#a scoundrel... or a gentleman?

[kmomof4]

A Scoundrel... Or a Gentleman? Ch. 5

We are back everyone!!! I've been waiting for this chapter for several reasons and I so hope you enjoy it! Thank you again for coming along on this journey with me! It means more than I can say!

Thank you as well to @jrob64 for all her help in crafting this story and to @snowbellewells and @motherkatereloyshipper for the artwork they made to accompany it!! Love all you ladies to bits!!!

Words: Almost 6300 of approx 59,5K

Rating: M (smut in later chs)

Tags: Regency Romance, Inspired by Francesca Bridgerton's Story, Smut in Later Chapters.

On ao3 From Beginning / Current Chapter

On Tumblr Prologue Ch2 Ch3 Ch4

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

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Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

The rest of the week passed in a nauseating blur of flowers, candy, and badly recited poetry by lovesick suitors. It was enough to make Killian want to vomit. Preferably on the lovesick suitors.

Emma was apparently putting all the young debutantes to shame. Her number of suitors may not actually be doubling every day, but it certainly felt like they were, as Killian had had to remove himself from Kilmartin House each day to keep from constantly tripping over the latest besotted fool.

And God above, could not a one of them conceive an original thought? Of course they all made mention of her eyes, but was there anyone with an ounce of creativity in their brains that they might compare them to something other than the green grass of Hyde Park? If anyone had bothered to really look at the color of her eyes, they would clearly see they were a shade all their own. And their hue would change based on her mood - the sparkling green of an emerald when she was happy or laughing, or a more muted jade when she was melancholy.

And everything was worsened by the memory of his conversation with Will. 

Marriage to Emma. 

Marriage to Emma.

Marriage. To Emma.

He’d never really allowed himself to consider it. But now it gripped him with a fever and intensity that burned as hot as his love for her ever had.

And Will knew. 

Of course he knew. Will may not have known for sure when he first made the suggestion, but there had been no way for Killian to effectively hide everything that went through his head at the suggestion. Will was shrewd and nobody’s fool, so there was no doubt in his mind that Emma’s brother would have accurately deduced his feelings just from his utterly flabbergasted response. The question now was, would he tell Emma?

It was something his mind wouldn’t let go of - like a dog with a bone, gnawing at every side - even as he stood watching her on the dance floor at the Fisher ball a week after the original conversation.

“She looks very beautiful tonight, doesn’t she?”

A soft smile touched his lips when he heard his mother’s words.

“Doesn’t she, Killian?” she repeated, when he didn’t answer right away.

“Of course,” he replied quickly. Hopefully quickly enough that she’d think he was simply being polite.

“Green suits her.”

Everything suited Emma, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud to his mother. The deep green velvet she wore, coupled with her golden tresses, made her look like a rare and sparkling jewel.

“You should dance with her.”

He cleared his throat and took another sip of champagne before speaking. “Oh, I will,” he assured her. “After I finish my drink.” Even if the only thing he wanted to do was march right over to her and forcibly remove her from the arms of the latest gentleman dancing with her.

Alice huffed. “Her dance card will surely be filled by then. You should go now.”

Killian gave her his signature smirk, designed to make her forget whatever she was fixated on at the moment, and set his glass down on a nearby table. 

“Now why would I do that,” he said, gallantly with a deep bow, “when I can dance with you instead?”

Her expression changed quickly to amusement. “You rascal.” But she didn’t protest when he led her out to the floor. 

He knew he’d pay for this tomorrow. The society matrons were already circling him for the kill, and there was nothing they loved better than a rake who doted upon his mother. 

The dance was lively, which left little room for conversation, but he still managed to keep Emma in his sights. Until the end of the dance, when he was forced to make one final turn away from her.

And when he turned back, she was gone. Technically, it was possible she’d excused herself to the ladies retiring room, but as he knew she’d done that only twenty minutes earlier, it seemed unlikely. He finished his dance with his mother, bade her farewell with a deep bow, then made his way to the north side of the room, where he’d last seen Emma.

As he got closer, he noticed tall French doors, probably leading to the gardens, closed and curtained. It was not terribly surprising as it was only early April and not warm enough yet to keep the doors open. But he was still suspicious. He’d spent far too much time out in gardens himself with various women to not be fully aware of what could happen in the dark of the night.

He slipped outside. As soon as the door shut behind him, the sounds of the music and three hundred bodies dancing and talking and laughing inside were muted.

Then, he heard her voice. She sounded happy, absolutely content to be in the company of whoever had brought her out here and the thought felt like a punch to his solar plexus. He should leave. Emma wouldn’t want him here. But he couldn’t bring his feet to move. 

He’d never spied on Emma with Liam. If he’d ever stumbled across them during a private conversation, he’d removed himself immediately. But now, something was different. And he couldn’t explain why. But he couldn’t make himself leave.

Just one more minute, he told himself. Just one more to make sure she really was enjoying the man’s company and was not in a dangerous situation.

“No, no.”

Emma’s voice. 

His ears pricked up. She didn’t sound upset, but she was saying no. Of course, she could just be responding to some tidbit of gossip or laughing at a joke.

“I really must… No!”

And that was all it took for Killian to move.

~*~*~

Emma knew she shouldn’t have gone out on the terrace alone with Sir Walsh, but as a widow, she wasn’t subject to the same rules as the debutantes and she was a trifle warm inside, so the cool night air was welcome. 

It had been perfectly pleasant for the first few minutes. Sir Walsh had made her laugh and made her feel beautiful, and oh! how hard was it to admit that she missed that? Was it so bad to want to feel beautiful and desired? 

Maybe they were all only after her notorious double dowry, or maybe they were seeking an alliance with two of the more well-known and powerful families of the ton - Emma was a Nolan and a Jones, after all. But for this one evening, she was going to pretend that it was all about her.

But then Sir Walsh had stepped closer. She moved back a step as subtly as she could, but he took another step in her direction. Then another. And another. And before she knew it, she was pressed back against the trunk of a large tree and Sir Walsh was much too close with both hands on the bark on either side of her head.

“Sir Walsh,” she began, as politely as she could. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I’d like to return to the party now.” She kept her voice light, not wanting to provoke anything.

“Now, why would you want to do that?” he murmured, his head dipping closer to hers.

“No, no,” she protested, ducking to the side to avoid him, “People will be missing me.” Dash it all. He wasn’t backing up. She was going to have to stamp on his foot, or worse, unman him in the manner her brothers had shown her when she was but a green girl. “Sir Walsh,” she tried one more time for civility, “I really must…”

And then his mouth, wet and insistent, and not at all welcome, crashed against hers.

“... NO!” she managed to squeal.

But he was quite determined and was much stronger than she gave him credit for. She twisted and turned trying to position herself so she could bring her knee up where it would hurt him the most, but before she could, he was gone.

“Oh!” The surprised sound burst from her. There was a whoosh, the sickening sound of knuckles on flesh, and a cry of pain the likes of which she’d never heard. By the time Emma realized what was going on, Sir Walsh was on the ground and a large man loomed over him, his boot planted firmly on Sir Walsh’s chest.

“Killian?” Emma asked, unable to believe what she was seeing.

“Say the word,” Killian said, in a voice that she’d never heard cross his lips. A voice she’d never dreamed he possessed, “and I will crush his ribs.”

“No!” Emma said quickly. She may not have felt the least bit guilty about kneeing the man between the legs, but she didn’t want Killian to kill him.

And from the look on his face, she knew that he would. And not think twice about it.

She moved quickly toward him and touched his arm. He looked at her, a feral gleam in his eye and Emma caught her breath. “Could we just, perhaps, ask him to leave?”

Killian continued to stare at her. Hard. With an intensity that made it difficult for her to breathe. He ground down on Sir Walsh’s chest just a little bit harder, enough to make the man grunt in pain.

“Are you quite certain?” he asked, his voice still low and full of fury.

“Yes,” she said, “there’s no need to hurt him. I shouldn’t have come out here with him.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t give him leave to force his attentions on you.” His voice was harsh, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of her behavior or Sir Walsh’s. Killian suddenly removed his foot from the man’s chest and hauled him up by the lapels of his jacket, pressing him against the tree he’d trapped her against, then moving in close until they were nose to nose.

“Doesn’t feel so good to be trapped, now does it?” he taunted. Sir Walsh remained silent, just staring at Killian in terror. “Do you have something to say to the lady?” Sir Walsh shook his head no and Killian shook him before slamming him back against the tree. “Think harder!” he roared.

“I’m sorry!” Sir Walsh squealed.

Rather like a girl, Emma thought. She knew she wasn’t really interested in marrying him, much less bear his child, but this just confirmed it.

But Killian wasn’t finished with him yet. “If you ever come within ten feet of Lady Kilmartin again, I will personally disembowel you.”

Even Emma flinched at his words.

“Do I make myself clear?” he growled.

Another squeak of acknowledgement and Sir Walsh sounded like he might cry.

“Get out of my sight,” Killian said, all but throwing the terrified man away from him. “And don’t let me see your face in London for at least a month.” Sir Walsh got to his feet, his face pale with shock. “Unless, of course, you want to meet me at dawn.” Killian shrugged an insolent shoulder, but the gleam in his eye and the smile on his face told her that he’d like nothing better than to meet Sir Walsh on the dueling field.

Emma realized she was holding her breath. Killian was terrifying. And magnificent. And it was a true shock to realize that she’d never imagined Killian had this in him. That he could be like this.

Sir Walsh ran away as fast as he could, heading across the lawn to the back gate and leaving her alone with Killian. And leaving her, for the first time since she’d known him, without a thing to say. 

Except perhaps, “I’m sorry.”

Killian turned sharply back to her. “Don’t apologize.”

“No, of course not,” she agreed. “I should have known better.”

“He should have known better,” he bit out.

It was true and Emma’s mouth shut with a snap. It wouldn’t do to feed his anger any further. She’d never seen him like this. Truly, she’d never seen anyone like this. So angry that they looked like they might shatter at the slightest touch. As he’d dealt with Sir Walsh, she’d thought he was out of control, but she now realized the opposite was true. He was holding on to his control with both hands, and perhaps his teeth as well. If he wasn’t, Emma was quite sure, Sir Walsh would be dead.

Emma opened her mouth again, but found she still didn’t have anything to say. She could do nothing but stare at the man that she thought she knew so well.

There was something spellbinding in the moment and she couldn’t look away from him. He was breathing hard, struggling mightily to keep his rage under control, but his eyes were far away, as if he wasn’t really there.

“Killian?” she asked in a whisper. 

No response.

“Killian?” she tried again, this time lightly touching him on the arm. He flinched and whipped around toward her so quickly that she stumbled backwards.

“What?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head sharply. She didn’t know what she meant to say, but the look on his face left her shaken. And desiring something comforting and familiar, which at the moment, Killian was not. “I’d like to go home please.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll make your apologies inside. Would you like me to escort you through the back gate or the ballroom?”

“The back gate please. I’ll send the carriage back for you and Alice.” The words were formal and necessary to keep her mind away from what all had transpired. He led her toward the gate, his hand on the small of her back, burning through her gown the entire way. When they arrived at the carriage, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

“How did you know I was in the garden?” she inquired. He didn’t answer right away, but his gaze was intense on her and Emma caught her breath. “Were you watching me?”

His expression didn’t change a whit. “I’m always watching you.”

She had nothing to say and climbed into the carriage. But she knew his words would keep her awake long into the night.

~*~*~

Three hours later Emma still lay awake. Alice had returned some time earlier and had informed Emma that Killian was spending time at his club before returning home. Emma wasn’t prepared for the despair that rolled over her at her mother-in-law’s words. 

He was avoiding her. When he’d saved her earlier this evening, he was every bit the dashing romantic hero she secretly swooned over in the latest novel. But by the time she left the party, she had the distinct impression that Killian wanted to get away from her. No matter his last words to her. That his heroism was nothing more than something that he had to do, rather than something he wanted to do.

And even worse, that while she thought of him as a cherished friend and her closest confidant, she was nothing of the sort to him. Nothing more than someone whose presence he endured.

And that hurt. To the very depths of her soul.

She finally heard the carriage roll up outside, then the front door open and close. He was home. And the evening could now officially end. She should at least try to sleep. Perhaps listen for a moment at their adjoining doors. She had no idea what she’d be listening for, but something had changed between them tonight and it left Emma feeling unsettled. Perhaps listening to him ready himself for bed would settle her nerves, help her convince herself that everything was fine between them.

But when she heard his boots on the stairs, she couldn’t stop herself. She wasn’t thinking, she was only moving. To the door of her chamber and out into the hall, her bare feet making hardly a sound on the carpet runner. He stopped when he saw her, surprised, and Emma caught her breath. He was literally breathtaking in the pale glow of the moonlight spilling through the window at the end of the passage.

He looked completely exhausted, but his blue eyes still glowed in the night and his dark hair was tousled over his forehead, inviting her to brush it back into place with her fingers. He was utterly beautiful and she was suddenly conscious of it, almost as a physical caress against her skin.

“Emma,” he said, wearily.

And she, of course, stood there like a fish out of water, gaping at him and not saying a word.

“Emma?”

She shook herself. “K-Killian…” she stammered. “Good… good evening.”

He just stared at her, his eyebrow rising in inquiry.

She took a deep breath and tried again. “I… I just wanted… to see if you were alright.”

A weary sigh left his lips. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“I didn’t thank you earlier,” she said, the words bursting out of her before she could think about the wisdom of that statement.

“For what?”

“For coming to my aid.” She would have thought it was obvious, but maybe he was just too tired to really think about it. “I would have defended myself…” She trailed away when Killian raised a single brow in disbelief. “My brothers showed me how.”

He chuckled and looked down for a moment. “Then I have no doubt you would have rendered him a soprano in moments, had I not intervened.”

“Yes, well, I do appreciate not having to, ahh…” She was blushing. God above, she hated it when she blushed.

