn’t he proven how much he loves you?”

“Not enough to keep from hiding things from me,” she muttered.

“Kind of like how you hid the truth about the shears and your destiny as savior from him?” Jen asked, being careful to keep any hint of accusation from her tone.

“That’s….that’s different!” Emma spluttered, jumping from the counter and striding purposely toward the coat rack.  “I’ve gotta get to the station. Look, whatever you or I or anyone else might think of him, the facts are the facts, and the fact is that Leroy saw him leave me.  End of discussion.”

As though to punctuate her sentence, she stepped out the door and slammed it behind her.  The Christmas wreath on the door fell to the floor with the violence of the action.  David moved forward to replace the decoration on its perch.

“You know I’m right, don’t you David?” Jen asked.  

He didn’t look at her, instead taking long moments to adjust the wreath just so on the door.  Finally he turned back to face her.  “She’s my daughter, Jen, and she’s hurting, and he’s the cause of it, whatever led to it.  My focus has to be on helping her heal”

“But if things aren’t exactly the way they look…if maybe this is the work of a villain or something,” Jen said, “wouldn’t the ideal way to help her be to figure out the truth?  And you know Killian.  You know how much he loves Emma.  Doesn’t he deserve the benefit of the doubt?”

David frowned, and Jen could tell her words struck a chord in him.  “I suppose you’re right.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With another delightful swirl of snow, Jen found herself transported to the sheriff’s station where David and Emma were discussing digitizing files and the merits of busywork to help dull the pain. She decided to hang back in the shadows, watching to see how this scene played out.

“I’ve got just the thing to mend a broken heart,” Regina said happily, brushing snow off of her coat as she breezed into the station and held up a small piece of paper rolled into a scroll.

Emma eyed it warily. “Whatever spell that is, I don’t want it.  I’m seriously not in the mood for magic.”

“Who said anything about magic?” Regina said unfurling the scroll which was covered in so many images of the season, it looked like Christmas had thrown up all over it.  “It’s a two for one drink coupon for that new club, Aesop’s Tables.  Seems they’re having a big Christmas sale.  It’d be a shame to waste it!”

David stepped up, looking at the coupon and shaking his head. “Really?  You think half priced liquor is the way to go.”

“I certainly do,” Regina said.  “We need a ladies night out, me, Emma and Snow.  We go early enough, we can get back in time for Christmas eve with the family.”

Emma looked unimpressed at the suggestion.  “Remember she’s in a sleeping curse?  She’s at home. Asleep.”

“Well, she doesn’t have to be asleep,” Regina said with a meaningful look at David.

“Oh come on!  I just woke up!” he said.  Regina gave him a look, and he rolled his eyes.  “I guess she doesn’t have to be asleep.”

Emma got to her feet, clearly in no mood for any of this. “I can’t. I’m about to go on patrol, and shouldn’t you be trying to break that curse?”

Regina blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, I’m working on it, but I could use a break.  We all could.  I know you’re hurting, and I know you’re trying to hide it because, well, you’re Emma, but you can’t just run from this.”

Emma gave her a hard look.  “I didn’t run.  Hook ran, so, there’s nothing more to say.”  She placed the last file on the pile in front of her with rather more force than strictly necessary, and then headed toward the door.  It was abundantly clear that she was running from the conversation as much as she was heading out on rounds.

“You know,” David said speculatively as she walked out, “I’ve been thinking.”

Regina snorted, “a dangerous pastime.”

He glared at her and then went back to the topic at hand. “I’m not sure it’s true.  I’m not sure Hook really DID run,” he finished.

“Well he’s not here, is he?” she asked, gesturing around the office to make her point. “Seems your daughter has some reason to think he skipped town.”

“Leroy,” David said.

“I beg your pardon?” Regina said.

“Leroy’s her reason,” David said.  “He apparently saw Hook on the docks, told Emma something about Hook getting on the Nautilus and sailing away.”

Regina tutted derisively.  “Leroy?  Emma’s just going on the word of that gossip girl?”

David shrugged.  “You know how hard it is for Emma to trust, how closely she guards her heart.  She’s hurting, but you and I both know Hook.  That man isn’t capable of loving by half measures.  It doesn’t make sense that he’d decide he doesn’t trust her and just….cut his losses and skip town.”

Jen nodded in satisfaction.  That’s the David she knew, rather than the clueless one Isaac wrote, the one who was ready to believe the worst of Killian at the slightest provocation.

“I guess you have a point there,” Regina conceded, “and we do have a psychopath running around trying to separate Emma from all her sources of support.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe it’s time to give the pirate the benefit of the doubt.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With another swirl of snow, Jen found herself in the sitting room of Emma’s house.  She smiled as she saw the tall Christmas tree in the corner, bedecked with lights and garland and all manner of  hook, swan, storybook and Disney character ornaments.

The smile slid from her face as she spied Emma and Henry sitting together at opposite ends of the sofa.  Henry played on his phone, earbuds in place while Emma slowly, gently placed Hook’s possessions in his chest. She hesitated as she reached Liam’s ring hanging from its chain.  She held it close, looking down at it, the tears coming to her eyes in spite of herself.

Beside her, Henry seemed to notice her distress.  He pulled the earbuds from his ears.  “Mom, you okay?”

Emma took a deep breath and decisively placed the ring in the trunk and closed the lid.  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she answered. “I have to be,” she added under her breath.  “Henry, can you take this out to the shed later?”

Henry nodded.  “Yeah, whatever you want.”

That was it?  That was all Henry had to say on the matter?  Clearly it was time for Jen to intervene again.

“Take a moment to think about this Emma, Henry,” Jen said.  “Look at what’s sitting before you.  Hook’s chest, filled with all his most prized possessions.  If he was going to leave you, why would he leave all of that behind?”

Jen saw a small glimmer of hope dawn in Emma’s eye, but just as quickly it disappeared.  “I don’t know, but I’ve already told you.  I have to face the facts.  Holding on to false hope only hurts worse.”

Beside her, Henry furled his brow.  “Jen’s got a point, mom,” he said, Jen nodded in satisfaction. Maybe the Truest Believer was ready to work his (metaphorical) magic once more.  “Killian spent two hundred years trying to avenge my grandma Milah.  Once he loves someone, he loves them forever.”

There was that tiny spark of hope in her eyes once more.  It lasted longer this time before it faded. “But sometimes love is not enough.  Seems that’s the case with Hook.”

“Mom, he literally went to hell for you,” Henry said.  “You two were proven True Love.  When Zeus wanted to send Killian to his ultimate reward–to the place he truly belonged–he sent him back to you.  You really think he gave all of that up over an argument?”

Emma took a moment to think this over and seemed to be on the verge of responding when there was a brisk knock on the door, and a moment later David and Regina strolled in.

“Regina…what the hell?” Emma asked, getting to her feet.

“Your Charming father and I have been talking,” Regina said, “and we’ve come to the conclusion that you’re being an idiot.”

“I’d like to point out for the record, that that is not  the conclusion I came to,” David said with an exasperated glare in the direction of his step-mother-in-law.  “I said that I thought your pain might be clouding your judgment.”

“Technicalities,” Regina said with a wave of the hand.

Emma rolled her eyes.  “As much as I’m enjoying the bickering at my expense,” she drawled, “is there a point to your visit?”

“We were thinking,” David said, stepping forward.  “How many times in this town has a villain screwed with things and made circumstances seem different than they are in order to despirit the heroes and further their plan?  How can we be sure Gideon didn’t, I don’t know, do something to make Killian leave?”

There was that hope in Emma’s eyes once more, and this time it stubbornly refused to fade.  “Do you really think that could be the case?” she asked.

“Of course!” Henry said, “and we know what Gideon’s trying to do!  He’s trying to separate Emma from all her sources of support before the final battle!  It would be just like him to get rid of Killian, her true love.”

“But…” Emma said, starting to protest once more, but far more weakly this time.

“Emma he’s your True Love, and that’s a special kind of magic,” David said, placing his hands on her arms.  “Don’t you at least owe him–and yourself–trying to figure out for sure?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Emma said, “but how?  Forget why he left.  We don’t even know where he went.”

Jen stepped up, looking at Regina.  “It’s Christmas time.  Surely there’s some sort of…I don’t know…enchanted Christmas ornament ro something that can help us out.”

“I don’t know about an ornament,” Regina said slowly, “but there is the legend of the Christmas wreath.”

“What legend is that, mom?” Henry asked.

“Well the evergreen wreath is a symbol of everlasting love, right?” Regina asked.  “You know, evergreens never shedding their green needles, the circle the symbol of that with no beginning or end, all of that?”

Emma shrugged.

“Well, apparently, at Christmastime, the wreath has a special, even greater magic,” Regina says.  “The magic of the season enhances its True Love properties, and, in short, if someone is True Love, it’s said they will be able to see their True Love in it, assuming they adorn it with something meaningful belonging to said True Love.”

“One problem,” Emma said.  “I don’t have a wreath.”

“But Grandma and Grandpa do!” Henry said excitedly.  “They made it together and it’s on their door!  That could work, couldn’t it?”

Regina groaned.  “Given how utterly sickening their True Love is, I’d say a wreath they lovingly made together might be the perfect option.”

“And as for something meaningful to Killian,” Emma said, reaching into the trunk and grasping Liam’s ring, “I’ve got the perfect thing.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” David asked with a broad smile.  “Let’s get back to the loft!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I don’t see anything,” Emma said dejectedly several minutes later.

Regina had poofed them directly to the loft, and Emma had wasted no time in draping Liam’s ring over her parents’ wreath before staring into the center of it.

“You have to believe, Emma,” Regina said, “truly believe in the strength and everlasting nature of your love.  You need to put all doubts from your mind.”

Emma took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked back through the center of the wreath.  She gasped, hearing him before she saw him.

“Emma? Emma are you there? I didn’t mean to leave. I was on my way back to you and Gideon, he sent me away.”

Slowly the picture began to emerge from within the wreath.  Killian seemed to be in some exotic place, a place in the desert.  If Emma wasn’t mistaken, he was standing beside…was that Ariel?...and he was speaking into what looked like a seashell.

“Seems he’s trying to communicate via ‘shell’ phone,” David grinned. Regina groaned and Emma shushed them both, concentrating on what she was hearing from the wreath…or shell…or whatever the hell was happening.

“I would never leave you. Emma. He wanted me out of the way, and I love you. I don’t know if you can hear me but I’m trying to get home to you, and I won’t ever stop until I do.”

Tears of relief filled Emma’s eyes and spilled down over her cheeks. “Killian?” she answered.  

Through the wreath, she saw him start and look down in wonder at the shell in his hand.  “Emma?  You’re there?”

“I’m here,” she said tearfully.  “I hear you.  I love you too!”

“I’m trying desperately to get home to you,” he said.  “Christmas is tomorrow, and I couldn’t bear to spend it without you.  Do you have any suggestions?”

Emma looked around at Regina.  “Anything more to that wreath legend?” she asked.  “Can it, like, transport someone?”

“Well,” Regina said slowly, “I suppose it’s possible, if he could find a wreath of his own and something of yours to tether them together.  Maybe the wreath could bring him home.”

“Are you there, love?” Killian asked.

“He can’t hear you?” Emma asked Regina.  

She shrugged.  “Well he’s not my True Love.”

Emma rolled her eyes before telling Killian what Regina had just conveyed to her.  It was a matter of just a moment to get everything arranged.  As luck would have it, Ariel had, among her tremendous collection of random things, a Christmas wreath, and Killian was able to tether it to Emma’s by adding her engagement ring to its boughs.

