Hey look at you~you found me. I’m Irish, I lived in Ireland, I miss Ireland and if you come to fucking ask me if I have red hair- no shit, of course I'm ginger.
im not INTERESTED anymore in seeing men’s perception of what female leisure time looks like, how we lounge around hairless and small and beautiful on our beds and couches in oversized shirts and lace underwear, unaware and unassuming and all the more beautiful for not Trying to be beautiful, i’m TIRED of it. even our most basic freedom of privacy, time alone with the self, has been butchered and ripped from us by the gaze of male photographers and artists
A/N: This started as a I’m-sick-in-bed drabble that was inspired by this postfrom @write-it-motherfuckers. I’ve committed to fleshing this out further, but cannot promise any sort of posting schedule. I’ll be updated this in bite sized morsels as the muse serves them, and I hope you’ll enjoy!
Rated T (for now… we’ll see if it merits and upgrade later) / ~1000 words / beta’d by the fabulous @ilovemesomekillianjones / available on ao3 and ff.net / Ch 1
The Archway
The fragrant aroma of herbs and yeast filled the cottage. After putting away her meager belongings, Emma wasted no time in preparing a loaf of bread as a thank you to her kind neighbor and benefactor. Wrapped in a length of the finest cloth she owned, the bread was placed in a basket with a jar of her blackberry jam and set on the bench in the garden, the handsome leather coat draped along side it with a fresh note tucked in its pocket.
Good Sir,
Your kindness is more than I deserve, but one for which I shall be forever grateful. There is nothing within the cottage that displeases me, for how could it? It was all obviously chosen with the greatest of care and reflection.
This meager gift can in no way express my full gratitude, nor does it compare in the grandeur and scope of your gifts, but I hope you will accept it with my humble thanks. Not only for the cottage and all its fine furnishings, but for the use of your exquisite coat as well.
I shall heed your warning of the archway, though I cannot deny the temptation I feel to explore the wonder of the forest now that it is so close… and inhabits such a kind and generous neighbor.
Perhaps, you would care to come for tea sometime? You are most welcome at the cottage whenever you should wish to accept the invitation.
Yours truly,
Emma Swan
It was nearly twilight when Emma deposited the items on the bench. In the last fragments of daylight’s fading glow, she surveyed the back garden with a list of tasks she planned to accomplished there. A section for herbs, one for vegetables, another for berry bushes, and a lovely expanse for flowers along the fence line. Her hands tested the quality of the soil, rich and aromatic in its pungent wealth of nutrients. Dusting off her fingertips, she examined the fence of twined wicker and found it to be in good repair.
Thin vines wound and laced their way over and around the gnarled branches of the cross posts, outlining the garden’s perimeter. Small buds adorned their willowy expanse, and Emma wondered with eager anticipation what sort of foliage or fruit the promised bundles might offer. Her fingers glided gently along their trail, her eyes continuing to adjust to the ever increasing darkness creeping into the garden, until she found herself before the archway. Curiously, none of the vines here held any buds.
Emma stepped closer to examine this peculiar phenomenon, the barren ropes barely visible against the wicker trellis in the moonlight. A rush of cold wind blew through the archway, sending a chill over her entire body, and causing her to step back with a gasp. Awareness skittered across her skin, but not with any sort of fright or foreboding, more like a gentle warning or loving reprimand. A reminder to heed her neighbor’s words about drawing too closely to the archway at night.
Torn as she was in her desires, Emma chose to honor her neighbor over her own curiosities. It wouldn’t do to show such disrespect to his kindness on her first night there. She took another step back, then another, before turning back toward the cottage. Another gust swept past her, this one slightly warmer against her skin with notes similar to those of the leather coat mixed in its redolence. Casting one last look over her shoulder, Emma felt certain she saw the shadowy image of a man before the figure stepped aside, out of the frame of the archway. Or… perhaps it was simply a trick of the light.
~/~
The chime at her window laughed and sang softly on the night breeze, clinking its crystallized melody through the dark garden. He watched her for a few moments through the wavy glass while she slept. Her hair fanned out like rays of sunshine over her pillow, and her complexion glowed, soft and creamy in the moonlight. What colors filled her head as she dreamt, he wondered. What splendor did she create within her mind as her eyelids hid those glittering emeralds behind them? Was she dreaming of the fantasy she’d spun in the garden during the night past? A fantasy she now had the power to make real? Was she grabbing hold of the life she was always meant to live in those wild depths of her imagination, now that she had the means by which to do so?
Did she dream of him?
He shook his head at that thought. Best not to dwell on such things, or to linger too long at her window. Her curiosity had already brought her to a precarious precipice earlier, and it would not do for him to give her anymore motivation in her compulsions. Nor he in his for that matter.
Collecting the items she’d left for him, he made his way back to the archway. He’d return the basket and cloth before daybreak, and that would be the end of things. No lingering threads to knot, no further purpose to bring him back to the cottage now that it was in the proper hands.
Before making his exit, he set the basket at his feet and swung his great coat over his shoulders. A gentle fluttering in his periphery caught his attention, and he plucked the falling parchment from the air with reflexes that would betray his nature. Notes of honeysuckle danced on his tongue when he unfurled the delicate paper, perfumed by the woman’s natural essence of florals and herbs.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and a melancholy ache swirled in his chest as he read her words of both gratitude and unworthiness. The last line, however, had him cursing under his breath.
You are most welcome at the cottage whenever you should wish to accept the invitation.
Bloody hell… The lass had no idea what she had just done.
I wonder why I still imagine CS in every movie I watch and in every song I listen to. It even happens with musicals. I bought tickets the other day for February to see Anastasia The Musical here in Madrid (I still can’t believe it, by the way) and instead of thinking about the animated movie I’m imagining Emma and Killian in the wonderful scenario that @bucklesomeswashswan created in her story Once Upon a December.