“Knee him in the bollocks?” Killian supplied helpfully, the corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile.

“Indeed,” she murmured, quite convinced that her cheeks now flamed scarlet, skipping all the shades of pink completely.

“You’re welcome,” he said abruptly. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He moved toward her, but she couldn’t let him go - not yet.

“Wait,” she called, turning around as he approached his bedchamber door.

He sighed, the exhaustion clinging to him like a coat. “Yes?” But she could think of nothing to say. He huffed in exasperation. “Can it wait until morning?”

“No! Wait! Please!” And this time she moved toward him and grabbed his arm. He froze. “Why are you so angry with me?” she whispered.

“What?” His confusion was all over his face, and if she hadn’t been so upset and caught up in her own head, she might have found it humorous. He looked at her like he couldn’t believe what she’d just said.

“Why are you so angry with me?” she repeated, a bit stronger this time. Something wasn’t right between them and she had to know why.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m not angry with you. I’m merely tired and want to go to bed.”

“You are angry,” she insisted, “I know you are.” And she did. He was quite adept at hiding it, but there was ire in him and it was directed at her.

Killian placed his hand over hers and Emma caught her breath at the heat from his touch. He lifted her hand from his arm and let it drop. “I’m going to bed.”

She was speechless. She watched as he opened his bedchamber door and entered, then shut it behind him.

“No!” she cried. She dashed after him, unthinking, unmindful… right into his bedroom.

If he wasn’t angry with her before, he definitely was now. “What are you doing here?” he barked.

“You can’t just dismiss me like that, Killian!” she protested.

He stared at her. Hard. “You are in my bedchamber, Emma,” he said in a low voice. “I suggest you leave.”

“Not until you tell me what is going on!”

Killian held himself perfectly still. His every muscle frozen. It was truly a blessing, because if he allowed himself to move, he’d lunge for her. And God knew what he’d do when he caught her.

He’d been pushed to the edge. First by Will. Then by Sir Walsh. And now by Emma herself. Standing there, confusion and hurt rolling off of her, and without a bloody clue.

His world had been turned upside down by one simple suggestion.

You could marry her, you know.

It dangled before him like the choicest of fruit in the Garden of Eden. A wicked possibility that shouldn’t have been his to take.

Liam, his conscience reminded him. Don’t forget Liam.

“Emma,” he said, his voice low and even and perfectly controlled. He swallowed hard before he continued. “It is well after midnight. And you are in the bedchamber of a man to whom you are not married. I suggest you leave.”

But she didn’t. She didn’t move. Damn her. She stood there, a vision in her nightdress, her hair loose, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.

“Why are you angry with me?” she repeated a third time. “Is it because I want to remarry?”

Killian just stared at her dumbfounded. He couldn’t have been more surprised at her words.

“You think I’m betraying Liam’s memory, don’t you?” she accused.

“No, Emma,” he said wearily, scrubbing his hand down his face. “I would never…”

But she wasn’t listening. “You think I should mourn your brother forever. Do you think I don’t? Do you think that I don’t think about him every single day? Do you think it feels good to know that when I do marry, I’ll be making a mockery of the sacrament?”

He looked at her. She was breathing hard, the color high on her cheeks, tears glistening in the corner of her eyes.

“What I had with Liam,” she said, her entire body shaking now, “I am not going to find with any of the men of the ton who have been sending me flowers. And it feels like a desecration - nothing more than utter selfishness that I’m even considering remarrying.” She turned away from him and grasped the edge of his chest of drawers. “If I didn’t want a baby… so damned much.” 

She stopped then. He couldn’t move. He should move. He should comfort her. And if they’d been in any other room than his bedchamber, he would have. But it was all he could do to control his breathing. And himself.

“You don’t know,” she whispered. “You just don’t know.”

It was more than he could take. She was the one who barged in here, uninvited, demanding answers, when she didn’t even understand the questions. She pushed him to the limit, and now she was going to turn her back on him and tell him he didn’t know?

He crossed the room on silent feet until he stood mere inches behind her. “Don’t know what?” he demanded softly.

She whirled around. “Killian,” she breathed. She was as still as marble, the only sound her breath feathering over her lips, her eyes never leaving his face.

His fingers tingled, his heart thudded in his chest, his breath stuttered. 

His body burned. 

She was as close as she’d ever been to him. Her eyes were glazed, her chin slightly lifted making her mouth open gently. If she’d been anyone else, he would have sworn she wanted to be kissed. 

The moment was endless. 

A whisper crossed his lips, her name, maybe. His head bent toward her and suddenly the impossible became the inevitable. There was no stopping it. He gathered her in his arms and claimed her lips with his own. Sealing his fate… and hers.

When she thought about it later, she could only say that she hadn’t heard him approach from behind. Because if she had, she never would have turned around. But she did turn, his name a whisper of breath.

And he was right there.

So close. Closer than he’d ever stood to her. Closer than anyone but Liam had ever stood to her. And never Killian.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but breathe as she watched him, realizing with awful certainty that she wanted him to kiss her.

Good God. She wanted Killian to kiss her. She wanted Killian.

The knowledge was like a lightning bolt, electrifying her nerve endings and leaving her trembling in anticipation. She wasn’t supposed to want anyone. But Killian…

She waited for him to move. She could do nothing but moisten her lips and wait for him to move. Because she knew when he did, it would be perfection. 

And it was. 

He claimed her lips with his own and she melted into him. His hand found its way to the small of her back and while he didn’t pull her into him, the barest pressure was there and the distance between them slowly disappeared until she could feel the scrape of his evening clothes through the silk of her dressing gown.

His lips grew more demanding and Emma opened to him, a low moan coming from her as his tongue fully explored the recesses of her mouth. His passion left her weak until she had to grab his arms, to touch him of her own accord, to fully participate in this kiss. To acknowledge that she was a part of this. That she wanted this. That she wanted him.

He murmured her name into her lips, his voice gravelly with desire and need and something more she dared not think about. She could do nothing but cling to him and kiss him as he was kissing her.

Her hands raised to his neck and her fingers buried themselves in the silky soft strands of his hair. His hand moved up her back, trailing fire in its wake, and moved around to her breast. Emma froze, but he was too caught up in his passion to notice. A moan broke from him as he squeezed the tender flesh.

“No,” she whispered.

“Emma,” he moaned again as he trailed kisses up her neck to gently suck at the skin just below her ear.

“Killian,” she begged. “We can’t… I can’t… I can’t do this.” She wrenched herself away from him and opened her eyes, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

His pupils were blown with desire, only the thinnest rim of blue still visible. His hair was even more tousled than it had been and his lips were red and parted. He stared at her, the intensity threatening to consume her.

“I can’t…” she repeated. “I can’t do this…”

“Then go,” he ground out.

She fled to her room. Then the next day, she fled to Number Five.

And the day after that, she fled all the way to Scotland.

~*~*~

Emma had always been a sly one, and she could lie with the best of them when the occasion called for it, but even Killian was rather taken aback at the note full of lies she’d left for his mother when she’d gone to Scotland.

She described the disease spreading amongst the livestock in remarkable detail, all while assuring Alice that it wasn’t necessary for her or for Killian to follow her. She was fully capable of handling the emergency and would return to London just as soon as she could.

His own letter from her was far less wordy and more to the point.

It was wrong of me. Forgive me.

Although what she thought she needed to be forgiven for was quite beyond him. He had kissed her. 

Not exactly the kind of behavior he should be engaging in if he wished to keep his true feelings secret. She may have barged into his bedchamber, but she hadn’t done it expecting him to kiss her. She’d been concerned about their friendship. She thought he was angry with her, so she had acted rashly. But only because she cared about him and their relationship.

Was it possible that the reality of her kiss would so completely surpass every fantasy he’d ever had? And with six years worth of dreams behind him, he’d envisioned some truly spectacular kisses. But, yes. Yes, it was possible that his fantasies had been so lacking, it was almost laughable - if he was capable of laughing. And it was over now. Never to be repeated.

So now he was truly miserable. He’d only thought he’d been miserable the last six years. But no. Now that he’d tasted her, and actually experienced the far superior reality, his torment knew no bounds. He knew now exactly what he was missing. He understood with agonizing clarity what would never be his.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

They couldn’t even remain friends after this. Running to a different country in order to avoid him? Hell, he knew Emma. If she could have run to the moon, she would have. A woman couldn’t send a clearer message than that.

He still wasn’t quite sure how it’d happened. When she’d turned away from him, something had snapped in him and he moved. That was when everything between them changed. And then when she’d turned back to him, he was lost. There was no escaping it. The lid he’d kept on his love and desire for her had simply disappeared and there was nothing he could do but fall into her. There had been no choice involved. No free will. She’d simply waited, her stuttered breath the only thing between them. Waited for him to come to his senses and walk away? Or waited for him to kiss her? It didn’t matter. The result was the same.

The floor around his desk was littered with crumpled sheets of paper. He was in a destructive mood and they were easy targets. He grabbed another from the surface of his desk and prepared to do the same when he realized it was an invitation. He looked closer and saw it was for tonight. He inhaled sharply through his teeth. He’d probably answered in the affirmative when it’d arrived, but he was not in the mood to endure an evening of polite company. He crumpled the invitation in his hand and dropped it to the floor with its fellows. He rose from his desk and decided that he’d handle his problems the way he had so often before. By finding himself a woman.

~*~*~

A couple of hours later he found himself at the door of his club in as foul a mood as he’d ever been. He’d visited one of the higher class brothels in town - one that ensured the women were clean and there of their own free will - but had a difficult time deciding on one. Too short, too lean, too blonde, not in the mood for a brunette or redhead. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to choose. There was no reason to seek out someone who would just leave him feeling emptier inside than he already did.

So now he was here, where he’d be confronted with not a single female, hoping that alcohol would be successful where La Belle had failed. He walked in, but hadn’t even made it to the lounge when he heard his name.

“Kilmartin.”

Will Nolan. Damn, damn, damn! Anyone would have been preferable to a Nolan. Even Napoleon himself.

“Nolan.” He tried to inject a pleasant tone into his voice, but seriously doubted he was successful.

“Join me,” he invited, motioning to the seat across from him. There was no avoiding it. Killian could only hope Will had a pressing engagement that would require their impromptu meeting to be cut short. In about a minute and a half.

Will was silent until Killian’s drink was delivered. “I understand Emma has returned to Scotland.”

Killian grunted and nodded. 

“Surprising, isn’t it?” Will mused. “With the season just getting started and all.”

“I don’t pretend to know her mind,” Killian grit out.

“No,” he agreed. “There’s no understanding a female mind. Particularly Emma’s.”

As foul of a mood as he was already in, Will’s words made it even worse. “I seem to remember telling you during our last conversation that Emma deserved respect,” Killian growled. “And I would tolerate nothing less. From anyone.”

The warning in his tone was evident but Will was silent and just continued studying him.

“Have you thought about what I said?” he asked, changing the subject smoothly.

Killian held himself very still. “About what?”

A corner of Will’s lips rose in the beginnings of a smug smile. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing and Killian would have loved nothing better than to punch him.

“About Emma.”

“Didn’t we just confirm that she’s left the country?”

“Scotland isn’t that far,” Will observed.

“Far enough,” Killian muttered. Far enough anyway to make it abundantly clear how she felt about him.

“She’ll be all alone up there,” Will sighed.

Killian just stared at him, narrowing his eyes.

“I still think you should…” Will shrugged, “Well, you know what I think,” he finished.

Killian was done being polite. “You don’t know a damned thing, Nolan,” he growled.

Will raised his brows at the snarl in his voice, but the smirk didn’t disappear. “Funny, I hear that all the time,” he murmured. “Most of the time from my sisters.”

Killian was quite familiar with this tactic. He’d often used it himself. And it was probably why the desire to punch Will in the face was now manifesting in his clenched fist under the table. Nothing had more power to irritate than one’s own behavior showing up in someone else. And Will’s face was tantalizingly close.

“Another drink?” Will asked, motioning to Killian’s empty glass.

“No,” Killian bit out and rose from the table. He may have been happy to drink himself into oblivion, but he was certainly not happy to do it in the presence of Will Nolan.

“You do realize, Kilmartin,” Will said, his voice low and intense, “There’s nothing keeping you from marrying her. Nothing at all. Except of course,” he added, shrugging indifferently, but with his steady gaze not leaving Killian, “what you come up with yourself.”

Killian’s heart ripped in his chest. But he’d grown so used to it, it was a wonder he still noticed. And Will just wouldn’t shut up.

“Now if you don’t want to marry her…”

“She might say no.” His voice was no more than a whisper and damn it all, if Will hadn’t known his feelings for Emma before this conversation, he certainly did now.

Will shrugged again. “She might. Most women do, the first time they’re asked.”

Killian raised a brow. “And you know this how?”

Will’s gaze never wavered from his as he answered, “Oh, just hearing it around the ton.” He waved his arm about, rather aimlessly. “Because I’ve only asked once. And we both know how that turned out.” His grin now was genuine and a bit lovestruck, but seeing the happiness on Will’s face did nothing to improve Killian’s mood. Will’s eyes focused on him again, his gaze open but also calculating. “But speaking of, the wedding is being moved up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My wedding,” he repeated. “To Belle. We’ve decided to move up the date.”

“To when?”

“Two weeks.” 

Will’s gaze still hadn’t wavered, but now there was an amused satisfaction in his eyes that had Killian’s eyes narrowing, even as an idea began to form in his mind. “Emma will need to be informed.”

Will nodded. “Yes, she will. I’d go to her myself, but I’ll be a tad busy the next couple of weeks.”

“You will,” Killian acknowledged. “And your mother will likely be too busy to send a note as well.” Will nodded silently, his dark eyes dancing. 

“I’ll go.” 

It was the only conclusion to the little dance he and Will were engaged in, however unwilling he was as a participant. Will may have thought he was cleverly manipulating Killian into going after her, but he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t desperately want to follow her to Scotland, and now that he had a reason to, nothing would stop him from doing so.