There was a flash of Christmas lights, and then he was there, back in the room with them.

Jen held her breath, knowing what was coming, thrilled at the prospect of being a witness to it.  She pulled back to give them a bit of privacy, even if she had no intention of withdrawing entirely from a scene of such great importance to her very favorite fictional couple.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Killian said, taking her hand. “I should have told you what I did to your grandfather all those years ago, and I should never, never have even considered running away.

Jen noticed the tears in Emma’s eyes, her watery smile as she looked up at him. “It’s okay.  I didn’t exactly make it easy for you to tell me the truth.  Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She turned away, trying to pull him with her, but he held his ground.  “No,” he said, “no, there’s something I have to do before I get pushed into another portal and this time, I’m gonna do it the right way.”

Killian reached into his jacket pocket, wincing with the pain the movement caused his bruised body.  He pulled out the engagement ring and Jen noticed how brilliantly it shown in the light of the Christmas tree behind them.

“Swan,” he continued "I know that you face an uncertain future, but there’s one thing I want you to be certain of–that I will always, always be by your side.”  He sunk to one knee gazing up at her with every ounce of the love and adoration he felt for her. “So, Emma Swan, what do you say?  Will you marry me?”

While normally not nearly as exuberant as Krystal, it was only with great difficulty that Jen restrained herself from squealing.  The scene had been beautiful and romantic when she’d watched it on her TV screen–multiple times–but being there, in person–there were no words.

And then when Emma got to her knees beside him, took his face in her hands, gave him her yes and then kissed him tenderly, there was no way Jen could have held back her ecstatic sigh.

Neither Emma nor Killian, who were thoroughly engrossed with each other and cocooned in their love nor anyone else in the room heard or noticed as the snow swirled one last time to transport Jen back to the cabin.

[sippinggossip]

info anon here, I'm back to answer about Marta xxx

I just want to clarify before I say anything that what I'm about to write is based on rumors that were going around at the time and my own judgement of the situation. There aren't many facts since Marta has never discussed the topic publicly and Måneskin have only given a vague explanation on the reasons behind the rift.

As someone who was a fan at the time, the first time I heard rumors about them not getting along was during Sanremo 2021. At the time, I didn't believe there was any truth to them because they've always seemed extremely close to her, their relationship seemed to transcend the manager/ artist dynamic and be more similar to family...to understand what I mean, the summer before sanremo for example Damiano had posted a story for her birthday in which he was calling her mom. Vic would also regularly post photos with her and would often say in interviews and vlogs that Marta was like their mom. She even had a group chat with their actual parents for the first year of the band. So to my 2021 self, it seemed inconceivable that that relationship could ever fall apart.

But, in hindsight, not only I've come to believe that those rumors were true but also that, looking back, the issues probably started earlier.

Vent'anni, which was the first single from Teatro d'ira, wasn't really successful on the Italian charts, not for Måneskin's standards at least (even for their pre Eurovision standards). It didn't make it into the top 10 despite being their big come back single after 2 years of not releasing any new music (besides a collab with Francesca Michielin where they were the feautured artist and it didn't make any noise, it's kinda obvious maneskin only went for it because they shared a manager with her). For reference, every Italian single from "Il ballo della vita" had made it into the top 5 of the same chart.

I think their label wasn't pleased by this development. Keep in mind that a lot of money had been invested in maneskin even back then. The label had paid for them to go live in London for about half a year to get inspiration for Teatro d'ira which is something that doesn't really happen often in Italy for artists, let alone artists that at the time were barely 20 years old and had had roughly 2 years of professional career (and that's including the Xfactor) and only one really successful album.

Marta wasn't really on board with them making a pure rock album (we know that for sure because they've talked about it too on interviews they did post-breakup) and, again, it's easy to criticize her for that when you don't know the musical reality in Italy. Rock doesn't sell here and maneskin weren't established enough yet for someone to feel confident that the risk they were taking was going to pay off. And after Vent'anni failed to reach the heights of the commercial success the rest of their singles had had, it indeed seemed the risk wasn't paying off.

So she discouraged them from participating in Sanremo with Zitti e Buoni (something maneskin have also confirmed in interviews). Again, obviously a misjudgement on her part in hindsight. But that's the key word: in hindsight. If you asked anyone before Sanremo started that year if maneskin had any chance to win with that kind of song, they'd all tell you no. No one was predicting they'd even reach the top 10. And they've said too that they participated with zero expectations since never before a song like Zitti e Buoni had won.

After they did win though and Marta was proved wrong on the matter, the glass was broken because it seemed that especially Damiano didn't respect her anymore, he thought that since his take on this one thing had been right and hers had been wrong, that meant he had the ultimate insight into well, everything.

And that was when he stopped listening to her about how he was supposed to handle his image in general.

It's important to know that Marta has a very specific policy about all her artists' personal lives: she doesn't believe in them being public. She doesn't want the gossip to overshadow their work. So, for years, Damiano had to keep his relationship with Giorgia a secret.

Of course, if you just paid a little attention you'd know she was his girlfriend, they were posting the same cats, they were going out normally. But there weren't any Instagram posts, paparazzi pics, he wouldn't talk about his personal life on interviews and when anyone asked about his relationship status he'd give vague answers. That was the case with the rest of the members too, he just seemed the most discontent with it after a while. Also, in his defense, the press in Italy didn't care much about the personal lives of the other 3 so he was the only one who had to deal with constant questions and rumors.

So, the week before Eurovision Damiano, out of the blue, posted an old photo of him and Giorgia on Instagram with the caption "after 4 years, we can finally say it no?" which a lot of fans interpreted as a dig towards Marta. That move was the exact opposite of everything Marta believed in because suddenly every article about maneskin days before the most important competition of their career, was about Damiano and Giorgia. And, well, 2 weeks later Marta was fired and Damiano is the only one who unfollowed her on Instagram.

So, in my opinion, it was a combination of things that led to her being fired. I think Feraguzzo offered må more creative freedom but also freedom regarding their personal lives and the choice to each handle it the way the saw fit without any interference. Marta was a bit bossy in many topics, for example there weren't any friends or girlfriends travelling around with them on tour, she wanted them to be focused without any distractions, so their friends would only attend the Rome shows and that was it. Probably as they grew up and weren't teenagers anymore they started to feel suffocated by her limitations.

Also before anyone comes for me, I'm not blaming her being fired exclusively on Damiano. It's just my impression that the others, while they did have some issues with her too, would've been willing to try and work them out while Damiano wasn't, he had reached his limit and wanted her gone. And the others stuck with him because ofc for the band and for them on a personal level, Damiano was more important than Marta.

Welcome back!

Interesting.

[jamiebamberdaily]

Total TV Guide Interview - Issue 12 [18-24 March 2023]

Tap/click 'Keep Reading' to view the transcript.

Death In Paradise spin-off Beyond Paradise has given us the chance to see DI Humphrey Goodman (Kris Marshall) relocate from Saint Marie to be with his fiancée Martha Lloyd (Sally Bretton) in her hometown of Shipton Abbott, on the Devonshire coast.

While Humphrey works with the local police, Martha has fulfilled her dream of opening Ten Mile Kitchen. But their happy ever after hit an unexpected bump in the road with the arrival of Archie Hughes, Martha’s new business partner - and ex-fiancée! ‘Archie doesn’t want to intrude,’ says Jamie Bamber. ‘But actually, it’s Martha and Humphrey who have walked into his world. Archie belongs there and has made a successful career. She’s the one that who went away.’

The owner of three vineyards, Archie became Martha’s saviour on the eve of the café’s opening after she ran into financial difficulties. Now he's involved in the business. And this week when a food critic reviews the eaterie, he hints at a bond between the pair. ‘Archie’s slightly egotistic side is flattered that a stranger can see their chemistry and he quite enjoys that affirmation, in a male pride kind of way. He’s got nothing in life that’s out of place - until he sees Marta again and realises that maybe this is the one thing he got wrong. But she is so in love with Humph, so that’s complicated. In any story you need obstacles and Archie is an obstacle to them.’

For Jamie, joining the series was a joy. ‘I haven’t done any shows, before, that the whole family can sit down to on a Friday evening. This is deliberately a broad audience. There’s a great whodunnit, the denouement is different from your average TV closed-room murders as the crimes are a bit more inventive.’

With Archie being a vineyard owner, did Jamie brush up on his wine knowledge? ‘Actually, when I was a student, I worked in a fine wine shop in London. I’ve also lived in France and travelled around and visited a few vineyards. For me, wine is a metaphor for having your feet in the soil. It can be overblown and overcomplicated and made fancy but fundamentally, wine is a crop and that’s a great analogy for Archie. He’s a simple bloke who’s got quite a sophisticated lifestyle because of the means he has.’

While Devon an Cornwall is a beautiful part of the world, are there any regrets there was no trip to Guadeloupe? ‘Funnily enough, I’d been offered to do Death In Paradise before but it didn’t work with my schedules. Maybe Archie can go there on holiday?’

Jamie himself is very well-travelled. Last year, he filed a police show, Cannes Confidential in France. An English language drama, he’s currently dubbing into French, and he’s also made a thriller in Barcelona for Netflix, reuniting him with Strike Back’s writer, Jack Lothian. But his next trip is closer to home to celebrate his 50th birthday in April. ‘I really wanted a parted, but it’s a big year on lots of fronts for my family. So we’re going to Ireland. I’ve got family over here, so I’ll be catching up with cousins in Northern Ireland, a bit of Dublin, the Antrim coast, some golf, maybe some Guinness, some Bushmills and seeing the Irish countryside.’

[browneyesandhair]

Hey! It's ya girl!

I got no chill and a large obsession with a lot of things. So this year, I'm tracking it! (three red wine glasses in, let's goo!). Okay, so this year, is the year of recs! (you may have seen some of my posts, but I also have an extensive queue, so maybe not (check out the #recs on my page)).

Anyways, I've created a collection for this year overall and then also for each month! Let's check out January's stats -

Works read (&finished): 72

Fandoms (top 8):

1 - The Vampire Diaries: 17

2 - Bridgerton: 16

3 - Harry Potter: 14

4 - Teen Wolf: 12

5 - PJO: 4

6 - Knives Out: 4

7 - ATLA: 1

8- Star Trek: 1

The rest didn't make the first drop down section of AO3, so oh well! Let's check in on relationships (top 10):

1 - Klaroline: 17

2 - Polin: 16

3 - Stydia: 8

4- Percabeth: 4

5 - Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale: 4

6 - Eloise & Penelope: 4

7 - Harmione: 3

8 - Jily: 3

9 - Tomione: 3

10 - Sterek: 3

Only one add to my recs list:

patron (saints/tequila) by DollyPop, hi_im_august

Summary:

Honestly? She can think of considerably worse ways to spend the last dregs of her birthday than being escorted home by a guardian angel wearing a Slipknot t-shirt.

Notes: wow! Okay - warning this is a Polin modern AU, so if that's not for you keep scrolling. But hot diggity dog, this story was so fun and such a delight to read, I'm obsessed. 10/10 random fandom girlies recommend.

Alright, that's all folks (mostly), for fun, here are the top 10 additional tags from the stories that I read in January:

1 - Alternate Universe (15)

2 - Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence (12)

3 - Alternate Universe - Modern Setting (10)

4 - Fluff (8)

5 - Angst (8)

6 - Slow Burn (8)

7 - Hurt/Comfort (5)

8 - Cunnilingus (4)

9 - Rough Sex (4)

10 - friends to lovers (4)

Yay! You made it to the end! That means you get cookies (please go find/eat/buy a Snickerdoodle on me, if you knew my venmo, I would pay any requests for a Snickerdoodle cookie out.)