Will raised his drink in salute as Killian rose from the table.

“Safe travels.”

~*~*~

Several days later, Killian stood at the door of Kilmartin, his childhood home. Spring had yet to arrive in the Scottish highlands and the bite in the air reminded him that this - not London, and certainly not India - was home. No matter how long he’d been away from it. But this sense was little comfort as he prepared himself for what lay ahead.

He had to face Emma.

He’d envisioned it a thousand times during his journey north. Imagining her reaction to him showing up, the words she might say, the words he’d say to her. Besides the message he’d actually been commissioned to bring her.

He was going to marry Emma.

He was going to have to convince her of it, of course. It had taken ten days - ten tremendously difficult days - for him to get his mind wrapped around the prospect since that first cataclysmic conversation with Will. But, that had been because he loved her so completely, and been so thoroughly convinced that she’d never belong to him, it had taken a while for him to accept it as even a remote possibility. Emma felt nothing of the sort for him, and so would undoubtedly see the advantages he was prepared to lay out for their union. She was an imminently sensible woman, and Killian was sure he’d be able to convince her to marry him.

And it would be good. It would be heaven. He may not have her heart, but he’d have the rest of her. And that would be enough.

Wouldn’t it?

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! Next ch will be up late Friday night before I go to bed.

[tethrawke]

What about a canon AU where Hawke needs to somehow buy her way into Kirkwall after fleeing the Blight with her family, but working for the smugglers isn't enough? What if Varric needs a wife ASAP before Bianca's family kills him and he hears about this newly washed-up refugee from a formerly well-respected noble bloodline who's been working odd jobs for questionable people to keep herself and her family afloat? What if he decides to take a look for himself and watches her for a few days and realises she's EXACTLY what he needs to deal with dwarven politics? What if he makes her an offer she can't refuse and they're married before the day is over and the Hawke family is moved into Varric's mansion? What if Dragon Age 2 becomes a green card AU?

[thegreatyin]

y'know, it probably feels weird for the scoundrel to admit, but they feel surprisingly comforted to be back on their ship for a change. they finally have control of the situation, they're finally around people they (vaguely) trust, they- wait a minute hold on what was that line

oh

oh no

oh no the horrors just keep getting worse and worse for them

[foxflowering]

biannual update to my personal m/m romance novel tierlist. hot takes abound

[hawnks]

Why am I like this…..

[meeghanreads]

Top 5 historical fantasy rom-coms

Hello friends!! Welcome to Top 5 Tuesday!! This week’s topic is a freebie, but I am doing top 5 historical fantasy rom-coms!! So, you know how my fave specific genre is fairy tale retellings. Especially anything to do with Slavic mythology. Well, I might have just found a new genre to eclipse that. And no, I’m not joking. See, I’ve found myself gravitating to books that are a little quirky, and…

[visceravalentines]

alright alright anon who dredged agaas up from the basement of my brain you really went and did something

it's been quite some time since I've written, outlined, or even thought about that fic (sometimes a creative break is really good!! keeps you from getting burned out). so before I jump back in, I want to maybe get a little reader input. 👀

this is not a request situation! I am making no promises! I know the direction I want to go in. I just am interested in what y'all would like to see as I pick it back up. this fic has always been a balance between very self-indulgent and giving the girlies what they love, and I've changed a lot in my writing and my view of Bo since I first started. and this feels like an opportune moment to check in and get a feel for how y'all feel!!

so send me your thoughts! about the fic so far, where you think it's going, where you hope it will go. things you'd like to see, things that you enjoy about it. your favorite scene or aspect of the story! after all, he's OUR dilf who would kill and maim for us 💚

[glitzbot]

more Helluva Bang art! this is a scene from @sirens-scales phenomenal stolitz regency AU: Gentleman in Need of a Scoundrel

[eklaize]

Book recs?

Hey capri community! I would love to hear some book recs from you! Setting: prefer fantasy/otherworldly/period over the real current world.

Gender doesn't really matter, there can be romance and spice (slowburn is always fun). Can have darker topics if done well.

Most importantly I really want to feel what the characters experience. Can be love/deep connection, fear/panic or whatever emotion but I want to gasp or laugh when reading… It's really hard to describe.

Pacat gave all that to me, but it's hard to find in other books so far. (Freya's A Marvellous Light was one of the ones that managed to do it, the second book less so tho, haven't read the third yet.)

So if anyone has a recommendation, please drop it in the comments. 👉👈 ----------------------------------------

EDIT: OMG thank you so much for all the recommendations! I compiled them in alphabetical order, so other people can refer to the list in case they need a recommendation as well:

A-Z (☑ read / ☐ not yet read /📜 currently reading)

☐ A Ballad for slayers & Monsters - Rita A Rubin ☐ A bone in his teeth - Kellen Graves ☐ A Gentleman's Guide to Seducing a Scoundrel - KJ Charles ☐ A Master of Djinn - P. Djeli Clark ☐ A Spear cuts through water - Simon Jimenez ☐ A Strange and Stubborn Endurance - Foz Meadows ☐ A taste of Gold and Iron - Alexandria Rowland ☐ All for the game - Nora Sakavic ☐ Angels & man - Nicolás Rafael ☐ Angels before man - Nicolás Rafael ☐ Ballad of Sword and Wine: Qiang Jin Jiu -Tang Jiu Qing ☐ Beacon Hill Sorcerer series -Sheena Jolie ☐ Blood Over Bright Haven - M. L. Wang ☐ Crier's War - Nina Varela ☑ Dark Rise - C.S.Pacat ☐ Glitterland - Alexis Hall ☐ Heaven Official's Blessing Mo Xiang Tong Xiu ☐ Iron Breakers Trilogy - Zaya Feli ☐ Long Live Evil - Sarah Rees Brennan ☐ Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett ☐ Iron Widow - Xiran Jay Zhao ☐ Murderbot Series - Martha Wells ☐ Nightrunner Series - Lynn Flewelling ☐ of Knights and Books - Rita A Rubin ☐ Parasol Protectorate - Gail Carriger ☑ Priory of the Orange Tree - Samantha Shannon ☐ Realm of the Elderlings/Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb ☐ Reforged - Seth Haddon ☐ Rose of the Prophet Cycle - Margret Weis/Tracy Hickmann ☐ Scum villain's self saving system - Mo Xiang Tong Xiu ☐ Shades of Magic -V.E. Schwab ☐ Silver Blood - TL Morgan ☐ Simon Snow Trilogy - Rainbow Rowell ☐ Six of Crows - Leigh Bardugo ☐ Skulduggery pleasant - Derek Handy ☑ Something Human - AJ Demas ☑ Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller ☐ Song of the bullrider - Alex "Muun" Singer ☐ Swordcrossed -Freya Marske ☐ Sword Dance -A.J. Demas ☐ The Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault ☐ The Binding - Bridget Collins ☐ The Crossroads trilogy - Kate Elliott 📜 The Darkness Outside Us - Eliot Schrefer ☐ The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison ☐ The Grandmaster of demonic cultivation (Mo Dao Zu Shi) - Mo Xiang Tong Xiu ☑ The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue - Mackenzi Lee ☐ The Hair Carpet Weavers Andreas Eschenbach ☐ The Hands of the Emperor - Victoria Goddard ☐ The husky and his white cat - Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou (check TW) ☐ The Hyperion Cantos - Dan Simmons ☑ The Last Binding Trilogy - Freya Marske ☐ The Left Hand of Darkness - Ursula K. Le Guin ☐ The Magpie Ballads- Vale Aida ☐ The Magpie Lord Series- Kj Charles ☐ The Prince's Psalm - Eric Shaw Quinn ☐ The Queen's thief - Megan Whalen Turner ☐ The Queer Principles of Kitt Webb - Cat Sebastian ☐ The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater ☑ The Rifter Series - Ginn Hale ☐ The Scottish Boy - Alex de Campi ☑ The Tarot Sequence Series - K.D. Edwards (check TW) ☐ The Traitor Baru Cormorant -Seth Dickinson ☐ The Winner's Curse - Marie Rutkoski ☐ Tiger, Tiger - Petra Erika Nordlund (Webcomic) ☐ Will Darling Adventures - KJ Charles ☑ Winter’s orbit - Everina Maxwell ☐ Untamed - Anna Cowan

[kmomof4]

A Scoundrel... Or a Gentleman? Ch. 3

Y'all... I STILL can't get over y'all's enthusiasm for this fic!!! THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!!!

And now, it's time for the new chapter! I hope y'all enjoy and let me know what you think!

But first, can you all join me in screaming at @snowbellewells for the gorgeous banner she made for the fic?! Thank you soooo much, babe!!!

Thank you again to @jrob64 for her beta services and listening to me whine, @hollyethecurious and @winterbaby89 who did as well, and @motherkatereloyshipper for the chapter art she made that I mistakenly posted with the Prologue instead of Ch2 where it belonged. Thank you all so much, ladies!!!

Chapter summary: Hurt/Comfort incoming!!! Enjoy!!!

Words: closing in on 6600 of approx 59,5k

Rating: M (smut in later chs)

Tags: Regency Romance, Inspired by Francesca Bridgerton's Story, Smut in Later Chapters.

On ao3 From Beginning / Current Chapter

On Tumblr Prologue 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

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

Ch. 3

“Didn’t Killian say he would join us for dinner this evening?” Ruth asked.

Emma looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.  It wasn’t like him to be late. “He did.”

“And didn’t we tell him the time?”

Ruth’s face betrayed that she was worried about their unaccounted for dinner guest, and Emma sighed. She’d been dreading his arrival all day long - on account of her epiphany in the park and then the conversation with her mother. She just wasn’t sure she could face him without her face betraying her. But small blessings, he likely wasn’t even aware of what happened to her in the park.

She nodded. “I confirmed the time with him when we arrived back here after our stroll through the park.” She remembered the exchange with perfect clarity. She’d felt quite sick to her stomach at the time - not wanting to see him again so soon - but she had no choice in the matter. Her mother had extended the invitation, not her.

“Perhaps I should go check on him,” Emma said, rising to her feet. The more she thought about it, the more concerned she grew about him. He may be known as a rake and scoundrel, but he was polite and courteous to a fault and would never be late - over thirty minutes late - to any gathering he was invited to. Not without sending some kind of word.

“Oh, would you, dear? I’d be so grateful,” Ruth assured her.

Emma nodded and hurried out of the room. It only took a few minutes before she was safely ensconced in a carriage and on her way to Kilmartin House. The streets weren’t terribly busy. The ton wouldn’t be out on their way to balls and parties for another couple of hours yet.

She arrived at the house and climbed the steps, the door opening before she even had a chance to use the knocker. 

“Is Kilmartin here?” A small smile touched her lips as she realized it was the first time she’d referred to Killian as such. It was strange, but good too, how easily she called him by his title. It was probably time anyway. He was the earl now. She wouldn’t refer to him as Mr. Jones or Killian with the staff ever again.

“I believe so,” the footman replied. “He arrived home this afternoon and I haven’t been made aware of his departure.”

Emma nodded in acknowledgement, then hurried up the stairs. If he’d been in his downstairs office, the footman would have known. She reached the second floor landing and hurried down the hall to his bedchamber.

“Killian?” she asked, once she reached his door. “Killian?” 

There was no answer, and Emma slowly pushed the door open. “Killian,” she called again, a little softer this time, not wanting to wake him if he slept. Perhaps he was still tired after his long journey. 

Perhaps… 

She couldn’t finish the thought. She burst through the door in a panic and ran to the bed to find Killian huddled in the middle of the bed, looking as sick as anyone she’d ever seen in her life.

“Killian!” she cried, unable to keep the alarm out of her voice, although she was very relieved that he was indeed alive.

He startled and turned toward her. “Emma?” His voice was a low rasp that she’d never heard from his lips. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes - from what she could tell in the semi-darkened room - were glazed, his skin was mottled and flushed, and the level of heat emanating from the bed quite took her breath away. Not to mention that he smelled sick. That kind of awful, putrid kind of smell that if it had a color, would surely be vomitous green. Emma touched his forehead and immediately drew her hand back from the heat of it.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Oh, it’s nothing but a head cold,” he croaked.

There was no way for her to keep the incredulous shock off of her face. “That is not a head cold,” she asserted.

He tried to smile, but it came across as more of a ghastly grimace instead. “A really bad head cold?” he tried again. 

“Killian George Alaster Jones!” If he wasn’t so sick, she might have smacked him on the arm. But since he was, she restrained herself.

“Good God, you sound like my mother.” He pulled the covers back up over himself, his whole body shaking with the exertion.

“Killian,” she growled, “I insist that you tell me what is wrong with you. You forget, I know you and how you operate. You always act like nothing ever matters, like water off a duck’s back. You will not brush me off and attempt to minimize this. Do you understand me?”

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” he mumbled.

“Oh, right,” Emma replied, with every bit of sarcasm she could muster, which was quite a lot, actually.

“I will, truly,” he insisted, turning over onto his back with a groan. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Something about the tone of his voice struck her as odd. “And what about the day after that?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh, well then I’ll be sick as a dog again,” he said with a harsh chuckle.

“Killian,” she said, the dread in her heart forcing her pitch lower. “What is wrong with you?”

“Haven’t you guessed, Emma?” he asked, poking his head back out of the covers. He looked so ill, she wanted to weep. “I have malaria.”

“Oh, my God,” she gasped, backing up a step. “Oh, my God!”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you blaspheme,” he remarked. “Should probably be flattered that it’s over me.” She had no idea how he could be so flippant at a time like this. She reached out for him, but drew back again, unsure what exactly to do. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “You can’t catch it from me.”

“I can’t?” She blinked in surprise. “I mean, of course, I can’t.” And even if she could, it shouldn’t have stopped her from trying to help him. This was Killian. He was… well, it was difficult to define exactly what he was to her, but they had an unbreakable bond between them - they always had - that time and distance had not erased.

“It’s the air,” he said, tiredly. “You have to breathe the putrid air to catch it. It’s why they call it malaria. If you could get it from another person, we would have infected all of England by now.” 

She nodded at his explanation. “Are you… are you…?” she tried again. She couldn’t say it out loud.

He shook his head. “No,” he assured her. “At least, they don’t think so.”

Emma sagged with relief, then sat down. She couldn’t imagine a world without him. Even when he was gone the last four years, even with as furious as she was at him for leaving her in the first place, she took comfort in the fact that he still shared the same planet with her. That if she truly needed him, he’d be at her side as quickly as he could be.

He was here. He was alive. And with Liam gone… She shook her head. She didn’t know how the universe could expect her to lose them both.

He shivered again, violently.

“Do you need medicine?” she asked, snapped out of her musings. “Do you have medicine?”

“Took it already,” he said, teeth chattering.

She had to do something. She never blamed herself for Liam’s death, but it haunted her that it had happened while she was out. That he had died alone. And even if Killian was only sick and not dying, she wasn’t going to allow him to suffer through it alone.

“Let me get you another blanket.” She hurried through the door to her adjoining suite and took the pink coverlet off the bed. She couldn’t help the small smile as she thought of his grumbling and complaining about the color once he reached a state of sensibility again. “Is there anything else I can do?” she asked as she tucked the blanket around him.

He shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”

“Are you sure? There’s nothing I can do?” She pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down.

“Nothing.” The single word held such a note of finality about it, she had to believe him. He had obviously dealt with this before.

“I cannot believe…”

“We are meant to simply wait it out,” he interrupted her.

“That cannot possibly be true.”

He groggily opened a single eyelid and shot her a look. “Do you mean to contradict the entire medical establishment? Hmmm?”

She ground her teeth in frustration and caught a shadow of his old smirk on his face. She hated how well he knew her. “Are you sure you don’t need more medicine?”

He shook his head just the tiniest bit, and groaned at the exertion. “Not for a few hours yet.”

“Where is it?” she asked. If the only thing she could do was wait by his side until it was time to give him more of the medicine, then, by God, that was exactly what she’d do.

He moved his head slightly to the left and she saw a medicinal bottle on top of a folded newspaper. She picked it up and read the label as she came back to her chair.

“Quinine,” she murmured. “I’ve heard of that.”

“Miracle medicine,” he said. “Or so they say.” The look she sent him was dubious in the extreme. “Just look at me. Proof positive.” He gave her a lopsided - but still altogether charming - grin.

“I am unconvinced.”

A groan escaped him as he shrugged a single shoulder. “I’m not dead.”

“That’s not funny,” she admonished him.

“No, it’s the only funny thing,” he corrected her. “In the middle of this, we have to take our laughs when and where we can.”

She reached out and took his hand. “We’ll get through this.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. Just when she thought he’d fallen asleep, she heard him whisper.

“It’s better with you here.”

~*~*~

Killian awoke the next morning feeling - at least somewhat - refreshed, if not a damn sight better than he had the night before. He looked around to see Emma, much to his horror, sound asleep in the armchair she’d pulled over to the side of the bed. She looked about as uncomfortable as a body could possibly be and still be asleep, from the way her head and neck were at a terribly awkward angle, to the way her torso was twisted so that she could draw her legs up into the chair.

He knew it was too much to hope for to keep his illness hidden from her. She was far too perceptive. And nosy to boot. But as much as he didn’t want to be a burden to her and have her fussing over him, it was a profound comfort to him to have had her here with him the night before.

She snored softly, and for some reason that quite delighted him. He’d never seen her asleep and a soft smile spread across his face. Of course, he had imagined watching her sleep more times than he could count. She stirred slightly, and he realized she was on the verge of awakening. In all his daydreams, he’d never pictured this - the low rumble from deep in her chest as she changed position, the soft sigh as she yawned, the delicate flutter of her eyelids as they opened.

She was utterly breathtaking.

He knew that, of course. He’d always known that. But for some reason, this morning, it was something he felt in his very soul. The center of his being.

It wasn’t her golden hair, that even in the darkness of his still shrouded bedchamber glowed with its own inner light. It wasn’t the depth of her green eyes - which to Liam’s constant amusement had inspired poetry when she was still a debutante. It wasn’t even the bone structure of her face, the delicate loveliness that characterized all the Nolan ladies.

It was something in the way she moved.

The way she breathed.

The way she simply existed.

“Killian?” she murmured, opening her eyes at last.

“Good morning,” he greeted her. He hoped she was either not awake enough to notice the huskiness of his voice or, if she did, that she’d chalk it up to utter exhaustion after a very rough night.

“You look better.”

He nodded. “ I feel better.”

She swallowed hard before speaking. “You - you’re used to this.”

He nodded again. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m used to it, exactly, but I do know what to do.”

“How long will this continue?”

“It varies,” he began. “I’ll have fevers every other day until they just… stop. Generally a week or two, at most.”

Her face was a mixture of dismay and unbelief. “And then what?”

“And then, I go on about my life and hope it never happens again.”

“It can do that?” she asked incredulously. “Just never come back again?”

“It is a strange, fickle disease.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t say it’s just like a woman.”

“It never crossed my mind until you mentioned it.” But he couldn’t resist smirking meaningfully at her.

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “How often do they come?” She looked puzzled for a moment, then spoke again. “What do you call them?”

“I call them attacks,” he informed her. “They certainly feel like one, anyway. It’s been six months since the last one.”

She brightened considerably. “That’s good!” And then fell again, just as quickly. “Isn’t it?”

“Considering the one before that was only three months between, I’d say yes.”

“How often has this happened?”

“I’ve been dealing with this for almost two years,” he replied. “And this is my sixth attack. But I have seen much worse.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Am I supposed to take solace in that?”

“I do,” he said bluntly.

She pressed her lips into a thin line then reached for his forehead. “You’re much cooler.”

“Yes, I would be. It’s a remarkably consistent disease, at least when in the midst of it. It would be very nice to know when I might expect an onset, though,” he mused.

“And you’ll really have another fever in a day’s time?” she asked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he confirmed.

Her eyes grew soft as she watched him for a moment. “You won’t be able to hide this from your mother, you know.”

It hadn’t even occurred to him. In his shock, he tried to sit up. “For God’s sake, Emma, do not tell my mother…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Killian!” she interrupted. “Do you really expect to keep something of this import away from her? Do credit her with a bit of intelligence!”

He slumped back against the pillows. “Very well,” he humphed. “But no one else. I do not wish to be known as the freak of London.”

“You’re not the first person to be stricken with malaria.”

“I do not want anyone’s pity,” he grit out. “Most especially, yours.”

She drew back as if he’d struck her, and of course he felt like an ass.

“I’m sorry. Truly,” he apologized. “Please forgive me. That came out wrong.” As an explanation, it was woefully inadequate, but it was all he had at the moment. “I don’t want your pity,” he tried again, repentance in every word. “But your care and good wishes are most welcomed.”

Her eyes wouldn’t meet his and he knew she was trying to decide if she believed him.

“I mean it,” he assured her. “I have been through this before, and having you here last night… made it better. Easier.” The exhaustion was overtaking him again and he could only just nod at her. “Yes, easier to bear… with you here. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” That made him turn his head sharply toward her. She looked down at her clasped hands folded demurely in her lap. She truly wouldn’t have been anywhere else than by his side when he was this ill. It brought him such a sense of peace, he had to blink back tears. He turned away from her, reluctant to allow her to see how her words affected him, and could just see the light through the gap in between the curtains.

“Won’t your mother be worried about you?”

“Oh, no!” she cried, leaping up and slamming her hand on the table. Her hiss of pain made him try to sit up again, but he couldn’t manage it, slumping back against the pillows. “I’d quite forgotten about my mother. She was expecting me back last night.”

“Didn’t you send her a note?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied with a hint of impatience. “I told her you were ill, but she wrote back and said she would come by this morning to offer her assistance. What time is it?” she asked, looking around before her gaze landed on the mantle clock. Of course she’d know where the clock was. This had been Liam’s room, after all. “It’s only eight. She’s never awake before nine, unless there’s some sort of emergency. Which, I hope, she wouldn’t consider this to be. I told her you were ill with a head cold, so she doesn’t know about the malaria, but I hope she doesn’t rush over here because I panicked her with my note.”

Knowing Emma, it was probably the utter opposite of panicked and she was worrying for nothing. 

“There’s no need to panic.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “I know that’s what you said, but that wouldn’t stop her from panicking because of my note and rushing over here, and you said you didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

His lips parted in a soft O of surprise. He’d never dreamed she would hold his wishes so close to her heart. “You would keep this from your mother?” he asked softly.

Her eyes softened. “Of course. It’s your decision to tell her. Not mine.”

It was quite touching. Tender, even.

“Even if I think you’re insane,” she added.

Well, maybe tender wasn’t the right word.

“But I will honor your wishes.” She planted her hands on her hips, quite honestly as vexed as he’d ever seen her. “How could you think I would do otherwise?”

“I have no idea,” he murmured.

“Really, Killian,” she grumbled. “I do not know what is wrong with you.”

“Swampy air?” he tried to joke, aiming for his signature devil may care grin.

She shot him A Look. Capitalized.

“I am going back to my mother’s,” she said, pulling on her boots. “If I don’t, you can be sure that she’d be here within an hour with the entire faculty of the Royal College of Physicians in tow.”

“Is that what she did when you took ill?”

She let out a little sound that was half snort, half grunt, and all irritation. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

He made a half-hearted motion toward the sickbed and tried to grin, though it was most likely more of a grimace. 

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you,” she sassed.

“Your faith in my superhuman strength is most touching.”

She paused at the door and pursed her lips. “I swear, Killian. You are the most annoying deathly ill patient I’ve ever seen.”

This time, he did manage a smile. “I live to entertain you.” She huffed and spun out of the door and down the hall. He was quite sure if she’d had something to throw at him, she would have. And with great vigor.

He might be an annoying patient, but she was a crotchety nurse. Which was just fine with him.

~*~*~

It had been a week since Emma discovered Killian had malaria. She’d kept his secret from her family, no matter that they were most anxious to see him. It had been quite a job in and of itself, and Emma was sure Ruth wasn’t going to be put off for much longer. 

Keeping Killian out of sight of the ton proved to be much easier. He simply turned down all invitations, pleading his long journey and need to settle in before he entered society. His mother had yet to arrive from Scotland and so Emma spent her days at Kilmartin House nursing Killian, and her nights back at Number 5. 

Surely today Alice would arrive, and she could move back into Kilmartin House permanently, no longer worried about their lack of a chaperone.

“I believe I’ll come with you to Kilmartin House today, Emma,” Ruth informed her at breakfast. Emma almost choked on her muffin.

“W-why?” she stammered.

“I want to see Killian, of course,” she replied.

“I-I am not sure of his plans today, Mother,” Emma answered quickly. Killian had had another attack the night before- his fourth to be precise- and they were both hopeful it was the last in the cycle. But while he’d be much recovered this morning, he still looked, quite simply, dreadful. If Ruth caught a glimpse of him, she’d be horrified. And furious. Ruth Nolan hated to be kept in the dark. Especially about a matter that could be termed as “life or death” without being accused of hyperbole.

“If he’s not available, then I shall return home,” Ruth said serenely. 

Emma rose from the table with as much grace as she could muster. “I’ll just go on over and see if he’s available, and if he isn’t, I’ll send word.”

“I’ll see you out.” Ruth rose with her and Emma sighed, trying desperately to keep her agitation contained.

Once they were at the door and waiting for the footman to bring Emma’s coat, Ruth spoke.

“Do you have something to tell me?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” Ruth’s countenance was serious and Emma breathed a quick prayer that she’d quickly get to the point. And that she’d have an answer for her.

“I assure you, Mother,” she put on her most innocent face, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You have been spending quite a bit of time at Kilmartin House,” she informed her unnecessarily. “And without a chaperone.”

“And the problem with that is?” Emma asked. “He’s my brother. In-law,” she added quickly. “And I’m not a never-married virgin!”

“What exactly is your relationship with the earl?” Trust her mother to cut right to the chase without beating about the bush. Emma couldn’t contain her shock if she tried.

“Mother!”

“You needn’t look so shocked. It is not a silly question.” Her mother was serious. Her mother believed her to be having an affair with Killian. Emma couldn’t begin to formulate a response.

“H-he’s my b-brother!” she exclaimed again. She could think of nothing else.

“He was your husband’s brother,” Ruth corrected.

“And mine,” Emma insisted, sharply. “I can’t believe you’d believe… Good heavens! I can’t even imagine!”

Except that she could. Caring for Killian the last week had kept the thoughts at bay, but now, with her mother guessing… she couldn’t pretend that the moment at Hyde Park hadn’t happened. The moment she saw Killian as a man. Not as her brother. In-law. She was absolutely mortified. She didn’t have any attraction to Killian. She couldn’t. It was wrong. It was just… wrong. There was no better word for it.

She took a deep breath trying desperately to bring her chaotic thoughts under control. “I told you, Mother. Killian has been ill.”

“Seven days is quite a long time for a head cold,” she observed.

Emma nodded quickly. “It is, but I’m confident he’s feeling better and will soon be up for visitors and to take his place in society. I’ve felt it my duty to help him settle in and become acclimated to his new duties. He has been gone a very long time.”

“Yes, he has,” her mother conceded, but without taking her eyes off her daughter. “I will see you in an hour.” And with those words, Ruth turned and walked away, leaving Emma very panicked indeed.

~*~*~

Killian was enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet when Emma burst into his bedchamber quite agitated and out of breath.

“You have two choices,” she informed him on a rough exhale.

“Emma,” he said, concerned. “Did you run all the way over here?”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “Just up the stairs.” Her breathing was harsh and rapid and Killian worried about her dropping with a case of the vapors.