[captain-aralias]

Aralias's fic year in review, 2022

not going to write anything new in the next 3 days, so here's my 2022 round-up. thanks @dragoneggos for tagging me into yours <3

fics i wrote alone:

Restoration Ecology - Explicit, 51k

Hopelessly Miscast - Explicit, 24k

We all fall down - Mature, 18k, based on art by @technetiumai

Thank Magic (Thank Niamh) - Explicit, Brobelove, 2.5k

Unintended - Teen, 47k, based on art by @asticou

Work It - Explicit, 4k

Simon Snow and the Third Gate - Teen, 5k, Unpublished, with art by @cutestkilla

7 fics of which 6 published, 151.5k words

fics i wrote with others:

We Were Always More - Teen, 9k (5k? mine), with @facewithoutheart

Call Me Maybe - Teen, 12k (<1k mine), with @forabeatofadrum

Shiver - Mature, 8k (<1k mine), with @facewithoutheart

Birthday Man - Explicit, 38k (<1k mine), with the Carry On Discord, join here

Seven Minutes - Mature, 6.5k (3k mine), with @facewithoutheart

about 8k mine - in total, call it 160k words this year.

some questions under the cut

although first, in a break from tradition, i thought i'd play back what i said i was going to write in 2022 at the end of 2021:

finish restoration ecology. 

some sort of smut for dem. 

???

might be time to write my vampire simon fic, not sure. the moment might have passed, and i might push it back and push it back until once again it doesn’t happen. 

i was thinking i’d quite like to write a thing where they get together at watford and it’s not because magic made them do it… and it’s not 50k+ words long, either. there have to be other ways. 

maybe some more experiments, like - i like the idea of them becoming friends after watford not boyfriends. a. few people started writing this and it’s interesting and fun - i dont have an idea for it. 

i do have an idea for the agatha-baz bodyswap. i guess i might write that. nothing the people like more than dubcon het sex, am i right?? (i mean, maybe some people). i’m trying to not think about this story until marta posts hers, and until i’ve written restoration ecology - see above. but yeah, i feel like there’s some quite significant impetus behind this one in my brain… (magic made them do it at watford, eh? it’s my favourite.)

(full 2021 answers)

i failed at vampire simon - that's basically never going to happen. i didn't write a watford get together that wasn't about magic, but i DID write a friends to lovers, the agatha-baz bodyswap, and restoration ecology! so - i consider that a win.

Best/worst title?

best title is 'Restoration Ecology', although i'm also a big fan of 'Shiver' - which i did not come up with. worst title is 'Thank Magic, Thank Niamh' - like RE, it’s a quote from the text, but one works on multiple levels, the other is just.... to do with niamh? i mean, i tried a bit harder than that. it's kind of to do with how agatha prefers niamh to magic, and that's the point of the story.... but yeah. it's poor. sorry brobelove.

also - no offense discord, but 'birthday man' is a bizarre title 😂 it absolutely makes sense in context, but seems weird before you read the fic. (i wrote the summary of this fic, which is why it's super generic like all of mine)

Best/worst summary?

all the summaries i wrote this year are at least all right! the brobelove one is actively good (phew). the best is probably restoration ecology again, although someone told me at some point they were worried about reading it in case baz really had ruined simon's life at some point (that was just simon being dramatic in the summary, it's ok).

'We all fall down' has a classic aralias-friendly summary i.e. [quote sets up normal situation] ; [now something else is happening]. it's elegant and (i think) intriguing, and only doesn't get to be the best summary of the year because it's so reminiscent of every snowbaz hanahaki summary ever...

Baz has been hopelessly in love with Simon Snow for years, he thought it was killing him. Now it really is.

worst - Work It is clearly phoned in (though it does the job). but i'm going to go for a surprise choice of the 'Unintended' summary, which i never really liked. it describes the premise of the fic but not very elegantly. i think i wrote it in the few hours before posting chapter 1, which is usually not a good sign.

Best/worst first line?

excluding the ones i didn't write...

best is probably 'Well. This is Awkward' - from the brobelove, although 'Friendship is magic' (Unintended) is also good fun and plays off later, obvs, in a way i totally planned...

also, a shout out to 'Call Me Maybe':

By the time I get off the plane, I already have three missed calls from Penelope and a voicemail.

i thought that was a good beginning.

worst - 'There’s music playing when I get home.' (Work It)

interestingly, that beginnning is also dull... on purpose. as i was thinking 'i always open fics in media res, lemme do something different. so this sentence has nothing to do with the rest of the fic (except that the music is 'work it', i guess) unlike all my other first lines. and it ends up on the worst first line podium! harsh.

Best/worst last line?

best - “I’m Agatha Wellbelove.” (Hopelessly Miscast)

boom! i dont know if people even noticed the chapter titles, i tend not to notice chapter titles, but this is a call back to that, as well as her feeling so secure in her own body. that's why it gets top spot even though i wrote a few not-crap endings this year. (n.b. for new readers, i tend to dislike my endings/writing endings.)

i really really like the ending of 'We Were Always More' - i wrote this kiss for simon way earlier in the narrative and then thought 'wait, this is classic ending material', and it works super well. even 'Work It', which is kind of doomed to be the fic that isn't as good as most of the others... has a solid ending.

i wrote a crap ending for 'We all fall down' - but fixed it at the last minute!! 'Spring's come early' works.

'restoration ecology'............. would probably end up in last place (what???) because it's a classic lazy aralias ending, but i've just remembered Third Gate fizzles out much much more obviously at the moment, so - that's the worst.

i still have time to make that one work, though.

Looking back, did you write more fics than you thought you would this year, less than you thought, or about what you predicted?

interestingly, the answer is - far far fewer fics.... than i thought i had written this year/than i thought i would write. but quite a few more words than i usually write, despite that.

i wrote.... 4 big chunky fics of which 2 were very chunky.

and clearly - see above - the content was approximately what i predicted! although i had no idea it would fall out like this.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted last year?

brobelove is the obvious answer here - although the fact that it's queer means that it's not so unlikely - particularly after i ended up spending so much time with agatha in 'hopelessly miscast'.

i didn't expect that fic to end up so much about her, either.

What’s your favourite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest.

i answered this question recently, the answer is 'restoration ecology' :) but as i say, lots of good stories this year, i thought.

Okay, NOW your most popular story.

RE is still more popular than 'Unintended' but maybe not forever.

Story most underappreciated by the universe?

hmm.... maybe 'work it' but it's a throwaway wingfic, so i feel like it got the attention it deserved.

Call Me Maybe is probably the answer - it's genuinely BRILLIANT, i was overwhelmed when i saw what had been done with this premise. i wrote the opening, so it's my fault if people are not being sucked in. and i know it's because it's agatha gen fic but i would love more people to read it.

Story that could have been better?

'work it' - but did it need to be much better? i mean, i definitely rushed the end/the sex, because the deadline was approaching...... but there is sex. and there are wings.

the beginning of 'restoration ecology' still bugs me, too. so much exposition - it only gets good when they're having sex. and then there's exposition again, and we have to wait for the sex again.

Sexiest story?

i only really wrote porn this year... and 'unintended'! probably the answer is 'restoration ecology', although if you like strap-ons, and who doesn't, perhaps you would like the brobelove.

Saddest story?

usually i have no answer for this, but ...... actually i think arguably 'restoration ecology' OR 'we all fall down' qualify, even though i can't really sustain angst without wanting to put in some jokes and simon saying 'everything's going to be ok now'.

restoration ecology is about healing, so it has to start fairly bleak and hopeless - and i think baz's breakdown is pretty sad, even though by the time we know about it, everything's basically ok for him.

meanwhile 'we all fall down' is about how baz is dying beautifully and simon can't love him ..... it definitely is the winner of this category, even though as i recall it, they mostly spend time holding hands and talking about how much they like each other. so it's not that sad.

Most fun?

'we were always more'! aka amnesia baz. how could anything else be the winner when i got to write a baz who purrs and wets flannels for simon? facewithoutheart is a writer of extreme range, but one end of that range is being extremely funny, and this set up is all her.

Story with single sweetest moment?

not sure....... my instinct says it's one of these:

1 - restoration ecology, partners. “Is that better, sweetheart?” (btw, i like that i just dropped these endearments in without comment and we have to wait a whole chapter for simon to tell us he's in love with baz)

2 - we all fall down, “It did work,” I agree. “Which means my father and stepmother were bound in holy matrimony by Buzz Lightyear.” although the sex is very reminscent of what i like about the Wales sex in RE

3 - Unintended chapter 5: Baz smiles. Swallows. Presses his forehead against mine. “Then marry me.”

Hardest story to write?

i find it very amusing that last year i was whinging about restoration ecology, but by the time i was doing the ao3 wrapped ask meme this month i'd forgotten it was hard to write at the beginning. it was hard. but then it was easy for the end.

this year's hardest story was.......... Simon Snow and the Third Gate.

it's not it's fault - it had too much plot, no romance arc (although i accidentally made baz the second main character despite saying i wouldnt) and i was in deep pregnancy first trimester tiredness.

'Unintended' also took months longer than i wanted it to. first chapter was quite easy, but later chapters where simon was more in his feels took.... more than the 2 weeks-per-chapter that i wanted them to take. a lot more.

Easiest/most fun story to write?

since i've remembered RE was a ballache at the beginning, gotta be 'Hopelessly Miscast'. i wrote a chapter of that a week, i think, and it's genuinely really good! i enjoyed it a lot.

'birthday man' was also really easy - i was a bit worried about it, but it's so free-ing to know that you don't need to finish what you started, and by the time i wrote anything, i felt confident enough not to have to write that much either. (by which i mean: there was a bit of me that wanted to be like 'is my bit the best??' which would have stressed me out. what i actually wrote is not the best bit, it's a bridge. but it's fine. i enjoyed writing it.)

Did any stories shift your perceptions of the characters?

'hopelessly miscast' made me think i could write agatha and really enjoy it. that's almost certainly why i ended up writing the strap-on fic later.

Most overdue story?

'Unintended' - it wasn't really overdue, but i wanted it to be finished months earlier than it was. but i think it was ok. it gave time for asticou to make art, which was lovely.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?

yes! there was that bit in the middle of the year where i signed up for too many things. two CORBs and WIP fest - it was probably too much, but i like all the things we made! so i guess i learned - it's fine?

my other major risks were things like saying 'i don't know if i can keep posting every week!!' from this i learned - i can do it. for a while. but not always - i shouldn't beat myself up for 'unintended' not being written in 5 weeks.

the other major risk i thought i took was writing the baz-as-agatha sex. i think if i'd been less established as a writer in this fandom i would have been more worried about how it would go down. as it was, i was still a bit worried, but i also put up the framework of consent early on, and people were so nice about chapter 1 that it turned out fine. i feel other people have done lots more risque things this year than anyone has done so far (this is not really up there) - and it's been good! well done, fandom.