“Emma?” he asked gingerly, very aware that he should proceed with caution when she was in such a state. “Are you quite all…”

“My mother is coming,” she interrupted.

“Here?” Killian asked, his brows nearly hitting his hairline.

She nodded. Killian pressed his lips together. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but he wouldn’t have thought it worth the level of panic he saw in her.

“Why?” It seemed the next logical question.

Emma’s hand fluttered from her hip, to her forehead, mouth and finally over her breasts before speaking.

“She thinks…” she trailed away and took another harsh breath. “She thinks… oh, heavens, you won’t believe it.”

He waited for her to speak again, and when she didn’t, he simply raised a single eyebrow at her in inquiry. 

“She believes,” Emma shuddered, “that we are conducting an affair!”

“After only a week back in London,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’m faster than even I believed.”

Emma blanched. “How can you joke at a time like this?”

“How can you not?” But of course she wouldn’t joke about it. To her, it was unthinkable. To him, however…

Well, to him it was something else entirely.

“I am horrified.”

Killian shrugged indifferently, even if he was feeling rather pricked. He knew Emma didn’t see him that way, but an expression of horror didn’t exactly leave him feeling proud about his manly prowess.

“What are my two choices?” he asked abruptly. 

She stared at him.

“You said I had two choices.”

She blinked in surprise, and would have looked rather adorably befuddled if he hadn’t been overly irritated at her at the moment.

“I… don’t recall,” she finally said. “Oh, my heavens! What am I to do?”

“Settling down might be a good beginning,” he said mildly. She was in such a state, her head jerked sharply when she turned to him. “Stop and think, Emma. We are talking about us. Your mother will take one good look at us and realize how ridiculous…” he nearly winced at the word, but he believed he caught himself before she would have caught it, “the idea is.” 

She took a deep cleansing breath, but the color was still high on her cheeks and her movements sharp. She wasn’t calmed by his words in the slightest.

“That’s what I told her. Oh, my heavens,” she lamented. “Could you imagine?”

Yes, he could actually. Even if she obviously couldn’t.

“It’s simply…” her arms flailed about her as she began to pace, unable to find the words to express herself. “Inconceivable! Unfathomable! As if I… As if you…!” She continued her tirade under her breath as she paced. 

“You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you quite so put out,” he observed. She stopped and looked at him as if he was some loathsome creature that crawled out of the most foul smelling refuse pile in all of London. “You really ought to endeavor to calm down.” He meant the words sincerely, even if he knew Emma wouldn’t heed them. Women everywhere hated to be told to calm down and Emma was no exception.

“Calm down? Calm down?” she repeated. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Killian! Are you still feverish?”

“No.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Quite.”

“It’s insane. Completely insane,” she said with a little shake of her head. “I mean, look at you!”

He raised his eyebrow at her for that. “Yes, I’m aware of what I look like, generally. And what does that have to do with anything?” he asked, struggling mightily to keep his temper in check. “You know, there are a lot of women in London who would be quite pleased to be, how did you put it, ‘conducting an affair’ with me.” She stopped in her tracks and stood staring at him, her mouth hanging open.

He leaned back against the pillows and waggled his brows at her. “Some would call it a privilege.”

Her mouth snapped shut and she glared at him.

“Some women…” he continued, though he knew with absolute certainty that he shouldn’t bait her like this, “might engage in physical battle just for the chance…”

“Stop now, Killian,” she snapped, interrupting him. “Really, this overinflated view of your own prowess…”

“I’m told it’s deserved,” he interrupted her right back, a smug smile on his face. Her cheeks flamed. He might love her, but he couldn’t deny a small bit of satisfaction at seeing her so tortured. It was only a portion of what he lived with on a daily basis, after all.

“I have no wish to hear of your amorous exploits,” Emma said primly. 

Killian’s brows nearly hit his hairline in surprise. “Oh, really? You used to. All the time, in fact. What was it you used to say?” he mused. “Ah yes! Tell me something wicked,” he continued, trying for all the world to sound as if he really had just remembered what she used to say to him, when he never actually forgot anything she ever said to him. “Tell me something wicked,” he repeated. “That was it. You were always curious about my exploits.”

“That was before…”

“Before what?” he asked mildly, quite interested in what she might say in answer to his question.

She stared blankly at him again, as if she didn’t quite understand the question. “Before this… now… everything…”

“And I’m supposed to understand that?”

She glared in response.

“Very well, then. I suppose I should prepare myself for your mother’s visit.” She still stood staring at him, and he lifted a brow in inquiry. “Are you just going to wait here for me to ready myself, and thus expose yourself to certain parts of my anatomy you’d rather not see? Or will you await my dashing presence downstairs?”

Emma’s jaw dropped slightly before she turned and fled the room. Which was odd. Emma never fled anything. Nor did she ever allow him to have the last word. And most of all, he couldn’t believe she’d let him get away with calling himself dashing.

Most puzzling indeed.

~*~*~

Emma never had to suffer through her mother’s anticipated visit. Not twenty minutes after she left Killian’s bedchamber, a note arrived from Number 5 announcing that Emma’s brother August had just arrived home - after gallivanting around the Mediterranean for months on end - thus requiring Ruth to postpone her visit.

And then, that evening, Killian’s mother finally arrived from Scotland, allowing Emma to return to Kilmartin House full-time since a chaperone was now in place. Alice Jones was, of course, delighted to see her son return home, as demonstrated by the tight and enthusiastic embrace she greeted him with, but she was quite taken aback when his sickly countenance registered and she was informed of his malady. 

Much to Emma’s surprise, she agreed with Killian about keeping the malaria a secret. Now that he was home and apparently ready to take on the duties of the earl, Alice was determined to see him married by the end of the season, and this disease could only be a detriment to that end.

And to be honest, Emma was quite relieved to hear Killian’s mother talk to him about getting married. It took Alice’s attention off of Emma and her own plans for the season. She had enough to worry about from her own mother’s interference, without Alice adding to it. 

So Emma and Alice occasionally ventured out in the evenings with Killian continuing to refuse all invitations. And while Emma had expected some questions about her brother-in-law, she’d been utterly unprepared for the volume and frequency of those questions. Everyone wanted to know about him. And not just the single ladies and their mamas. Even older married women, widows, and a few men expressed interest in his whereabouts. No doubt looking for some tidbit of gossip to share among their respective circles. It was all Emma could do to keep a straight, and pleasant, face without rolling her eyes at their collective intrusive nosiness. Their transparency was ridiculous. It was going to be utter madness when he actually recovered.

And then, suddenly, he did.

Well, perhaps it wasn’t as suddenly as she supposed. The fevers had been spacing themselves out and had been less severe, but it truly did seem sudden with him looking pale and sickly one day and the next hale and hearty as he ever was.

“Quinine,” he remarked with a shrug. “I’d take it six times a day if it didn’t taste so damn foul.”

“Language please, Killian,” Alice reminded him as he sat down at the breakfast table.

“Have you tasted the quinine, Mother?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“You wouldn’t scold me for my language if you had,” he assured her.

She huffed, but it was plain for all to see that it was only for show. She was far too pleased to see him out of bed and looking like himself again.

“Now that you are recovered,” she began, “You must attend to the duties of the earl.”

Killian groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t be so petulant,” she chided him. “No one is going to hang you by your thumbs. I was simply going to say that you need to schedule a visit to the tailor for a set of evening clothes.”

“I think I’d rather donate my thumbs,” Killian muttered.

“They’re lovely thumbs,” Alice replied, not missing a beat, “but they’d be much more use attached to your hands.”

Killian met her eyes before speaking. “I must have neglected to inform you of my appointments today,” he said. “First, I am meeting with the prime minister concerning the assumption of my seat at the House of Lords. Then I have an appointment with the family solicitor so that I might review the state of our financial holdings, and then finally an interview with our primary estate manager, who I’m told has come down to London for the express purpose of discussing the state of all seven of our family properties. At which point should I squeeze in a visit to the tailor?”

Alice and Emma were both speechless.

“Perhaps I should inform the prime minister that I had to move him to Thursday?” he asked mildly.

“When did you make all of these appointments?” Emma asked, still stunned at his apparent diligence.

“Did you think I spent the last fortnight staring at the ceiling?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Well, no…” She hadn’t really given much thought to how he’d spent his days. She would have spent them reading.

“As I hope we have quite clearly established,” he said, pushing back from his seat, “I have a very busy day ahead of me. If you ladies will excuse me.” He hadn’t even risen to his full height when Alice caught his attention with a light cough.

“An appointment tomorrow with the tailor is perfectly acceptable,” she informed him with a smile. Emma could see his jaw muscle clench in irritation. “You wouldn’t want to miss Lady Nolan’s birthday celebration would you?”

Emma quickly took a bite of her eggs to hide her grin. Alice was positively devious when it suited her purposes. Her mother’s birthday party was the one event that Killian would absolutely feel obligated to attend. Anything else, he could shrug off. 

But Ruth?

Emma didn’t think so.

“When is it?” he sighed.

“April 11th,” she informed him, sweetly. “Everyone will be there.”

“Everyone?” he echoed.

“All the Nolans.” He brightened visibly. “And everyone else,” she continued with an indifferent shrug.

“Am I to get no reprieve?” he asked the room at large.

“Of course you do,” Alice replied. “In fact, you had one last week. We called it malaria.”

“And here I was looking forward to health,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

“I am sure you’ll have a lovely time,” Alice continued. “And perhaps meet a lovely lady.”

Killian sighed and rolled his eyes again. “Ah yes, lest we forget my true purpose in life.”

“It’s not such a bad purpose, you know,” Emma said, unable to resist teasing him just a bit.

“Oh, really?” His piercing gaze landed on her, and Emma wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have provoked him. “And just what are your purposes?” 

Alice looked to her with clear interest and Emma had to lick her suddenly dry lips.

“Oh, this and that,” she answered blithely, waving her hand carelessly. “At the moment, to finish my breakfast,” she continued before taking another bite of her eggs. “It is most delicious, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hmmmm,” he hummed, amusement coloring his features. “Coddled eggs with a side of meddling mothers?”

“And sister-in-law as well,” Emma reminded him, a sly smile on her face. She shouldn’t, she knew she shouldn’t, but she just couldn’t help herself. There was little she enjoyed more in this world than teasing Killian Jones, and moments like this were simply too delicious to resist.

“And how will you be spending your season, Emma?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly to tell her he knew exactly what he was doing and was waiting patiently to see how she would answer him. 

Well, she had provoked him first after all.

“I expect I’ll begin by attending my mother’s birthday party.”

“And doing what?” He wasn’t going to let up.

“Offering my felicitations, of course.” She raised her chin slightly in challenge.

���And is that all?”

“Well, I won’t be inquiring after her age, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, don’t do that,” Alice offered.

“I’m leaving now,” Killian informed them, turning towards the door. Emma said nothing. She was too surprised to say a single word. Alice’s interjection effectively brought the back and forth between them to an end and Killian had taken the interruption as a justification to withdraw from their usual repartee.

Killian had changed.

It wasn’t that he’d been irresponsible before, but he hadn’t had any real responsibilities. And while she knew he’d do what was expected of him once he returned home and assumed his duties, it hadn’t really occurred to her just how well he’d rise to the occasion.

“Killian,” she said softly, gaining his immediate attention. “Good luck with the prime minister.”

His eyes caught hers and something flashed between them. A moment of gratitude and understanding. A moment of communication that only those in the closest relationships engaged in. The kind of moment she’d often shared with Liam.

Did that really just happen? With Killian? Her friend and brother-in-law? It wasn’t possible, was it? Was it?

What was she going to do now?

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! Next chapter will be up on Saturday!

[violant-apologia]

the FL MtG cards are here!

this is like my fourth batch, but i haven't posted any of the previous ones, so let me show off some of the cards from all the batches!

briar and his three mr stoneses! these are the face commanders of the deck. there are alternate commanders that you'll see later, but this is the pair that i like using the most often.

more masters! (and bazaar-aligned entities). all the masters in the deck are vampires, and they also all have the seal of the bazaar as a watermark. just a neat bit of visual clarity, i think!

ocs! incuding mine. not all of them will be able to make it into the deck proper (for deck size and colour identity reasons) but i'm still so happy to have them all.

basic lands: seven of each. these gave me so much hassle back when i made them, but i think they turned out well!!! apart from the edge mountains which are like 70% black.

more lands! a triplet of creatureland which i feel work very well. the rest of them are neat too. whenever i say i have an underground sea proxy in the deck, people give me a Look, but how could i not! it's a perfect fit.

dfcs! the frames of these all had to be done by hand, which always took a while. i still think they turned out incredibly well, all things considered.

more creatures!! some legendary, some not. i made the decision pretty early that if i represent a named character with a nonlegendary card, i'd just cut the "the" from the name (see sallow spirifer and voracious diplomat). i think it works!

and noncreatures!! there's a vague treasure theme in the deck (as can be seen in the fall of london, revel in riches and spirifage (as well as a lot of the creatures)) but honestly most of the cards are flavour picks. still, artificial evolution has gotten me out of some jams. fun card!

aaaand tokens! which is everything. i reckon when i play this deck properly, i'll report back any fun scrapes that anyone's characters get into. like getting turned into a bug, or killing the god of death.

again, thank everyone who contributed OCs or art to this project. i'm very happy to have so many flumblr characters appear in the deck. all of the cards have art credits on them, but some probably aren't visible in the photos. so for proper credits (and as a ping list) i've included a list below the cut:

@alexis-royce: The Ex-Disgraced Academic; Mr Pages; Mr Stones (x2); New Blood. @anomalouscorvid: Darcy, the Appalling Artist; Furnace Ancona; Mr Transport; May, the Merry Gentleman; The Seventh Coil. @capn-twitchery: Captain Twitchery Lazaret. @ciriparipa: Mr Sacks. @dualclock: Oswald, the Decadent Parvenu. elena-illustration: M. Melchor. @esteemed-excellency: Haunted One; Hiram Hargrave. @feivelynart: Black Ribbon Duellist; The Carnelian Exile; The Grand Geode; London Ascends to the Stars; Thopter Token; Voracious Diplomat. u/Galvatyr: Poor Edward. @hells-dear-heart: Isidore Carter. @letters-of-fire: Boots the Cat; Giorgione, Crooked-Cross. @madame-butterfly-knife: Inessa Fonseca, Lyon. @milleart: Snuffer. @mledoesart: Mr Eaten. @oneirotecture: Warden, Scarred Silverer. @pinchbees: Merry Darthfellow. Sarah Warrington: Orsino Elderwood. @shazzbaa: Griz, the Efficient Commissioner; Mr Fires; Stargaze; Tragic Slip; Virginia, Lord Mayor of London. @sorrow2art: Cardiac Echoes, Spymaster. StagyTryout: The Avid Horizon @sunlessveils: Parabolan Kitten. @tears-n-tarot: Charlie and Artemis Burnet-Lin. @the-insouciant-scientist: Briar Hathaway, the Apologist; Mr Stones; Noman. @the-masterless-press: Betty Horvat, Pugilist. @the-noted-collector: Endemannus Korabl'nikov. @thedeafprophet: Harper Faraday. @thegreatyin: The Bandaged Scoundrel. @thunder-threnodies: Captain Francis Morgan Dargor. @torturingpeople: Edison, the Sybaritic Laureate; The Tender Pathologist. @velvetlinedbox: Doe, Waterlogged Detective. @viric-dreams: The Boil of Calamities; Drown in Dreams; Horiatio Digby; The Six Finger'd Scrimshander. @waterlogged-detective: Brett Heroux, Dandy Detective; Marian, Prickly Bluejacket; Namkuzu, Avaricious Meddler. @yuuuyang: Sigil-Ridden Navigator; Storm, God of the Roof; The Woods in Winter. @zeebreezin: August Shaw, the Black Rook.

and @failbettergames: Arcane Signet; Artificial Evolution; Beseech the Queen; Betty Horvat, Pugilist (bg); Black Market; Blood Token; The Cave of the Nadir; Censor; The Chapel of Lights; Clothes-Colony; Clue Token; Copy Token; Darkness; The Dawn Machine; Dreamscape Artist; The Echo Bazaar; The Fall of London; Flood of Tears; Food Token; Hecuba, Doomed Obliterator; Hideaway; Hillchanger Tower; The Horticultural Show; The House of Chimes; The Implacable Detective; Inessa Fonseca, Lyon (bg); The Irrepressible Heiress; Island (x7); Jack-of-Smiles; Khan's Heart; Laughable Reconstruction; Miniature Hellworm; Mountain (x7); The Mountain of Light; Mr Chimes; Perigee of Silver; The Prismatic Dowager; Probably a Coincidence; Revel in Riches; Rise and Shine; Road // Ruin; Sallow Spirifer; Salt, God of the East; The Scuttering Company; Shapeshifter Token; Spider-Council; Spirifage; Stone, God of the South; Swamp (x7); Treasure Token (x2); Underground Sea; Venderbight.

[deadly-diminuendo]

The Ascendant Takes a Bride

an ascended astarion x fem!reader oneshot / nsfw / ~4.4k words

Summary: Just as you and your family are about to fall into ruin, you agree to marry the mysterious Astarion Ancunín in exchange for his promise to pay off all your debts. Attractive and charming though he is, you cannot help but to feel nervous about your arrangement. Some say he is a vampire. You have seen evidence that both supports and counters that claim. You are not sure what to believe. Finally you find yourself alone with him on your wedding night—and Astarion has some unexpected surprises in store for you.

CW/Tags: breeding kink, wedding night, loss of virginity, vampire bites/blood drinking, piv sex, fingering, post-game

Read on AO3

Or read below...

Your husband lifts you across the threshold, tearing you from the comfortable life you knew and thrusting you into a fate unknown, a fate you hope will be kind but fear will be grim.

You did what you had to do. Your family would either flourish or it would fall, and you knew your willingness to marry Astarion Ancunín would make all the difference. Why accept utter ruination when you could instead ensure the prosperity of everyone you love?

Ill fortune plagued your clan for decades—dwindling wealth, diminishing influence, a decaying estate—there was almost nothing left. Poverty was no longer a distant nightmare but an imminent reality. Your parents prayed you might escape its chokehold with a prudent match, but without a single gold coin for your dowry, your prospects for marriage were dire.

When almost all hope was lost the unlikely offer came—the affluent and prestigious owner of the castle on the hill would be willing to pay off all debts and restore your household to its former glory—if only you would agree to become his bride.

The proposal shocked you. You had been introduced to the enigmatic pale elf, but he was far from a man you knew well. Your acquaintanceship amounted to no more than a few polite but empty conversations and the occasional twirl about a dance floor. Then again you did notice how his gaze tended to follow you about the room, and you could never help but to regard him with an equally curious eye.

You were both attracted to and intimidated by him. The gods themselves could not have crafted a more beautiful man, and yet… something about him unsettled you. His grip a little too tight, his smile not quite sincere. He gave you the distinct impression of a scoundrel only pretending to be a gentleman.

And you had heard whisperings about him. They say he is a vampire. A devious, ruthless, heartless man who subsists on the blood of his enemies.

Still you were intrigued. You spent more time than you care to admit constructing and revising his biography in your mind, attempting to, but never succeeding in unravelling all his mysteries. The red irises and the sharp canines certainly supported the local gossip. Yet you’d seen him in broad daylight. You’d seen him eat real food. You’d felt the heat of his skin every time you’d danced together.

Surely the rumours could not be true.

You had a choice to make. Suddenly you possessed the power to save your whole family. Everything—everyone—depended on you and you alone.

So of course you said yes.

Determined as you were, you could never fully exorcise your doubts. Instead you chose to ignore them, to focus on all the good that could come from this arrangement. Your troubles would be over. Your family would live well. You would want for nothing.

Not to mention it was surprisingly easy to picture yourself in his bed.

But those doubts you buried did not lie dormant. Oh, no. They crept and crawled beneath your skin, festering and mutating into a dread that now threatens to consume you whole.

You cannot help but wonder: are you a saviour or a sacrificial lamb?

Either way it is far too late for second thoughts. Today you vowed yourself to Astarion. You promised him your body, your heart, your soul.

You are his wife.

Every part of you tingles with nervous energy—the expected wedding night jitters greatly exacerbated by the misgivings you feel concerning your new husband—and yet you cannot deny the thrill underlying it all.

The way he kissed you at the altar was downright sinful. The way he whispered his desire in your ear made you shiver. The way he held your hips tight against his as you danced left you weak in the knees.

He frightens you, and excites you, and—gods help you—you want him to fuck you.

You thought he might throw you on the bed and make you well and truly his the very second you were alone together. Instead he sets you down with care, ensuring you find your footing despite the bulk of your billowing skirts.

You manage a brief survey of the room—a canopy bed draped in scarlet silk, a plush loveseat in front of the fireplace, high-vaulted windows welcoming in the starlight—and as excessive as it all is in its extravagance, you find it cozy. Romantic, even. A place that might yet become your personal paradise.

Or your gilded cage. You shudder.

Your gaze falls upon the object nearest you: an ornate full-length mirror. You almost fail to recognize the woman you see staring back at you. You are the very picture of fairytale whimsy in your intricate ivory lace and your crown of white roses. You smile. To hells with your unwelcome anxiety. This is your wedding night, and you will enjoy every minute of it.

Or at least you will try.

Astarion’s reflection closes in behind yours, and you find yourself rather relieved to see that he has one. Another strike against the rumours.

You admire him in the looking glass. High cheekbones, enticing lips, bewitching eyes. Even his so-called flaws, all his wrinkles and his laugh lines, suit him to perfection.

And he admires you right back—more shamelessly than you do him—hungry eyes mentally peeling off your dress as they rake you over.

“My beautiful bride.” You melt under his simple yet sultry praise, your imagination running wild with fantasies of what bliss the coming hours might bring. You know little of carnal pleasure but your own touch. By the end of this night you are sure to know much, much more.

His hands sweep across your shoulders, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your little capped sleeves. In the mirror you catch a flash of that devious smirk, the one that hints at the rogue you think he truly is.

“Almost a shame that I have to undress you.”

Your mouth runs dry, any words you might have said forever lost in the silence.

You do want this. You want to make love to your husband. You want to learn to love him in every sense of the word.

You want to trust him.

But can you?

“May I?” he asks, one hand travelling down to the laces at your back, the other hand enclosing yours in his. Feigning chivalry all while his firm grip screams out his barely suppressed urge to tear your gown from your flesh and pin you hard against the wall.

This is it. There is no going back now. You passed the point of no return hours before, your fate sealed with two little words: “I do.”

He wants you.

And so you will let him have you.

“Yes.”

With that, his fingers thread through your laces, pulling them loose with alarmingly efficient speed. Quite the expert he must be. You have, after all, heard talk of his rakish ways. Those rumours are much easier for you to believe.

You feel your bodice loosening, though your struggle to breathe persists, the weight of this moment somehow heavier than the mass of your dress. You gather your courage to do your part, tugging off your sleeves and letting the fabric fall away from your skin, pushing what remains down over your hips. Astarion takes your hand as you step out and away from your unwieldy gown, kicking it unceremoniously into a corner. The second it is out of the way, he pulls you back in front of the mirror with a force that makes you gasp.

“Look at you,” he says, and you glance at your reflection. You are bare before him save for what hides beneath your lacy smallclothes. “You are exquisite, darling.”

His fingers dig into your skin, seeking all your soft and sensitive places, your body beautifully pliable under his exploratory touch. He gives ample attention to the delicate curve from your waist to your hips, and to the lovely heft of your breasts, squeezing and kneading and molding you to his liking. You watch, mesmerized, the self-consciousness that might have held you back fading away. His thumbs repeatedly ghost across your nipples, soft lips nuzzling your neck as he grows hard against your backside—and, gods, your cunt aches for him. Not even the graze of his sharp teeth, suspect as it is, could dissuade you now.

Lust obliterates what was left of your modesty as sweet sounds spill forth from your parted lips. Already you are falling apart in his arms and he has not yet once stroked you between your legs. “Please…” you hear yourself beg.

He laughs. It’s a hearty, almost mocking sound, but you are too far gone to mind. “You will have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” As if he could not guess. Both of you know exactly what you want. “Use your words, pet.”

“Please touch me.”

Insufficient.

“Make love to me.”

Much better.

And there is one other little thing you should tell him.

“Like no one before you ever has.”

There it is, that devilish, devastatingly sexy grin. He is pleased. Maybe a little too pleased. You again note the pointed tips of his canines, and you expect, one way or another, you will soon be devoured.

“Oh, my sweet little virgin,” he purrs, hands slipping off your smallclothes, a finger dipping inside your slick heat. Hells. A relief sublime and yet nowhere near enough. “You have been so, so patient for me, haven’t you?” Patient is the last thing you feel right now as you arch into his touch, desperate for more friction, more pleasure, more Astarion. “Rest assured, my little love. I will reward you well. Grant you your every desire. Of course, I expect all I want in return.”

“Anything,” you cry, and you mean it. You waste no time contemplating the meaning of his words, nor your own. You just want to be fucked.

“Anything?” You nod and he smirks, increasing the pressure and pace as he inserts a second finger, holding you steady as you squirm. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you? All these years you saved yourself for my bed, and you didn’t even know it, did you?”

Should you be answering with a nod or a shake of the head now? You are no longer sure, your mind incapable of thought beyond imagining how glorious your orgasm will feel when he grants it to you. You eventually decide upon nodding, and you hear him chuckle.

“Adorable. The way you look, the way you sound—” He nibbles at your neck, then breathes into your ear. “And I bet you taste just as sweet.”

Your blood chills at the thought of him tasting it. A shiver runs down your spine.

No… Surely he speaks of something pleasurable. Something you have heard other young women gush and giggle about. Something you would like to experience for yourself. You let passion burn your needless worry away, writhing about as you refocus on release, your eyelids fluttering closed.

The next thing you know his hand is clutching your neck. “Watch.” You immediately obey his growled command, your eyes locking upon your own reflection, all flushed and disheveled. Gods, you look positively ravaged and you have yet to even take his cock. You glimpse his smile, a sure sign he is thoroughly enjoying the utter mess he is making of you.

“This pretty body of yours was meant to be mine, wasn’t it, pet?”

This time you know just what your answer should be. You nod furiously and he moves deliciously faster. It won’t be long now.

“Oh, and I assure you I will put it to excellent use.”

You nod again. You are certain he will. You keen as his fingers curl into you.

He grins. He knows he has you now.

“My, what an eager thing. You will be the perfect little vessel for me, won’t you?”

You agree. You would give him anything. As long as he takes care of you, too.

And he will take care of you, won’t he?

“A vessel to take my pleasure in whenever, wherever, however I want?”

You will. Gods, you will. You moan out your assent and punctuate it with his name. You will spend your life parting your mouth, spreading your legs, offering your body to fill and to fuck as he pleases. As long as he makes you come, too.

And he is about to make you…

“And to carry my children?”

You surrender to ecstasy as it wracks you senseless, clenching violently around his fingers and singing out your instinctive answer with ardour. “Yes!”

Only as the pleasure subsides do you begin to think things through.

What did he just say? What did you just say?

You knew this topic would come up eventually. It is an inescapable expectation among the nobility—sometimes unspoken, sometimes spoken very loudly—but always present either way. And yet the last thing you expected was for Astarion to speak of children right on the cusp of your consummation. You thought you would at least first get to know each other as lovers and partners before ever considering becoming parents.

Your state of shock does not discourage him. Instead he smiles wickedly as he gives your hardened nipple a pinch, sending another jolt of desire straight to your cunt. He begins rubbing your clit again, making you mewl, only to leave you whining when he withdraws. He leaves a trail of your own slick along your skin as his hand slides up to rest at your lower abdomen.

“Oh, my sweet love. I can already imagine how gorgeous you will look swollen with my child. You do want to give me a child, don’t you?”

You stare in silence though you have to admit it is not an unwelcome idea.

“You will let me come inside you, won’t you?”

Gods. Now that is an idea you welcome gladly. Something innate, something deeply ingrained within your core cries out your need. You crave it, crave to let him spill his seed inside you. You wriggle about in his arms as you picture it.

Motherhood just might suit you.

Astarion spins you around and you gaze into those stunningly hypnotic eyes. You press a hand to his chest and discover that his heart beats just like yours, its steady, strong tempo dismantling your lingering doubt. A mortal. Like you. 

“I can tell you want this, darling,” he says. Perhaps you do. “Your heart races at the thought. Give yourself to destiny. Give yourself to me.”

Only one answer comes to your mind.

“Yes.”

He captures your lips in a kiss that ignites your lust and kindles your affection. His arms feel like home. Like you have always belonged to him and you always will.

You need him now.

You only manage to undo a single button of his overcoat before he lifts you off the floor and lays you atop the silk and softness of his bed. Your bed, you realize. You imagine spending many endless nights together here in a tangle of limbs.

He stands there stripping himself as you lie and watch with rapt attention, and yet you hardly know where to look—his beautiful eyes bore into you with intense hunger, his deft hands work effortlessly through his every layer, his newly bared skin tempts and tantalizes you—every part of him competes for your admiration. When he finally pulls off his smallclothes your eyes are instantly drawn to his cock, thick and flaunting his desire. On instinct you part your legs.

The sight of you splayed in invitation lures Astarion onto the bed and over you, arms and legs caging you in, lips colliding with yours, cock ready at your entrance. You roll up your hips to tease him, your lack of patience testing what little remains of his.

Your little nudge is all it takes to make the last of it crumble and he crashes into you.

You wince at the initial tinge of pain. It passes in seconds, dulled by your arousal, and you are thankful for the mercy. You succumb to the pleasure of him stretching and sinking into you, your body eager to accept the whole of him as he slides deeper inside.

“Easy, darling. I promise a little pain is worth all the pleasure.” He gives you the soothing coos and slow movements of a gentle and cautious lover—a part he plays well, you would think, if not for the tension you detect coiled in his muscles. You recognize he is a man struggling to hold back, and that epiphany has your cunt clenching around him.

Emboldened by your obvious want, he starts to fuck into you in earnest, pushing in and pulling back in a rhythm you already know will be your new addiction. At first you try to match every intoxicating motion, pushing your hips upwards to meet him thrust for thrust, but instead you find yourself squirming wildly, only able to pet him as he works. You relish the sound of his grunts and groans, how they signal his enjoyment of you, though you know you are drowning them out with your wanton moans. He does look far too in command of himself for your liking, and in your mind you set yourself a goal: you will learn how to make him relinquish that tight control.

Of course, if Astarion wants to focus on your pleasure—well, you certainly will not complain about that. If nothing else, your husband is proving to be a generous lover.

You reach up for a kiss, eliciting from him a growl that rumbles down your throat as you taste his tongue. Never have you felt this close to another person, and you long to get even closer. You touch his face, his chest, his shoulders, wanting to explore every inch of his skin as you take every inch of his cock. When you throw your arms around his back, the scars your fingertips find there briefly distract you, but you quickly decide that is a story for another time.

Experimenting a little, you pull your legs back and angle your hips, the slight adjustment to your position an even better fit than you thought possible. You squeal when he presses into a delightfully sensitive spot—and so he does it again, and again, and again, repeatedly, rigorously, relentlessly. You concentrate hard on your impending climax, your mind conjuring up an image of him filling you to the brim with come night after night.

“You are mine. Mine to treasure. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed.”

That delicious thought sends your walls spasming, your mind shattering, your entire body pulsing with incomprehensible bliss. His name bursts from your lips as you ride out the sensation, and it pleases you to know you will be calling it out the rest of your life. You have never felt better.

Still you wanted him to join you in your freefall over the edge and you cannot help the twinge of disappointment you feel when you realize he did not finish with you.

Not that you mind continuing to indulge in your favourite new activity.

He stills a moment and you stare up at him, confused, concerned, even. “I would like to try… a little something else. Take a little more from you. That is if my dearest little love would be so good as to oblige me.” You cannot imagine what he means. You must look utterly baffled because he then chuckles and asks, “Do you trust me?”

“I would trust you with anything.” The words slip out automatically and yet they come as a surprise to you. He is your husband, yes. But you barely know him. You thought you were done questioning this, but a shadow of doubt creeps back in. Something in his tone you do not like. Honey laced with poison.

Is one night of passionate sex really enough to found your trust on?

You decide it is a good start at least, and brush off the invasive thought.

He grins and turns you around, his hands all over you again, his lips planting kisses along your back, your shoulders, your neck. You let out a contented sigh.

A sharp, searing pain rips through you. You grimace. In your hysteria you imagine daggers embedded in your neck. And then it hits you.

Fangs.

You married a vampire. You let him fuck you. You let him bite you.

The first shock subsides, leaving a throbbing numbness in its wake, blood rushing out of your veins and into his greedy mouth. You should be screaming in horror, planning your escape, forsaking your vows in hopes of a return to a normal life. Instead you lean back, pliant and willing, nestling yourself against him as he holds you in his fierce embrace.

You have never known such peril and yet in the cradle of his arms you feel… safe. 

You should not feel safe.

“Sweet hells,” he rasps when he stops, lapping at your wound one last time. “I have not tasted something so delectable in decades.”

This is madness. And yet a surge of pride swells in your heart at his praise. You do feel a little dizzy, a little weak—but still very much alive.

He pushes you to your knees and plunges back into you, a hand pressing you down as he fucks you into the mattress. You steal a little glance at him over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for only a second—but you will never forget their eerie, unnatural glow. You bury your face in your pillow and shut your eyes. Perhaps it is better that you don’t look. That you don’t know.

So this is Astarion out of control.

You tremble in ecstasy and in fear, still shaken by the frightful revelation, and yet still yearning to merge and meld with him endlessly. Your body begs you to bend to his will, an echo of his voice reverberating in your mind. Succumb. Surrender. Submit. So you do. You could not deny him now even if you wanted to.

You let yourself moan with abandon as his length slams in and out of you. You revel in the divine new depth this position allows him to explore and the feral sounds he makes as he drives into you faster. Bucking against him, you find yourself shaking as you reach the precipice of your pleasure.

With every pump, each more erratic than the one before, you can sense Astarion losing more and more of himself in his frantic search for euphoria. When at last he finds it, cock twitching and pulsing against your walls as he spends himself inside you, you break apart again with a delighted cry. Your final thought as he fully empties into you is a question of how long it will be before you begin to grow round with his child.

When it is done, you lie panting beneath him, logic and reason beginning to clear your clouded mind. You become all too aware of his seed seeping out of you, and the dull pangs of pain in your punctured neck. How can you just accept all of this?

Astarion settles in beside you, and taking a tentative turn, you face him, eyes catching sight of the red trail trickling down from the corner of his mouth. Blood. Your blood. He casually wipes it away as if it were no more unusual than a little spilled wine. You shiver.

You know your shock must be written all over your face. “Come,” he says, and you listen, shifting your body closer to his and giving in to his gentle caresses. When he speaks again, his expression is soft, his voice smooth. You feel a touch more at ease.

“You were so, so brave for me tonight. You need not fear what I am, love. Besides—I need you mortal. Fertile.”

A deluge of questions and concerns flood your mind, and yet that last word sends a thrill through you that shakes you to your core, pushing your worries away. Already you want more of Astarion—you want him to cherish you, to worship your being, to bring you heaven again and again. You snuggle up against him, communicating your desire with a burning kiss. 

You will ask for answers someday.

But not tonight.

+++

Astarion likes to watch you.

Never has he seen a lovelier creature. You sit smiling down at the sweet baby bundled in your arms, the swell of a second child already beginning to show even through the layers of your dress. You have done your duty so beautifully well. Like he always knew you would.

He decided he would have you the moment he saw you. So like a love he lost ages ago and yet her superior in every way. The defiance he recalled and resented had long been bred out of your line, replaced with a demurity and a domesticity that made you ideally suited to your purpose. You could not be any more perfect for him.

And so he made it his mission to make you his. No doubt he could simply charm you into bed, but it was not enough to make you want him. He had to make you need him. The fools in your family had already made much progress in that regard without his interference, but the pull of a string here and there ensured your desperation.

And of course he made every claim on you he could. He wedded you. He was the first and the only to bed you. And he impregnated you so very easily. It was like you were made to be bred. What better way to declare to the world that you are his and his alone?

Your beautiful brood of children will strengthen his reign, infiltrate and influence every powerful organization, spread the Ancunín name throughout the city and the whole world. And the nobility does like a lord to have his heirs—even if an immortal will never need a replacement.

He watches as you look up. You notice him and give him that pretty smile.

You have given him so much. Even love. In him you have awakened an affection he thought he might never feel again. That he did not even know he needed.

You complete him.

He smiles back at you.

There is only one claim left on you to make, one that will come years from now, when the time of child-bearing is behind you.

To make you his bride for all eternity.

Thank you for reading!

My AO3 | My Masterlist

[kitnjon]

dark jon fics recommendations?

1. Beasts of Seasons by simonetta

She had prepared her words and her actions meticulously. She hadn’t prepared to actually see him. Or, Jon and Sansa reunite and things don't go according to plan, forcing Sansa to reevaluate her identity and her loyalties and forcing Jon to come back to himself. Post-ADWD, bookverse fic. Jon and Sansa reunite on campaign to win back Winterfell.

2. The Difference by @asilentfrenzy

“I was not the one to strangle your brother or burn your grandfather.” “The North sees no difference.” Sansa’s glassy eyes focused and trained directly on Aemon's, her gaze becoming fiery with an intensity that threw him off before her tone dropped in temperature. “The Starks see no difference." The implication was clear and quite intentional, and the blow was all the harder in the knowledge that she took the risk to make it despite how fearful of him she was.

3. deathless by @kingsansa

“The men I came here with,” He began, “The ones my family chooses to associate with—they aren’t my friends. And they’re nobody you would want to know. They’re callous and greedy. They aren’t good people. If they see something or someone that belongs to someone who they perceive as their better, they’ll want it. They’ll do anything to take it. They can’t help themselves.” His skin was rough, but his touch on the underside of her jaw was velvet. His fingertips were cold. She told herself that that was why she was shuddering. “Do you understand?” He asked. She didn’t. She was tired and tipsy and confused and frustrated— She was starving in a way she never had before, for something that she couldn’t understand. “But I don’t belong to you,” She said, uncertain and shaky; a doe on new legs. “No,” He said. “You don’t.” And she wondered if she imagined it, the way his chin ducked, a nod of appeasement, as if to say: Not yet.

4.Cute But a Psycho by @amymel86

Sansa is hung over on the morning her husband's severed hands are delivered to her doorstep.

5. hiraeth by @kingsansa

“You’ll permit me.” He murmured. It was not a question. But for reasons she could not understand, she knew she would. He ran his fingers over her cheek. Along her brow. Underneath her chin. He did not venture underneath her veil. He acted as if he did not need to. His touch was warm, almost reverent. When at last, his hand returned to his side, he said, just loud enough for her to hear, “There you are.” Alayne said nothing, but the breath she released was tremulous. Anticipatory. Exhilarated.

6. wolfsong by @kingsansa

She does not close her eyes. She does not sleep. She does not dream. After almost 200 years of running, it is the one place he always manages to find her.

7. Beloved Monster by @amymel86

“An acquaintance of mine can settle all your debts,” the man says, still not looking at Harrold as he makes his offer. Sansa is stunned. Glancing to Harry, she can tell he is too. Her hand absentmindedly reaches up to her neck, tips of her fingers whispering over the bare skin where her mother’s garnet necklace used to sit. Coming out of his momentary stupor, Harry shakes his head. “Sir, I thank you for the offer but my debts are significant and I doubt your acquaintance will-“ “He has the means to cover it all and is happy to do so.” “I-...” her husband scratches at the back of his head. “Repayment will be.... slow. I do not have the means to-“ “Repayments will not be necessary.” Sansa frowns. This is surely some sort of entrapment for her husband. Is he bright enough not to fall for it? Who is this gentleman and who is this acquaintance of his that seemingly wants to throw away his money on a scoundrel like her husband? Harry’s brow furrows. “No repayments? Then what does your friend want in return?” The gentleman’s gaze flicks over Sansa’s form again. “Your wife.”

8. what used to be by @woodswit

the fallout of a marriage of convenience.

9. writer’s block by @woodswit

Writer!Sansa on a deadline for a scene she has no idea how to write, tattooed bartender!Jon. i have nothing else to say for myself.

10. one slip and i am dead by @woodswit

She would rather die than ask Jon, of all people, for help. The history between them is gnarled, knotted, dangerous. But Sansa thinks she knows something about the nuns that keep going missing in Boston, and she knows no one else will believe her.

11. From Instep to Heel by @orangeflavoryawp

“‘I’m a Targaryen,’ he says finally, the words smarting along his tongue, even now. A need and an uncertainty all at once. ‘And she – ’ He stops, swallows. ‘She is nothing,’ he finishes tightly, the untruth a tremulous exhale as it leaves him.” - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

12. the night we met by @woodswit

They have both left what happened that night—and everything that transpired—in the past, but now Jon's back and he has a request, one Sansa cannot turn down.