This year’s theme and the story that demonstrates it most:

i can think of two obvious ones.

the first is - collaboration!!! i barely wrote any collab stuff before this year, and yet this post has a huge list of things i either wrote with other people, or wrote based off art. i'm going to choose 'Seven Minutes' as the exemplar (even though it's probably 'Birthday Man') because it's the one that i asked to do, off the back of all the other collaborations going really well.

the other theme i noticed this year is ........ they aren't together but they're still kissing/having sex from almost the beginning of the story. i dont know whether there's a better name for that, but i didn't do it on purpose. i just like a slow burn AND for there to be sex. now i've noticed it, you'd think i would try and stop, but the only fic i know for sure that i will write next year is exactly this.

it's also a collaboration :)

What are your fic writing goals for next year?

let's keep it simple.

i want to:

a) fix up the ending of Third Gate b) write the strangers to lovers fic for/with @krisrix

if i do nothing else before the baby in May, but i do those two things, then we'll be ok.

otherwise, twigs_in_my_hair and i will hopefully write something together, watford era, her idea, but it's right up my street.

i think anything else is probably too ambitious! but if there's something you'd like me to write, or you want to work on something together, please do ask - i might say it's not possible or a project is not for me, but at the moment it feels like a good way to get me to possibly write! (and collaborating works well, as it means there's definitely someone to bounce ideas off/i know i have someone to pick up the slack if necessary.)

see y'all in 2023!

[alexbkrieger13]

it's marta torrejón birthday today, Caro said my girl is not spending her birthday alone, injury is just cover story

😅.

[kmomof4]

To Sir Graham, With Love Ch. 3

An early posting for ch3!!! Hubs and I are heading out of town for the weekend to celebrated our anniversary, and I didn't want Marta to have to wait until we got back for an update!! Thank you so much for reading and sharing! I hope you enjoy and I'd love to know what you think!

Thank you again to @jrob64 and @whimsicallyenchantedrose for beta and sounding board duties, and also to @motherkatereloyshipper for the GORGEOUS banner!!!

And finally, happy birthday again, @snowbellewells!!! I hope you enjoy this chapter!!!

Summary: After a year long secret correspondence, twenty-eight year old spinster Ruby Jones decides to accept Sir Graham Humbert's offer of a visit to see if they might suit for marriage. Unfortunately, he failed to mention that he was the father of twins, and they are not thrilled with Ruby's appearance.

Rating: M (for smut in later chs and mentions of physical abuse)

Words: Approx 8800 of 68k

Tags: Red Hunter Fic, Birthday Fic, Inspired by Eloise Bridgerton's Story, Smut

On ao3 From Beginning / Current Ch

On Tumblr Prologue Ch1 Ch2

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615

@donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza

@djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic

@anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling

@caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite

@captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose

@thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones

@mie779 @kymbersmith-90 @suwya @veryverynotgoodwrites @myfearless-love 

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

… implore you, Mother, you MUST punish Belle. It is NOT FAIR that I am the only one sent to bed without pudding. And for a week! A week is far too long. Especially since it was all mostly Belle’s idea.

– from Ruby Jones to her mother, left upon Alice Jones’s night table during Ruby’s tenth year

~*~*~

… have never been so bored in my entire life. David, you must come home. It is interminably boring without you, and I don’t think I can bear such boredom another moment. Please do return, for I have clearly begun to repeat myself, and nothing could be more of a bore.

– from Ruby Jones to her older brother, David, during her fifth season as a debutante, sent (but never received) while David was traveling in Denmark.

~*~*~*~*~*~

How could so much change in a single day? Ruby thought. Not long after arriving - just this morning, Ruby realized with a start - she’d been convinced that she’d made a dreadful mistake, but now, as they strolled through Romney Hall, ostensibly to view the portraits in the gallery, but which she knew was actually just prolonging their time together, she was almost convinced that he would make a fine husband after all.

He was obviously quite handsome. He was tall and lean with a chiseled face that reminded her of some of the works of art she’d seen in the British Museum. His blue eyes were piercing and his boyish curls simply begged for her fingers to run through them. But besides that, he’d been quite a pleasant dinner companion, though not as loquacious as she was used to. He’d accepted, and even admired, her fish-in-the-bed treatment of Ava, proving he had an innate sense of fairness, which to her was quite essential in a potential husband, and for whatever reason, he’d handled Ava’s understandable tantrum with aplomb, which after the confrontation this morning when she’d arrived, was a bit surprising.

They stood now in the hall, his large hand gently holding her elbow, and she was quite simply enveloped in his presence. It was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, but gratifying as well. She’d taken a gamble on her future and she appeared to have won. Nothing would have been worse than coming back to London, her tail between her legs, and explaining to her family what she’d done. 

Ruby hated to be wrong. 

She hated even more to admit that she was wrong. 

Especially to herself.

But in this case, she didn’t appear to be wrong. 

Perhaps this could work. He wasn’t a complete stranger, after all. They had been corresponding for over a year.

“My grandfather,” Graham said, gesturing vaguely at a large portrait she could hardly see in the low light. 

Ruby nodded. “Is that your father?” she asked, nodding at the portrait on the right.

That was all it took for Graham to tense up - his shoulders and the corners of his lips tightening, the lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced as he nodded sharply.

“And where are you?” she asked, quickly realizing Graham had no wish to talk about his father.

“Over here,” he replied, leading them some distance away from where they stood. They came to a stop before a medium sized portrait of two boys - the older a young teen, the younger a couple of years behind.

“What happened to him?” Graham was obviously the younger and wouldn’t have inherited Romney Hall and the Baronet if his brother still lived.

“Waterloo.” No other explanation was needed. 

Ruby nodded and turned to him. He stood staring at the portrait, profound sadness in his eyes that Ruby couldn’t help responding to.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

A small sigh escaped his lips, but his gaze didn’t waver. “No one was sorrier than I,” he whispered.

“What was his name?”

“George.”

“You must have been quite young,” she observed, thinking back to 1815 and doing the math.

“Twenty-one,” he replied.

It was odd, Ruby reflected. At twenty-one she was expected to be married and running her own household. But now, nearing thirty, she thought it was awfully young and green to be thrust into responsibilities he never expected to have.

“My father died two weeks later.”

Ruby gasped in dismay. To lose a brother and a father so closely together must have been terribly difficult for Graham to endure.

“Here’s a portrait of Jacinda with the children,” he said, motioning to the other side of the room. It had been many, many years since she’d seen her cousin, but she still recognized her, the darker skin tone, the dark eyes with a sadness in them that was utterly foreign to Ruby then and heartbreaking to see now. With a much younger Nicholas by her side and Ava sitting on her lap, Ruby would have hoped that her eyes would reflect the joy of having two beautiful children, but no, her eyes still held the same emptiness and sadness that had so baffled her when they were children together.

“She was lovely,” Ruby said quietly. “The children must miss her.”

Graham nodded. “They’ve missed her for a long time.”

Ruby thought that was a rather odd way of phrasing it. “I know how they feel. I was very young when my father died.”

“I didn’t realize,” he said, turning to her.

“It’s not something I talk about all that much,” she replied with a half shrug. “It was a long time ago.”

“Did it take you very long to get over it?” 

Ruby considered her words before answering, quite aware that the question wasn’t simply referring to her. “I’m not sure it’s something you ever fully get over,” she said, “completely, anyway. There will always be moments that you wish they could have been there to see and experience with you. But if you’re asking if I still think of my father every day, the answer is no, I don’t.”

Graham didn’t look away and Ruby finally turned to face him. They were still a respectable distance apart, but the darkness of the room and the intimacy of the conversation had a chill running down her spine. The blue of his eyes was spellbinding, and Ruby could almost feel his gaze as a physical touch on the apple of her cheek, along her jaw, and down the long line of her neck. 

“Ruby?” His voice was a whisper, and it broke the spell she was under. She took a small step back and searched for something, anything, to say in response.

“My brothers!” The words burst out of her mouth. “Especially Liam. He’s the oldest. It affected him much more than it did me. They were very close. And my mother, as well. They loved each other very much.”

“How did she react to his passing?”

“She cried a lot in the beginning,” Ruby said softly. “I’m quite sure we weren’t meant to hear. It was always late at night after she supposed we were all asleep. She missed him desperately, and it couldn’t have been easy with seven children.”

“Seven?” Graham asked. “I thought there were eight of you.”

“Tilly wasn’t yet born,” she informed him. “Mother must have been about eight months along.”

Good God, she thought she heard him breathe. Good God, indeed. She had no idea how her mother had managed.

“He was stung by a bee,” she continued. “Can you imagine?” A small sigh escaped her lips as she looked around the room. It always left her a little melancholy to speak about her father, but now, talking about him to a virtual stranger in a room filled with portraits of dead people, she wanted to leave. Immediately. 

“May I see your greenhouse?” she asked abruptly, turning back to face him.

“Now?” he asked, his voice filled with surprise.

Well, she shouldn’t have been surprised; it was dark outside, after all. “In the morning then, when we’ll be able to see.”

A bemused yet indulgent smile was on his lips. “We can go now,” he said. “The moon is full and we’ll take a lantern.”

She returned his smile. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’d like that very much.”

He held out his elbow to her, and she took it, allowing him to lead her out into the night.

“It’s so warm!” she exclaimed some minutes later as he shut the door of the greenhouse behind them.

“It’s usually warmer than this,” he said. “The glass traps the heat from the sun to warm the air, allowing plants native to much warmer climes to grow and thrive, and aside from today, it’s been rather overcast lately.”

Graham often toiled in his greenhouse at night when he couldn’t sleep. Even during the day, he rarely had anyone with him, preferring to work alone, but now he found that he was seeing the greenhouse through Ruby’s eyes, and it was mesmerizing. The moonlight fell on the leaves and fronds of the plants he knew and loved so well, creating an otherworldly hush that was almost indescribable. During the day, the greenhouse wasn’t that different from almost any wooded place in England, but under the light of the moon, it was enchanting and mysterious, as if he moved his head quickly enough, he might catch a glimpse of a fairy, leaving a trail of magic in her wake. 

“What is this?” she asked, looking at a row of pots on his workbench.

His smile was ridiculously wide, exceptionally pleased that she seemed truly curious about his work. Most people feigned interest and looked for a quick escape.

“It’s an experiment I’m working on with peas,” he informed her.

“The kind we eat?”

He nodded. “I’ve been trying to develop a strain that will grow fatter in the pod.”

“Really!” she exclaimed, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “I had no idea that could be done.”

He shrugged. “I have no idea if it can be done, either. I’ve been trying for a year.”

“With no success? How very frustrating!”

“I’ve had some success,” he admitted. “Just not as much as I’d like.”

“I tried to grow roses one year,” she said. “They all died.”

“Roses are not easy to cultivate.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “You have a lot of roses.”

“I also have a gardener,” he informed her amusedly.

“A botanist with a gardener?”

He shrugged. “It’s no different than a dressmaker with a seamstress.”

She considered that for a moment before nodding decisively and turning away from him, heading deeper into the greenhouse and scolding him for not keeping up with her with the lantern.

“You’re a bit bossy, this evening,” he said, an amused smile on his lips.

She smirked back at him. “I prefer the term ‘managing.’”

“A managing type of female, huh?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t deduce as much from my letters.” She tossed the words over her shoulder to him flirtatiously and he responded in kind.

“Why do you think I invited you?” He continued to follow her until she came to an abrupt stop and turned to him.

“You want someone to manage your life?” she asked, a bit breathlessly, he thought. He wanted someone to manage his children, but he didn’t think now was a good time to bring them up. Not when she was looking at him like that. Like she wanted…

Like she wanted to be kissed.