13 i fall to pieces (when i'm with you) by usuallysunny

"Go North. Only North. Jon is Lord Commander at the Castle Black. He'll help you." He'd had good intentions, this broken shadow of a man who used to be Theon, and he couldn't have known. Sansa finds a Lord Commander at Castle Black. He has steel-grey eyes, her father's eyes, and a dark beard framing a strong jaw, and he looks and sounds and moves like Jon... But he's not Jon.

14. your halo slipping down by @woodswit

When Arya disappears while hunting Sansa's stalker, Sansa knows she's got to take matters into her own hands. Her first move is to go north-- --to Jon Snow, who has just been released from prison. Jon Snow, the boy in black, is her last hope.

15. A Violence Done Most Kindly by @orangeflavoryawp

“There is an old sort of magic to sacrifice, after all.” - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

16. when the walls come tumbling down by @phantomphaeton

These violent delights have violent ends. With salt and smoke, fire and blood, iron and ice, the tides of fate wash clean the saviors of the continent. Two years after Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow ride south to win the Last War, Westeros is on the verge of destabilization. The Red Wolf—left simmering in fury in the North—is compelled to rejoin the Great Game.

17. Dark! Jon Snow series by @justadram

[official-wales]

shwmae!! I am learning Welsh (through duolingo to start though I will likely switch to Say Something In & looking for native speakers to practice with after I hit the one year mark) and I have a question for you: what are some things I can say to and about my cat? right now I just call him “mi cath du a gwyn a ofnadwy” and “bachgen fawr”, and my vocabulary for calling things good is basically “good”, “very good”, and “great”.

here he is btw.

anifail gwych a ofnadwy!!

ANIFAIL GWYCH AC OFNADWY, FY NGHARIAD

Cute Things to Call Your Cat (or otherwise pet)

cariad / fy nghariad - love / my love or dear / my dear

del - pretty / sweetheart (n. wales)

cyw - chick (welsh grandparent favourite)

babi - baby

Y Brenin Pysgod - The Fish King

boneddig bach - little gentleman

blodyn tatws - potato flower

cythraul uffernol - hellish demon

cnaf - rascal / scoundrel

wyneb llygoden fawr - ratface

[esther-dot]

JANE EYRE AUs

no net ensnares me 3k

It’s just before Christmas that Jon truly realizes what trouble he’s in. He’d been able to delude himself for a time, insisting that he and Lady Sansa were only friends, but towards the end of December he has to brave the truth--that he’s falling for her. It’s not love yet, perhaps, but close enough that Jon knows what he feels, and how strongly he feels it. Or, a Jane Eyre inspired AU where Jon is the tutor that's come to Winterfell manor to teach Sansa's nephews, and falls in love with his distant employer.

No coward soul is mine 6k

During the ceremony that will join him in marriage to the legal guardian of his pupil, Rickon Stark, Jon Snow makes a shocking discovery. For the honor of the woman he loves, he will have to display the courage to act improperly for the right reason.

Jane Eyre edit by @misssusanvance

NORTH & SOUTH AUs

the subtle grace of gravity 7k WIP

The Stark title falls to Sansa as the only remaining Stark and she returns north to Winterfell after over a decade in the south. In her absence, Jon has transformed the town and become a wealthy gentleman. Slowly, Sansa tries to build a new life for herself and discover who she is again.

North and South .5k, incomplete

The industrial revolution in England has caused a shift in the fortunes of the poor and the rich. Sansa discovers the plight of such when her father moves their family from the beautiful south of Helstone to the drab and rough North that is Milton. She is introduced to the aloof, brooding and proud Jon Targaryen a mill owner in Milton and they clash over ideals and philosophies. However that will not last long, once Jon has set his heart and eyes on Sansa, the headstrong and noble daughter of the Stark household.

North & South edit by @glueck - North & South edit by @ricewithfries-blog

GENERAL AUs

The Maiden Fair 4k

Attending operas with his royal family on public display was something he usually loathed, until he laid eyes on her.

And all i lov'd, I lov'd alone ficlet by @flibbertigiblet

“I’m not a bleeding poet.” – Jon Snow But what if he was? corresponding edit

Beloved Monster 14k by @amymel86

“An acquaintance of mine can settle all your debts,” the man says, still not looking at Harrold as he makes his offer. Sansa is stunned. Glancing to Harry, she can tell he is too. Her hand absentmindedly reaches up to her neck, tips of her fingers whispering over the bare skin where her mother’s garnet necklace used to sit. Coming out of his momentary stupor, Harry shakes his head. “Sir, I thank you for the offer but my debts are significant and I doubt your acquaintance will-“ “He has the means to cover it all and is happy to do so.” “I-...” her husband scratches at the back of his head. “Repayment will be.... slow. I do not have the means to-“ “Repayments will not be necessary.” Sansa frowns. This is surely some sort of entrapment for her husband. Is he bright enough not to fall for it? Who is this gentleman and who is this acquaintance of his that seemingly wants to throw away his money on a scoundrel like her husband? Harry’s brow furrows. “No repayments? Then what does your friend want in return?” The gentleman’s gaze flicks over Sansa’s form again. “Your wife.”

Tipping the Velvet 78k, incomplete by @amymel86

“Some lucky fellow piqued your interest, darling?” Margaery smirked, taking back the offered glasses and peering through them. “The Targaryens?” She lowered the opera glasses and raised one perfect brow as she turned to face Sansa. “Good breeding, old name, if we set a contract with the eldest, Aegon, you’ll be rather comfortable. Unfortunately, I’ve no knowledge of the man himself or his appetites in the bedroom, so I’m unable to guide you there, my dear.” “Which one is the eldest?” Sansa asked, her eyes trained on the dark-haired Targaryen. "The one with the dashing silver hair.” "Oh.” Sansa felt Margaery’s eyes on her again. “You favour the spare over the heir? As a woman of business, I should advise you against it and turn you towards a more lucrative arrangement... but as a woman of pleasure, I say there’s nothing wrong with a bit of fun.” corresponding gif by @readingisloving and corresponding edits 1, 2 by @thelegendofclarke 3 by @kitten1618x and 4 by @dena-1984

Perpetually Estranged 60k WIP (many thanks to @caitnan for this rec!)

Ever since she was a little girl, Lady Sansa Stark had dreamed of the day she would come down to London and present herself at court in a beautiful gown, spending the Social Season in Town, partying the nights away. And this year, it seems as though she will finally get her wish. This is everything she has ever wanted, surrounded by such luxury and decadence, in the company of fashionable ladies, and having handsome men flock around her in the marriage mart. The only downside is being reunited with her sullen, moody cousin, the Prince Jon Targaryen, and come face to face with their past. “Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.”

Are You Lost? ficlet by @vivilove-jonsa

Sansa's desperate to catch a train home but, when she fears something is amiss, a mysterious and handsome stranger comes along to help. corresponding edit

Anna Karenina (Jonsa as Kitty and Levin) edit by @glueck - Far From the Madding Crowd gifset by @aureliacamargo and edit - War & Peace edit by @yesterdayqueens - Wuthering Heights edit by @glueck - Victorian edit by @bettys-gardens and Victorian aesthetic - Dracula edit by @kitten1618x

PRE CANON - WESTERN - FAIRYTALE - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON SIX - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE -SALTY TEENS - POST CANON - RICKON LIVES - JON X ALAYNE - EDWARDIAN - OUTSIDER POV - FIGURE SKATING

[spideyhexx]

*light smut; billy bonney

A breeze brushes against your cheek the exact moment Billy's arms wind around your waist. He pulls you back into him, and you gasp at the contact.

"Scoundrel," you sneer in a mocking tone that has Billy chuckling and holding you tighter. His front flush with your back, lips daring to kiss your ear but he won't.

"Not at all. Just a kind gentleman waiting for someone," he drawls, his nose prodding the back of your ear, "no one saw?"

You shake your head no, and Billy's spinning you around to face him. His lips are on yours before you could speak another word, hands sliding from your waist to the small of your back to push you into him. You fit against him right where you belong, allowing your fingers to brush up his shirt to his collar as his warm lips tease something further, but he never gives it. A notion of a deeper kiss, then he's pulling for a breath. A hint of his teeth biting your lip, then he retreats to kiss the corner of your mouth.

"Scoundrel."

Billy laughs, and steps away, dropping himself onto the spread, thread-bared blanket he set out on the grass. He holds a hand out for you, but you don't take it. Adjusting your skirts, you join him on the blanket, and lay down, plopping your head into his lap.

"Careful," he mutters, and his eyes gleam softness, his rough fingertips massaging at your right temple, "is your father home?"

"No. You already knew that though."

Billy had slipped a note to the only ranch-hand you could trust, telling you to meet him out here while your father rode into town. How he knew that was happening, you're not sure. But of all the things you've learned about Billy, is if he cares about something, he'll do anything he can to preserve it.

His fingers trace what you think are stars on the side of your head and you close your eyes, basking in the little bits of sun that seep through the tree branches. He smells of smoke and leather and sweat, and you find it in yourself to restrain from just inhaling more of him to remember later when you're alone in your room.

"I missed you."

Billy nods, "I missed you, but don't look so sad, I don't like it. 'M here now," he says, and tries to laugh it off. He never loved to dwell on the predicament you two have found yourselves in and you shift your shoulders to shake out the solemness that clouds your thoughts.

"Down," you reach up and push at his chest so he lays back, and you move up and throw your leg over him. You relish in the way his cheeks go flush and his eyes focus on you. Folding your arms against his chest, and your chin rested to them, you smile.

Billy scrambles to reach for his saddlebag and puts it underneath his head so he can prop himself up enough to see you, "thought you were proper."

You snort and swat at his side, pushing yourself up more until you can kiss his scratchy stubbled chin, "I was never proper."

"Oh?" He raises his brow, seemingly amused by this.

"Mhm. I've had secret cowboy lovers before you Mr. Bonney. How does that make you feel?" You do your best attempt at an innocent look, trying not to shiver when his arms firmly wrap around your waist.

Billy clicks his tongue, "I knew I wasn't special," he says, his tone resigned, but the corner of his mouth twitches up for a second, like he's holding back his smile. "But I do believe it's worth it either way. To be able to hear your voice and touch your pretty face."

"Only my face?"

This time he can't hold back the smile, and it feels almost wolfish if it weren't for the way he's blushing and tapping nervously on your lower back. "No."

You lean down, ghosting your lips on his. Billy tries to catch you in a kiss and you swerve your head down into his neck at the last second.

"Little fucker," he mutters, squeezing you tight once and then loosening as you laugh. He squirms at the feeling of your breath on his skin.

"That's rude. You call your lovers that name, Billy?" A small nip to the underside of his jaw has him drawing up one of his legs, his foot planted on the blanket, shifting you into a better position to be straddling him.

"Only you. You can handle it, you're not proper remember?"

Another laugh rattles through you and Billy, in his momentary confidence, rolls his hips up. The layers of your skirts hinder what you could truly be feeling, but the intention is enough. Enough to halt your laughter and make your breath stutter the way he had to been hoping it would.

You lift your head in a wide smile, "You are the little-"

Billy's mouth presses to yours in a much more heated passion than his earlier kiss. He's claiming, he's taking, and he's needy. When did you last kiss this way? Any time recently the kisses have been quick, chaste, and stolen. You kissed his cheek in passing just the other day because you were frightened anything more would lead you to do unspeakable things with him in too public a place.

But now in the comfort of the trees, his mouth does all the things you have been wishing for. His tongue slides on yours, his noises tumbling from his lips as though he's been saving them for weeks. Billy's hands grasp and tug at your clothing, but he's not trying to take them off. It frustrates you. So you grind down against him.

He breaks the kiss in a slight hiss, going a little still as you carry on, perfectly rolling your hips against the growing bulge in his trousers, trying to take what you've needed.

"Darlin' we can't right now," he rasps out, but Billy does nothing to stop you. In fact, he holds your hips tighter, pushes you down harder, chasing the same feeling that's building in you.

Your mouth is frantic, kissing to his jaw, then his cheek, in languid wet pecks, and up to his temple. Your nose buries in his hair, soaking in his smell as his lips dances on your collarbone. He mouths at the neck of your blouse, and your moan makes him halt your movements.

"Slow, slow, slow," he mutters, and you can't help but groan in frustration.

"Billy-"

"I know." He reaches up to cup your face, bringing you to him, nose to nose, his eyes pouring into you with heat. There's a desperation in them that's familiar, but distant and it has your brow furrowing. You cover his hand with your own, stroking your thumb across his knuckles.

Billy's eyes flutter closed, then he opens them with resolve, "Two days from now. Your father's going away for a few days, yes? Then it'll be easier for us to be together and I can give you all-"

"Miss! Oh."

You scramble off of Billy, and he moves in front of you. You're decent, but rumpled and if anything it looks worse that Billy's arousal is evident. But you lock eyes with the ranch-hand and feel a slight bit of relief.

"Your father's on his way back already. I just wanted to warn you, I didn't mean-"

"Thank you," you yell to him, and the man departs without another word.

Billy's shoulders deflate, and you rub from one of them to the back of his neck, fiddling the hair there, "Two days. Then I'll see you again."

"We were supposed to have more time," Billy says, pushing himself to stand abruptly. He grabs his bag and barely waits for you to get off the blanket before he takes that too, crumpling it into a ball instead of folding it.

"Billy, please-"

"I was sure he'd be gone at least another hour or so, why does-"

"Billy."

He rubs against his jaw, but he stays silent, the softness in his eyes replaced with that newfound hardness he's gotten over the last couple of weeks. You did not know all of what he got up to when he wasn't with you, but you knew he was a man getting by, knew he was an outlaw, and you longed to be able to hold him in your bed at night, every night.

You take his hand in yours and lean up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, "I will see you in two days. Thank you for coming here."

Billy nods, his jaw clenching. You can see the brief hard exterior of his anger cracking just enough for him to kiss your lips one more time. He pecks at your bottom lip at the last second, and rubs his nose to yours.

And without another word, he turns and leaves.