“May I kiss you?” he whispered. He would have stopped if she’d shown any hesitation, but her gorgeous green eyes were lit by the moon and there was nothing but wonder and acceptance and desire in them. “May I?” he asked again.

She nodded, a tiny, but sure thing. He lowered his head and simply brushed his lips against hers, the way one should kiss a woman one thought about marrying. But then her arms stole around him and her fingers brushed his neck, and he was lost.

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer, closer, closer, until her body fully lined up with his. His tongue touched the seam of her lips and she opened, allowing him full access to explore all the hidden depths of her mouth, and he took full advantage, drawing soft mewling sounds from her that he swallowed with more kisses. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

He wanted to feel her. All of her. His hands ran up and down her back, until one boldly reached the curve of her bottom. He pressed her against him, not caring that she’d be able to clearly feel his desire for her. It had been so long, so damned long, and she was so soft and responsive in his arms, hesitantly at first, but then answering his passion with her own. She gasped, her head falling back and Graham took the invitation to pepper her jaw and the long line of her neck with his ardor. 

He’d begun working his way down, over her collarbone toward the neckline of the gown she wore when she pulled away from him.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, her hands flying to where he’d last kissed her.

“I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her eyes widened at his bluntness. But he’d never been particularly good with words and it was probably better that she learned this now.

“It… it was a figure of speech,” she stammered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I was sorry,” she repeated, shrugging one shoulder, her eyes wide and guileless, confusing him further. “It was a figure of speech. I’m not really.”

She sounded rather flustered to his ears, and he couldn’t help the surge of male pride that he’d brought her to this state.

“It’s something one might say to fill the silence,” she continued. 

Graham was beginning to realize that Ruby didn’t like silence. He kissed her again. “You know, silence is sometimes a good thing.”

Her mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. “Are you saying I talk too much?”

He shrugged, the corner of his lips lifted in a smirk, having much too much fun teasing her.

“I’ll have you know, I have been much quieter here than I normally am,” she informed him haughtily.

He wrapped his arms around her again and smiled. “We need a bit of noise around here.”

~*~*~

Ruby woke the next morning feeling wonderful. As if she was still wrapped up in a dream. A dream of a completely unexpected kiss.

A dream of enjoying a completely unexpected kiss far more than she thought she would.

Her stomach reminded her of the lateness of the hour and she decided to make her way down to the breakfast room. She had no idea if Sir Graham would be there or not. Was he the kind of man who rose with the sun? Or did he prefer to lay abed until noon? It seemed rather odd that she didn’t know something like this about a man she was seriously contemplating marrying.

And if he was there - waiting for her to join him to break their fast together - what would she say to him? What did one say to a man who’d licked one’s neck as if it were a delectable frozen treat? It was quite beyond scandalous.

What if she got there and could barely get out a good morning? He’d surely find that very amusing after his teasing her last night. It nearly made her laugh out loud. Ruby Jones - who could carry on a conversation about anything and nothing, and frequently did - not knowing what she was going to say to Sir Graham Humbert when next she saw him.

Of course, he had kissed her, and that changed everything.

Once dressed, she crossed the room, ready to leave, making sure her door was still tightly shut. She didn’t think the twins would try the same trick twice, but she wasn’t willing to place a large amount of trust in the thought. Honestly, after using a fish, she expected they were devising a more slimy or smelly retribution.

Humming softly to herself, she emerged into the hallway and headed toward the stairs. She was in a good mood since the sun had been peeking out from behind the clouds, making the day seem filled with promise…

“OH!”

The cry ripped out of her as she plunged forward, her foot caught back behind her, wrapped in something strung between two pieces of furniture. She had no chance to try and maintain her balance. She’d been walking quickly, as she was wont to do, and never saw the string reaching across the hall until it was too late. She didn’t even have the time to break her fall with her hands.

Tears burned her eyes. Her chin - dear God, her chin - her chin felt like it was on fire. She’d just been able to turn her head to the side before she landed, but the side of her face had taken the brunt of the fall, and Ruby couldn’t keep the incoherent whimpers of severe pain inside. She waited for the pain to fade, like it did when one stubbed one’s toe. The pain would take your breath away for a moment, but then would fade until it was nothing more than a dull ache. But the pain was not fading at all. Her chin, the side of her face, her elbow, hip, and knee were such a cacophony of agony, that she could do nothing more than lie there until she could draw breath without wanting to scream in anguish.

She felt as if she’d been beaten.

“Ruby!”

Graham. She couldn’t even look up, still trying to control her breathing and not willing to move from her curled up position.

“Ruby, my God!” he cried, taking the last few steps in one giant stride until he reached her side. “What happened?”

“I fell.” She tried not to whimper, she truly did, but it came out anyway.

His actions full of tenderness, he pulled her hand away from her face. The words that fell from his lips once he got a good look at it were not words Ruby was accustomed to hearing.

“You need a piece of meat on that,” he said grimly. 

“Is it very bruised?”

He nodded. “You may have a blackened eye as well; it’s too soon to tell.” She tried to smile, but it was just too painful to manage. “Does it hurt very badly?” he asked softly.

She nodded, a single tear finally falling down her cheek. It reminded her of a time when she was very small and fell out of a tree. She’d sprained her ankle quite badly, but hadn’t cried until she got home to her mother.

Graham touched her cheek gingerly, but pulled away with a scowl on his face when she winced. “What happened?” he asked again.

And of course she knew exactly what had happened. The twins had strung a piece of string across the hallway for her to trip over. But one look at Graham’s face and she almost considered holding her tongue. She didn’t think they meant to cause quite so much harm.

But she didn’t need to say a single word. He’d obviously already seen the piece of string, and without taking his eyes off of hers, he’d twisted it around his pointer finger until it snapped in two. He didn’t seem aware of it - his strength, nor the strength of his anger.

“Sir Graham,” she whispered, but it was clear he didn’t hear her.

“Nicholas! Ava!” he bellowed.

“I’m sure they didn’t mean to injure me,” Ruby tried, quite sure that any punishment coming from their father while he was in this state would be far more painful for them than what she’d mete out.

“I don’t care what they meant!” he snapped. “Look how close to the stairs you were! What if you’d fallen down them?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to her, and now that she really looked, she had fallen dangerously close to them.

“They must answer for this.” His voice was low, and shaking with rage.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. And she would. In a few days. The agony was finally starting to fade, but she still cried out softly when Graham picked her up in his arms.

“You’re going straight to bed,” he bit out. She offered no disagreement. 

A maid arrived, a dismayed gasp escaping her when she saw Ruby’s bruised face. “Get me something for this,” Graham ordered. “A piece of meat, anything.” She nodded and quickly disappeared.

“Does anything else hurt?” he asked, as he laid her on top of the coverlet.

“My elbow. Hip. And knee,” she admitted.

“Do you think anything is broken?”

“Oh, no!” she assured him quickly, shaking her head as well. “I’m sure…”

“I’ll need to check anyway,” he interrupted her, cradling her arm in his hands as he gently examined it.

“Sir Graham!” she protested.

“My children nearly killed you,” he growled, but with no real heat in it. “I think we can dispose of the Sir.” He finished his examination and moved to the door of her bedchamber, his stride powerful and full of purpose. “Get me the twins immediately,” he barked to some servant who must have been hovering in the hall. She couldn’t imagine they hadn’t heard his earlier summons, but she also didn’t blame them for attempting to delay judgment day at the hands of their father.

“Graham, please,” she tried again. “Leave them to me. I was the injured party…”

“They are my children and I will punish them,” Graham said grimly. “God knows, it’s long overdue. They hurt you and that is unacceptable.” He leaned back against the wall next to her bed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “If I had…” He stopped and tried again. “If I hadn’t…” He blew out a frustrated breath and that was when Ruby knew. 

The rage in his voice, the shaking in his hands and body, wasn't directed at the twins. Not entirely anyway. 

He didn’t blame them.

He blamed himself.

Some minutes later - as the twins were ushered into the room by their nursemaid, half dragged and half pushed no doubt, if the heaviness of their gait was any indication - Graham maintained his position next to Ruby’s bed, deathly afraid that if he came any closer to his progeny, he’d beat them within an inch of their lives.

And when he was done, he wouldn’t regret his actions.

So he simply crossed his arms and glared at the children, letting them squirm under his clear anger and condemnation, while he tried to figure out what the hell to say to them.

Finally, Nicolas spoke, his voice trembling. “Father?”

Graham took a deep breath, and still not moving from his position, said the only thing he could think of. The only thing that bore mentioning at the present moment.

“Do you see Miss Jones?”

They both nodded, though they didn’t lift their gazes to where she lay on the bed.

“Look at her!” he barked.

They both jumped slightly, and then raised their eyes to actually look at her. From where he stood, he could see sorrow and, he hoped, remorse in their countenances, which helped him rein in his fury.

“Sir?” a servant asked from the door. 

He acknowledged her with a nod and took the piece of meat she’d brought for Ruby’s eye.

“Hungry?” he snapped at the children. When they didn’t answer, he continued. “Good, because we won’t be able to eat this now, will we?” He gently placed it over her eye and then covered it with a cloth so she wouldn’t dirty her fingers as she held it in place. Once he was done, he rose and stood in front of the children.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice still low and furious. They met his eyes and the fear he saw there made him sick, but he didn’t know how else to act. Or what else to do. They had to learn that they couldn’t continue behaving like this. They had to learn to show respect to adults. 

“We didn’t mean to hurt her,” Ava whispered.

“Oh, really?” he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You didn’t think she might possibly be hurt when she tripped over the string? Hmmm? Or perhaps you correctly thought that the string wouldn’t actually hurt her, but it didn’t occur to you that she might be injured when she actually fell?”

They said nothing. Graham glanced back at Ruby, who’d removed the meat from her eye and was gingerly touching her cheek. The bruising was getting worse by the minute.

“You will come with me,” he said, directing his words to the twins, and jerking his head in the direction of the door. He turned to them when he reached it to see they hadn’t taken a single step to follow him. “Now!” he barked. They finally moved and Graham prayed that he’d be able to control himself.

Once they were gone, Ruby tried not to listen, but she couldn’t stop herself from straining her ears. She didn’t know where he was taking them, but one thing was perfectly clear. They were going to be punished.

And while she agreed that it was necessary, what they’d done was inexcusable, she found herself anxious on their behalf. It reminded her of when Nicholas asked if she was going to hit them after he’d pushed her the day before. As if he’d been hit before. Surely Sir Graham didn’t… No, it was impossible. It was one thing to administer a spanking at a time like this, it was another thing entirely to habitually strike children.

She couldn’t possibly be that poor a judge of character. She’d spent time with the man. Allowed him to kiss her. Even kissed him back. She would have been able to sense if there was an inner streak of cruelty within him that would cause him to beat his children.

Shortly thereafter, Nicholas and then Ava entered her bedchamber again, their father bringing up the rear for the sole purpose, she was sure, of making sure their steps exceeded that of a tortoise. They were somber faced and red-eyed, and Graham looked just as grim as they did. 

They shuffled over to Ruby’s bed and she turned to face them. 

“We’re sorry, Miss Jones,” they mumbled in unison.

“Louder,” Graham said sharply.

“We’re sorry, Miss Jones,” they obeyed quickly.

Ruby nodded and tried to give them a small smile.

“It won’t happen again,” Ava added.

“I’m certainly glad to hear that,” Ruby replied. Graham cleared his throat, loudly.

“Father says we have to make it up to you,” Nicholas said.

“Oh…” Ruby wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

“Do you like sweets?” Ava asked, in an apparent burst of inspiration.

“Uh, yes, I do,” Ruby replied. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“I have a bag of lemon drops,” Ava informed her. “I’ve been saving them for months. You can have them.”

Ruby sighed internally. There was something quite wrong here in the lives of these children. She had enough nieces and nephews to know, and her own upbringing as well to reference, what happy children looked like. And these children before her were anything but happy. She felt her heart clench in her chest in compassion for them.

“That’s alright, Ava,” she said softly. “You may keep your lemon drops.”

“But Father says we have to give you something,” she said, casting a fearful glance at Graham.

Ruby was about to say it wasn’t necessary, but then she realized it was. Not only because Graham had obviously insisted upon it, and she wasn’t about to undermine his authority in front of them, but because they also needed to understand what it meant to make amends.

“Very well,” she conceded, “You may give me an afternoon.”

“An afternoon?” they parroted.

“Yes,” she said. “Once I’m feeling better, you may both give me an afternoon. After all, there is much here at Romney Hall that I know nothing about and I’m sure you two know every nook and cranny of the house and gardens. You may take me on a tour. Provided of course,” and here she looked at them as sternly as she could manage with a large steak still covering her eye, “you both promise there will be no pranks.”

Ava nodded vigorously and quickly. “No, no pranks,” she promised.

“Nicholas,” Graham growled.

“There will be no pranks that afternoon,” he mumbled. Graham grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “Ever,” he shouted. “There will be no pranks ever! We’ll leave Miss Jones completely alone!”

“Well, not completely, I hope,” she said, shooting a glance at Graham until he released Nicholas’ collar, “since you do owe me an afternoon.”

Ava smiled softly, but Nicholas’ scowl remained firmly in place.

“You may return to the nursery, now,” Graham informed the children, and they scurried away as fast as their feet could carry them.

Ruby and Graham remained silent for nearly a full minute after the twins left them alone. Ruby felt quite drained and wasn’t sure what to say. Graham turned back toward her and swallowed hard.

“How are you?” he asked. His voice was still rather gruff, but given the entire episode, she didn’t really blame him.

“If I’m not permitted to remove the steak soon, I think I might be physically ill,” she said, honestly.

He picked up the platter it’d arrived on and Ruby placed the meat upon it, grimacing at the squelching sound it made. “I’d like to wash my face, please.”

Graham nodded. “Let me first examine your eye. Look up,” he directed, probing gently around the socket when she obeyed.

“Do you have much experience with this sort of thing?” she asked.

“A bit,” he replied. “Look right.”

“A bit?”

“I boxed at university.”

“Were you good?”

“Look left,” he said, turning her head to the side. “Good enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Close your eye.”

“What does that mean?” she asked again.

“You’re not closing your eye.”

She closed both eyes, though with a scowl on her face. “What does it mean!?” she repeated for the third time. And though she couldn’t see his face, the smile came through in his tone when he spoke.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly stubborn?” he asked.

“Oh, all the time,” she replied. “It’s my only flaw.”

“The only one, eh?” And now she could imagine his raised eyebrow.

“The only one worth commenting on.” She opened her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve quite forgotten what it was. Now close your eye again, I wasn’t finished.” Ruby scowled when she caught the teasing glint in his eyes, but obeyed. “Good enough,” he continued once her eyes were shut, “means that I never had to fight. Not if I didn’t want to.”

“But you weren’t the champion,” she speculated.

“You may open your eyes now,” he said gently. She blinked a few times in surprise when she saw how close he still was. “I wasn’t the champion.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “I didn’t care about it enough.”

“How does it look?”

“Your eye?”

She nodded.

“There’s nothing to be done to stop the bruising.”

“I didn’t think I hit my eye,” she said, pressing her fingers gently around the socket. “When I fell. I thought I hit my cheek.”

“Hitting your cheek, the blood will spread to the eye area. I can see from your face that you fell right here,” he said. His fingers oh so gently touched her cheekbone, exactly where she landed, but his touch was so light, there was no pain. 

Ruby groaned. “I’m going to look a fright for weeks.”

“Maybe not weeks,” he tried to reassure her.

She sent him an extremely dubious look, one that should have told him she knew what she was talking about. “I have brothers. I’ve seen blackened eyes. Killian had one that didn’t completely fade for two months.”

“Really?” Graham chuckled. “What happened to him?”

“Our older brother,” she informed him drily.

Graham nodded, his lips pressed together in amusement. “Say no more. I had a brother myself.”

“Beastly creatures,” she said, but her affection for them was clear from her tone.

“Your black eye probably won’t take that long to diminish,” he said, helping her from bed and over to the washbasin.

“But it might,” she said as she washed the smell from her face.

Graham nodded in agreement. “We need to get you a chaperone.”

Ruby stopped abruptly. “I’d quite forgotten.”

“I hadn’t.”

“It’s all my fault, of course,” she said, patting herself dry. “You had written in your invitation that you’d provide a chaperone, but in my haste to leave London, it didn’t occur to me that you’d need time to make the arrangements.”

Graham watched her closely and wondered if she realized just how much she’d revealed to him about her reasons for coming. It was hard to imagine someone as open, honest, and loquacious as the woman before him having secrets, but he did have to admit she’d been rather quiet about her exact reasons for coming to Gloucestershire.

She’d said she was looking for a husband. But he was starting to wonder if perhaps it had as much to do with what she was leaving behind in London as what she was looking for here.

And then the words in my haste…

What could have caused her to leave in such a hurry? 

“I sent a letter to my great-aunt yesterday morning after your arrival,” he informed her, “but she’s not the sort to leave home at the drop of a hat. She’ll need to pack and do whatever it is you ladies need to do when preparing for a journey.” He waved his hand vaguely around, and Ruby tried her best not to laugh. “I don’t expect her before Thursday. At the earliest.”

“Well, it’s only a few days, and it’s not like we’re completely alone,” she asserted. “You do have a house full of servants.”

“That may be,” he agreed, “but your reputation could be seriously compromised if this visit of yours were to get out among society.”

Ruby blew out a long breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Well, there’s not much I can do about it now,” she said. Then motioning to her eye, she continued. “And if I were to return now, this will have more people talking than the fact that I left to begin with.”

He nodded, acceding to her point, though his mind started shooting off in other directions entirely. Was there a reason she was so unconcerned about her reputation? He may have spent little time in society, but it’d been his experience that properly bred young ladies, no matter their age, were always concerned about their reputations.

Was it possible that Ruby’s reputation had been in tatters before she’d even arrived on his doorstep?

And more to the point, did he care?

He honestly wasn’t sure. He knew what he wanted - no, needed - in a wife, and it had very little to do with purity and chastity and all those things that society deemed important for young ladies.

He was looking for someone who could step in and manage his life and care for his children. He was quite pleased that Ruby not only appeared to be able to fill the role admirably, but that she was rather beautiful and he most undoubtedly felt a great deal of desire for her. Even if she’d been as ugly as a crone, he’d still have been willing to marry her if she could be a good mother to his children.

But if that were all true, then why did he feel no small amount of annoyance that Ruby might have had a lover?

She settled herself against the pillows, looked longingly out the window, and sighed. “Oh, look, the sun is shining again.”

“Would you like to sit in the garden?” he asked. “You haven’t eaten yet; I can have breakfast brought out to you.”

“I’d like to walk in the garden,” she groused, “but I suppose I should try to rest today.”

“More than just today,” he murmured.

“I’ll never be able to manage it,” she said. 

“You could take a book with you,” he suggested. It didn’t surprise him at all when she said she couldn’t sit still. Even injured, she was fidgety on the bed, and he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

“Will you not join me?” she asked.

“Ah…” he stammered. “I have work to do in the greenhouse today.” Her eyes reflected her disappointment, and as much as he would have loved to spend time with her in the garden, he needed to get away. Away from his swirling thoughts, conflicted feelings, and most of all the desire to crawl out of his skin over having to spank the children. He needed his hands in the dirt where the most complicated thought he’d encounter was about plants, something he did know something about. 

Every fortnight, it seemed, they did something that warranted punishment. He hated having to do it. To the depths of his being. But what else was he supposed to do when they behaved this badly? He could justify to himself brushing aside small things, but when they’d glued their last governess’ hair to the pillow while she slept, how on earth was he supposed to brush that aside? Or when they’d gotten into his greenhouse and broken an entire shelf of terra cotta pots? They’d claimed it was an accident, but Graham knew better, and from their countenances, they didn’t even truly think he’d believe them.

So he punished them the only way he knew how, if he punished them at all - though, to this point, he’d only used his hand. More often than not, he was so overwhelmed at the memories of his father’s brand of discipline and horrified at the way his hand itched to swat them on their behinds that he’d simply stumble away, a trembling and sweating mess.

He knew he was too lenient with them. They weren’t getting any better, after all. He knew he needed to be more stern with them, but the memory of what he’d almost done after the episode with their governess was enough to make him want to retch. He’d been so furious, so blindingly angry, that before he even realized it, he’d gone out to the stable and grabbed a whip. That was all it took for him to realize what he’d done and make him drop it in horror. Graham had fled to his greenhouse, shaking with disgust and hating himself for what he’d almost done.

But not only that. Hating himself for what he couldn’t do. 

Make his children better people.

He didn’t know how to be a father to them. Maybe he just wasn’t suited to the task. Perhaps there were men out there who just naturally knew how to teach, how to mold children, but Graham certainly wasn’t one of them. Perhaps one needed a good father in order to be one. But if that was the case, Graham had been doomed from birth. 

And now, here he was, pinning all his hopes on Miss Ruby Jones. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel so guilty about being a miserable father to them if he could provide them with a good mother. 

But nothing was ever as simple as one might want and Miss Ruby Jones was proof positive of that. He’d never expected to want her. And when he came up the stairs and found her on the floor, his first thought hadn’t been anger at his children, it had been terror for her. For her wellbeing. As well as, if he was being brutally honest, terror that they might have convinced her to leave.

With the glue incident, his first emotion had been rage. With Ruby, he spared barely a thought to the twins until he’d assured himself of her well being. He hadn’t wanted to care about her, and now that he did, he didn’t know what to do with himself. So while a morning in the garden with her sounded lovely, he had to get away for a while. He had to try and bring his chaotic thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order. And if that made him a coward, then so be it.

~*~*~

Ruby spent the entire day in the garden on what she was sure was the most comfortable chaise lounge she’d ever had the pleasure to sit. It must have come from Italy, because in her experience, neither England nor France knew how to make comfortable furniture. Not that she normally spent much time pondering furniture makers, but being left alone in the gardens did provide her with an abundance of time and blessed little else to ponder.

Well, perhaps beside the fact that Sir Graham Humbert had to be the most ill-mannered beast on the planet, leaving her alone after his two little monsters - whom he hadn’t even disclosed the existence of in his correspondence - left her with a blackened eye. 

It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, the sky was the deepest shade of blue, a light breeze was blowing, and Ruby had not a thing to occupy her thoughts.

She had never been so bored in her entire life.

It just wasn’t in her nature to sit still and watch the clouds roll by. She would be much happier doing something - walking through the gardens, or at the very least having someone to talk to, rather than just sitting here like a bump on a log. If she had company, then perhaps the clouds would be more interesting. They could discuss the shapes they saw in them.

But no, he’d left her quite on her own. She could see him out there in his greenhouse from where she sat, but while she’d really like nothing better than to join him - his plants must be more interesting than clouds - she refused to seek him out. Not after the way he’d departed so abruptly earlier. She’d thought they were getting along rather well, but then he’d suddenly grown distant and irritable and made up a terrible excuse about having to work in the greenhouse. He’d all but run away from her.

Odious man.

She picked up the book she’d chosen from the library and held it in front of her face, determined to actually read it this time. Of course, that was what she said the previous four times she’d picked up the book. 

Blast it all. 

The Botany of Ferns? What exactly had she been thinking when she pulled it off the shelf? Well, the clear answer to that question was, she hadn’t been. Ruby rolled her eyes at herself. She should have at least looked for a novel to read. The library was quite extensive and she was sure she could have found something more enjoyable than this thing. And what was worse, if, for some reason, Sir Graham came back and found her reading it, he’d think she was wanting to learn more about him and his interests.

This was ridiculous. She slammed the book closed and back down on the side table. She got up and took a few steps to test the tenderness of her hip, a satisfied and rather smug smile lifting her lips when she realized her hip was causing her no more than mild discomfort. She walked all the way to a large rosebush some ways ahead and bent over to see if they had a scent yet. The buds were still closed, but there was always the chance…

“What the devil are you doing?”

Ruby just managed to avoid falling into the bush in surprise. “Sir Graham!” she exclaimed. “I was just…”

“You were supposed to be sitting down,” he interrupted.

“I was sitting down.”

“You were supposed to stay sitting down.”

The truth would make a superb explanation, she decided quickly. 

“I was bored.”

“Did you not get a book to read from the library, like I invited you to do?”

She speared him with a glance and Graham could feel a flush rising on his skin. 

“You said that you could have breakfast sent out to me,” she began, her temper rising along with her words, “and suggested that I could enjoy a book in the garden, which I wrongly assumed meant that you’d have something I’d enjoy reading included on the tray.”

Blast, he had said that, hadn’t he? He’d been in such a hurry to get away, he’d quite forgotten. The flush reached his face. 

“Allow me to apologize and correct that oversight, then,” he replied in a remarkable display of humility. Ruby wasn’t used to men ever admitting to a mistake, however unintended. “But you should remain seated.”

Ruby patted her hip. “I am truly perfectly fine. It hardly hurts at all.”

His expression was still irritable, but even with filthy hands and face, there was something very striking about him. Elemental, almost. Ruby’s mouth dropped open as a shiver of awareness worked its way over her.

“I can’t work if I’m worrying about you,” he groused.

“Then don’t work.” The solution seemed perfectly logical to her.

“I’m in the middle of something.”

“Then I’ll accompany you,” she said lightly, brushing by him on her way to the greenhouse. Really, how did he expect them to see if they would suit if they didn’t spend any time together?

“Miss Jones,” he bit out, “you cannot…”

“Couldn’t you use the help?” she asked, turning back toward him.

“No.”

“Sir Graham,” she snapped, deciding on a different tact. “Are you the same man you were last night?”

“I beg your pardon?” The expression on his face suggested that he thought she’d lost her mind.

“The man I spent the evening with last night,” she began, only just restraining herself from crossing her arms in her annoyance. “The one with whom I shared a very pleasant meal, then toured the house and greenhouse. The man who actually spoke to me, and seemed to enjoy my company.”

He shook his head at her words, bringing himself out of his haze of confusion. “I do enjoy your company,” he replied, utterly befuddled at her seemingly random tirade.

“Then why,” she asked, “have I been sitting alone in the garden for the last three hours?”

“It hasn’t been three hours.”

“It doesn’t matter how long…”

“It’s been forty-five minutes,” he interrupted.

That silenced her for just a moment. She stood there staring at him, her lips pressed together in a straight line, before opening them to speak again.

“Well…” She lost her words after that and Graham decided he’d better say something to save her from any more embarrassment her countenance told him she was swimming in.

“Miss Jones.” He tried not to snap, truly he did, but was extremely doubtful he’d succeeded. “As you might imagine, the incident with the children this morning has left me in rather a foul mood, and I sought to spare you my company, such as it is.”

“I see,” she said, rather meekly in his opinion.

“Good,” he bit out. 

But then she straightened up and looked him directly in the eye, lifting her chin just slightly. “In that case, I’ll just leave you to your work.” Then she had the audacity to wave him off as if he were nothing more than a buzzing fly, disturbing the peacefulness of the garden.

“And what will you be doing?” he asked.

“I will go for a walk,” she informed him, haughtily.

“You will not go for a walk,” he growled.

Almost, Ruby thought, as if he cared about her.

“Sir Graham,” she began, “I assure you, I am perfectly fine. I shall remain out of your way, which is all that really matters, is it not?” A vein in his temple began to pulse, and Ruby found entirely too much pleasure in the fact. She turned on her heel and began to walk to another area of the garden. 

“Stop this instant!” Graham exclaimed. “You may not go for a walk!”

Ruby stopped and turned to him, about to ask if he intended to tie her down to stop her, but shut her mouth just as quickly when it occurred to her that he might heartily approve the suggestion. 

“Sir Graham,” she said, “I fail to see… OH!” she exclaimed when he scooped her up in his arms, mumbling something about stubborn and foolish women, marched over to the chaise, and dropped her unceremoniously upon it.

“Stay there,” he ordered.

She sputtered indignantly, almost at a loss of what to say after his unbelievable display of arrogance. “You can’t just…”

“Good God, woman! You would try the patience of a saint!”

She glared at him.

He huffed in frustration. “What would it take to keep you from moving from this spot?”

She lifted her chin at him before answering. “I can’t think of a single thing,” she said honestly.

“Fine,” he said. “Hike all over the countryside, if it pleases you. Swim to France.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “From Gloucestershire?”

“If anyone could figure out a way to do it, it would be you, Miss Jones. Good day.” Then he turned on his heel and left her exactly where she’d started from.

~*~*~

Graham sat at supper that evening utterly dejected and lonely. One would have thought that eating alone was commonplace for him after all the years married to Jacinda, but in the last day and a half, he’d become used to Ruby’s presence and now, he missed her. If he wasn’t already painfully aware of how badly he’d handled the day's situations, her short missive informing him she intended to take supper in her room this evening made it abundantly clear. Considering the fact she’d been complaining about the lack of his company earlier, her refusal to join him was a stark insult, indeed, and one that the servants were obviously aware of. Graham sighed. He hated being the subject of the servants' gossip. 

He made his way through all the courses, hoping she might change her mind and come down. It was certainly doubtful, given her stubborn streak, but he could always hope. When it became abundantly clear it was a futile hope, he considered going up to her. But that would have been extremely inappropriate, even out here in the country. Besides the fact that seeking her out after his behavior this morning was tantamount to eating crow.

Which wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, considering he’d already decided he was willing to beg her to stay and be a mother to his children, if necessary. But wanting to woo a woman didn’t mean that he knew how to do it.

George had always been the one to charm and woo the ladies. He always knew what to say and how to act. He wouldn’t have cared about being the subject of the servants’ gossip. Graham had always been the quieter one, the studious one, the awkward one when compared to his older brother. Much less suited to being a father and lord of the manor. He’d always planned on leaving Romney Hall and never looking back, at least while his father was alive. George was to have married and had half a dozen perfect children and Graham would have been the somewhat strange but still fun uncle, working on his experiments at Cambridge.

But all of that changed on a battlefield in Belgium. England may have won the war, but it was blessed little comfort when his father dragged him home, determined to mold him into a suitable heir. Determined to mold him into George, who’d been his favorite.

And then he’d died. Right there in front of Graham. In the middle of a screaming, raging fit, his heart had given out on him. 

And Graham had become Sir Graham, with all the rights and responsibilities of a baronet. Rights and responsibilities he’d never, ever wanted.

He loved his children more than life itself, so he guessed he could say it’d turned out alright in the end, but he still felt like he was failing. Romney Hall was doing well. As a result of the agricultural techniques he’d introduced in the fields of the estate, they were turning a profit for the first time since… Well, he wasn’t sure exactly. They’d certainly never turned a profit in the years his father was lord of the estate.

But the fields weren’t nearly as important as the children. They were flesh and blood and would someday grow up, and with how badly behaved they were now, he was terrified of what the future would hold for them if something wasn’t  done soon. Which was why he was so desperate for Ruby to stay and marry him. 

He couldn’t continue to fail his children the way he had been since they were born really, but especially since Jacinda died. He had no idea how to handle them. 

Except the night before, with the fish incident. For the first time, he’d handled Ava exactly right. Ruby’s presence had calmed him in a way that he never would have believed, if he hadn’t experienced it himself.

That was why he couldn’t seek her out this evening. So he couldn’t muck it up any more than he already had.

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! I'd love to know what you think!

[cinematicnomad]

with what you were talking about with daisy and the six- one of my favorite visual representations of this idea is Knives Out. every flashback makes you doubt if the person is telling the truth, or remembering correctly, and not everything is even actually confirmed one way or another on screen. from what I’ve seen of daisy and the six, I don’t know if they’ll actually go this route, but it would be cool if they did!

yes!! knives out is a good example of how editing and story telling can help to make the audience uncertain of the truth. the first movie is rife with these scenes—different family members talk about how they were the ones standing beside harlan while he blew out his birthday candles, they each claim marta's family is from a different country, etc etc.

what i like about the text for daisy jones and the six is that...it doesn't really matter what the objective truth is? or, not that it doesn't matter, but that...we just have to forget about it. because the fact of the matter is, we will never know. the book can never reveal What Actually Happened in certain scenes. we can make inferences—who do we trust more, who has a greater reason to lie, who do we simply, just, believe etc etc.

like, i think it's probably pretty clear that eddie did wind up playing billy's riff, bc everything we know about eddie is that he's a pompous ass who would never be willing to admit that even if it were the truth. and i think billy probably did tell daisy that impossible woman was about her—we get several outside opinions confirming they thought the song was about daisy, and billy confessing this fact to daisy was SUCH a big moment for her she'd have to be delusional to be making that up, while it makes total sense why billy would be in denial about it to himself and why, afterwards, he might lie to himself about ever admitting it out loud. regarding who left teddy's house first, i genuinely can't say...i think i probably lean on the side of daisy fleeing first bc the shame and humiliation she describes feeling in that moment seems SO overwhelming i can't imagine her staying, and billy DOES seem like the type of guy who would tell himself the story that he was The Bigger Man™.

but the fact of the matter is...i can never KNOW. that's MY rationale for the truth, but it's not objective, and there might be others who can argue the other way around. and i think the show will have a hard time leaving room for that ambiguity. these scenes aren't just a sleight of hand—they're fully realized contradictory memories that several people hold throughout the book. the BEST scenes in the narrative are the ones where one character says something like it's an objective fact and then it is immediately contradicted by someone else—and you as the reader are left to weigh both stories and wonder which is true. and sometimes it's obvious and sometimes you just...don't know. and you have to live with that in a way that putting something on screen, having the actors say the words, doesn't quite leave the same amount of breathing room.

[searchingwardrobes]

No Wives, No Mothers, No Lovers: 3/7

Working on this chapter today has been like therapy for me. You know that saying, “It doesn’t rain, it pours?” Well, I feel like my life is a hurricane right now. I’ve shared some things already, but the latest storm to hit my family is finding out that my husband’s dad has cancer and maybe only has one to four months left. We’re all kind of in shock. I guess writing felt like an escape. Like picking up a hobby that just makes you happy, if only for a little while. I hope you all like this next chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

And Marta, I still think of you as I continue to work on this birthday present. I miss you - I hope you forgive me for not chatting with you as much lately. But every little detail in this story, I keep thinking either, “what would Marta like?” or “oh, Marta’s going to love this so much!” I have a special surprise in the next chapter that I’m just giddy about - so be looking out for it!

Summary:   He must be hallucinating. Because Emma Swan is supposed to be in Miami, Florida where he left her. Emma Swan isn’t supposed to be on this rocky stretch of beach, completely drenched, and wearing a ball gown of all things. A Lieutenant Duckling AU (sort of) in which Emma is a siren who isn't supposed to fall in love with a human.  

Length: about 2k plus in this chapter

Rated: T

Previous Chapters: One | Two

Also on Ao3

Tagging (please let me know if you would like to be added or removed): @teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @xhookswenchx @winterbythesea @thisonesatellite @welllpthisishappening @spartanguard @ohmakemeahercules @tiganasummertree @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jamif @undercaffinatednightmare @onceratheart18 @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @iverna​ @jonesfandomfanatic

The bell above the door at Happy’s jingles as Killian leads Emma inside. The small market can’t compete with the huge supermarket down the highway in either inventory or price, but the locals keep it in business. A quick run to Happy’s when you run out of milk or forget to pack a lunch is much more convenient and cheaper in the long run than a twenty minute drive into civilization. 

“The place may not look like much,” Killian tells her, as he leads her down the aisle of chips and crackers, “but the deli here makes a mean sandwich.”

“I heard that,” Happy himself shouts from the front register. 

Killian ignores the man, and Emma laughs silently. He makes a sweeping gesture towards the selection of chips. 

“Whatever your heart desires, m’lady.”

Emma rolls her eyes at his theatrics. She reaches out to run her hand along the shelf, narrowing her eyes as she peruses the selection. Suddenly, she jerks her hand to her chest and bites down on her bottom lip. Killian sees a spot of blood on the edge of the shelf where a jagged piece of metal has come loose from its screw. 

“Happy!” he shouts. “Fix this damn shelf before someone needs stitches and a tetanus shot!”

“What!” Happy shouts back, running over to Killian and Emma. 

“Let me see,” Killian reaches for her, but she shrinks back, her face going suddenly pale. “Your hand, it’s cut.”

“Where did it cut her?” Happy asks, narrowing his eyes as he examines the shelf. 

“The sharp metal dripping with blood!” Killian snaps back. 

“There’s no blood.”

Killian mutters under his breath as he turns to point out the obvious to the store owner. “It’s right . . .” 

He trails off, leaning forward to find the bright spot of liquid that had startled him just a moment ago. 

“I don’t understand. I saw blood.”

“Well. I can’t have blood on my shelves,” Happy tells him, gingerly examining the shelves. “It’s not sanitary.”

“It’s also dangerous,” Killian snaps, then he turns to Emma again. “Please love, let me see.”

She signs frantically with her uninjured hand, keeping the cut one behind her back. He doesn’t understand a thing she’s saying. Her movements are too rapid, her facial expression too panicked. 

“She’s saying it's fine,” Happy says over his shoulder. “The shelf didn’t cut her. She felt the sharp piece and pulled away; that’s all.”

Killian raises both eyebrows at the grocer.

“What? I have an aunt who’s deaf.”

Killian looks back at Emma who nods emphatically and finally offers her hand. Killian holds it gently in his and examines her palm. 

“Amazing,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb gently across the lines in her soft skin. “I could have sworn . . .”

He feels Emma shudder at his touch, and electricity tingles up his arm. His gaze collides with hers, and he sucks in a sharp intake of breath at the chemistry sparking between them. Emma bites her lip again, and Killian wets his own. It has always been this way, since the day they met, yet it still slams into him with shock: this awareness, this intensity of feeling unlike anything he’s ever known before. 

“Ah ha, there it is!” Happy exclaims, sending the couple jumping apart. 

Happy is a nice man who earned his nickname, yet in that moment Killian has an intense desire to throttle him. Oblivious to what he interrupted, the grocer mutters something about this toolbox and hurries away. Killian chances a glance at Emma again, whose eyes are sparkling merrily as she smiles. Her expression seems to say “maybe next time,” and it sends a jolt through him. 

Emma selects some kettle cooked barbecue chips, which happen to be his favorite, too. He tries not to read too much into that. 

He takes her next to the deli counter at the back of the market. The short, balding man with a black beard behind the counter glares at them. 

“Whaddya want?” he barks. 

“Grumpy,” Killian replies cheerfully, rocking back on his heels, “lovely day isn’t it?”

“Lovely? Looks like rain, which means trouble for the fishing boats, which means trouble

for this town, which means trouble for this store. Lovely day, my ass!”

Emma catches Killian’s eyes with an expression of surprise and humor. Killian winks back. 

“Grumpy, I’ll have a club with the works on rye.” He glances at Emma, then studies Grumpy. “Your brother said your aunt is deaf? Are you fluent in ASL?’

Grumpy snorts. “Course I am. Whaddya think? Happy is the only one who loves our aunt? I love her too, I have you know!”

“Course you do.” Killian puts a hand to his chest. “My apologies.”

Emma presses a hand to her lips to suppress a laugh. Once she’s composed, she rapidly gives her order to Grumpy. 

“Turkey bacon ranch on Italian bread,” Grumpy repeats, “got it.”

When they exit the store with the supplies for their picnic, Emma can’t scribble on her notepad fast enough.

Happy and Grumpy? Seriously? Are they dwarves? 

She follows this with a rather well-drawn rolling on the floor laughing emoji. 

“They are a little on the short side, but they aren’t dwarves. As far as I know, anyway.” Killian accentuates this statement with an eyebrow raise, eliciting another wonderful smile from Emma. “Those also aren’t their real names. Harold is Happy’s real name, and Grumpy is Leroy. No one calls them that, though. Nobody calls their five other brothers by their real names either.”

Emma grabs his arm to stop him, then scribbles on her pad again.  

Let me guess: Sneezy, Doc, Dopey, Sleepy, and Bashful?

“Exactly.”

As Emma gapes at that, Killian shrugs.

“What do you expect when there are seven boys in one family? The funny thing is, they’ve each lived up to their assigned monikers.”

Emma makes a sign like a sloped roof twice, then makes a “c” shape at her face and swipes it down as she shakes her head and laughs. 

“Oh! A crazy town?”

Emma jots quickly on her notepad. 

No! Quirky!

“Well, I certainly can’t argue with that.” Killian’s gaze takes in the rest of main street, then he looks in the distance at the docks and the shore. He looks up at the sky with a sailor’s eye. Emma follows his gaze, tilting her head up. Then she waves her open hands back and forth in front of her. 

“Yes, it looks like Liam was right, a storm is brewing.” It doesn’t even cross his mind that he’s understood Emma completely. “Don’t worry, I had a back up plan for our picnic. In a way, it’s even better than the beach. Come on!”

He takes her hand and pulls her down the street. She goes willingly, her smile matching his. By the time he stops in front of an empty storefront, the rain has begun to fall lightly and the wind has picked up. A “For Lease” sign hangs in the window, but other than that, it looks exactly the same as the last time Killian had been here a little over a year ago. The wonderful thing about a small town is that grief is bigger, encompassing the entire community. No one rushes you to move on.

Like insisting two young men pack up their mother’s dance studio and shutter the windows forever. 

Killian fishes the key out of his pocket, then unlocks the frosted glass door that reads “Dream Dance Studio.” He leads Emma inside, holding his breath and waiting for the pain to engulf him. The pang of grief comes, but not in overwhelming waves as he had expected. Instead it is a dull ache thudding in his heart. He can picture her everywhere he looks: counting out dance beats as she stands beside her collection of CDs and vintage vinyl, skipping around the room with a gauzy scarf in her hand while the littlest of her students skip behind her, extending her hand to Killian insisting that he needs to know how to lead. He sees her turning off the lights as he stands at the door, not knowing it was the last time he would see her here, in one of her favorite places on earth. It was called “Dream Dance Studio” because it was Alice Jones’s dream come true. 

As he finishes his turn about the room, he sees Emma writing quickly. 

This was your mother’s dance studio, wasn’t it? This must be so hard for you, Killian. You didn’t have to bring me here.

Killian takes the pen and paper from Emma’s hand gently, shaking his head. 

“I wanted to, Emma. Since I came home, I haven’t been able to bear coming here. Neither can Liam. But with you here with me, I thought I could finally face it. After all, I dreamed of you meeting her. She couldn’t believe I met someone in Miami who knew how to Jive!”

Emma laughs at that, but quickly sobers and steps closer to him, resting her hand against his cheek. She looks into his eyes, communicating what her voice can not. He covers his hand with hers, then blinks back the tears and clears his throat. 

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Emma lets him lighten the moment and follows him to a long bench along one wall. They set the chips between them and balance their thick sandwiches on their laps. Emma’s face when she takes a bite tells him that she loves the sandwich just as much as he’d promised she would. 

“Grumpy may not be very friendly, but he makes one hell of a sandwich, doesn’t he?”

Emma nods, then takes another huge bite. Killian opens one of the water bottles they had also purchased and hands it to her. She takes it gratefully and washes down her first two bites. They continue to eat in a friendly and comfortable silence. After the food is gone, they continue to sit, both lost in separate memories. Killian turns to look at her profile as she sits there pensively. She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen; it almost intoxicates him. As a matter of fact, he feels a little dizzy, come to think of it. The edges of his vision blur until all he can see is her. She seems to become ethereal, bathed in gold dust. 

Emma turns to him, and she startles at his expression. She reaches for him, grasping both his shoulders and giving him a firm shake. Then she snaps her fingers in front of his face. He blinks, and suddenly, there she is: just Emma. Beautiful, yet comfortable. His friend from the library. He can see the dimple in her chin, the freckles across her nose, and the tiny scar along her jawline, just below her left ear. She wets her lips nervously, and he notices what he had that night in the dorm kitchen: her right premolar is a tiny bit crooked. He sighs.

“Hi.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but her body seems to sag in relief. 

Killian shakes his head as if to clear it, then jumps to his feet as he pulls out his phone. 

“My mother may not be here in the flesh,” he tells Emma, “but she’s here in spirit. I promised her she would get to see us jive. Shall we?”

Emma practically jumps up from the bench as she takes his hand, a skip in her step. Killian finds the song “Rockin Robin” on his phone and hits play. It’s the same song they’d jived to in Miami on the campus quad. Emma is beaming as he pulls her out on the dance floor and twirls her around. They kick and bounce and spin with abandon, and he swears he can feel his mother’s presence. He lifts Emma in the air, dips her, and it’s as if he can actually hear her silent laughter ringing in his ears. When the song ends, Emma throws her arms around him, and he feels the curve of her smile against his sweaty neck. 

The music on his phone switches, and “I Only Have Eyes for You” by The Flamingos starts to play. Emma steps back, eyes wide. She makes a motion with one hand as if she were wiping her brow and flinging something aside as she shakes her head. 

“You don’t know how to slow dance?”

She gestures between them with a confused expression as if to say, “I don’t know what this is supposed to be.”

Killian gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he puts one arm around her waist and pulls her close, taking her opposite hand in his. 

“It’s called a waltz, Swan, and there’s only one rule: pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

He winks, and she relaxes in his arms as he sweeps her around the dance floor, the lyrics of the song swelling around them. 

Are the stars out tonight?

I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright.

I only have eyes for you, dear. 

Oh, I only have eyes for you . . .