#such a talented shipmate💕💖💕

[snowbellewells]

@spartanguard Okay, so I guess slow and steady wins the race here in regards to my fic reading lately, but all this same. This chapter was WONDERFUL!!! 💖💖💖 I can absolutely see why it was one of your favorites. There’s just so much in it that is intriguing, heartwarming, steamy, beautiful- it runs the entire gamut. And so much of it can be summed up so beautifully I’m what was probably my favorite quote from it: “You are one of the best people I know, Killian, and it’s because you once weren’t that makes you so good now—you’ve walked that path, you know what it was like, and you learned what not to do. Nothing and no one can change that.” I loved Emma’s absolute confidence, her rock solid faith in him and how she was able to bring him back around. We got to see Killian do that so well for her so often in canon, but I love how here she returns the favor so brilliantly, not for a second letting him count that she is right there for him and will always be by his side.

I loved too how you had him point out that there was still some black in his heart too, and even with that she assured him that it was just enough to keep him around long enough for them to meet. 😍😍😍

The glow of his magic, and how he seemed to finally accept and control its power, and the literal sparks of their connection were absolutely amazing here!! You did that gloriously well.

I am not liking Dorian having Killian’s hook though- not one bit. He is up to something g frighteningly bad, that much is obvious. And I’m moving right along to chapter nine anxiously.

sons of love and death, 8/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: So here's the chapter of this @cssns story where things finally earn the M rating ;) (Also—not just because of that—this might be my favorite chapter of the whole thing.) Hope you enjoy it! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​​​​ !) rated M | 5.7k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Killian took a pull from his flask as he stared out at the horizon. The sun had just set, its orange hue still painting the edge of the sky where it met the ocean, but stars were starting to twinkle in the inky blue overhead. The sight was normally soothing, but it wasn’t quite doing the trick tonight. 

He should probably just go home; brooding on his ship was not going to give him anywhere near as much respite as Emma’s embrace would, but after the day he’d had, he also sorely needed a moment (or a few) alone to try to quell the internal tempest that was currently raging. 

He was also desperate for Emma’s light, but knew he had to find his own first. (And not just the blue glow he could see pulsing in the vein at his wrist.) 

That day saw him at yet another magic lesson. He’d slowly been getting better at harnessing his powers, but maintaining focus was still a challenge. Today was especially difficult as not only had they met in the woods—in an effort to teach him to channel his powers away from the call of the sea—but he’d already been distracted before he met Regina. His thoughts still lingered on the number of townsfolk giving him the cold shoulder; while he knew it was because of Dorian’s actions and not his own, it was still disheartening that his neighbors would be so quick to assume the worst in him, after his consistent work to the contrary. 

Despite the progress he’d been making, he gave into those feelings of hurt and anger while harnessing his magic. It had resulted in some powerful moments, albeit uncontrolled—though he at least had enough magical acumen now to clean up the mess he’d made in the clearing in the forest. 

Towards the end of the lesson, Regina huffed with her arms crossed and gave him a curious look. “What?” he snapped, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm the shaking in his limbs. 

She pursed her lips. “It’s a good thing Emma isn’t here, is all.”

Before they were supposed to meet, Emma had to run off to tend to a break in at Any Given Sundae—Dorian again—so he’d originally attributed his inability to focus on the lack of her presence (though he knew he’d have to stop using her as an emotional crutch at some point). “And why is that?”

Regina strode closer. “I’m the last person to talk when it comes to warning you against feeding your magic with anger; we both know where that goes. But we also both know it’s easier that way.” Then she smirked. “And I know that it feels good.”

He swallowed; he wanted to refute that statement but…he couldn’t. Those angry outbursts—and the accompanying bursts of magic—tingled through his veins in a way that felt oddly euphoric. He was coming to enjoy the sensation of magic flowing through him, but he only felt it strongly when he let his darker emotions take charge. It still felt better than when the Darkness was coursing through him—more natural—but he was starting to worry that it might feel too good. And he was no stranger to addiction. 

“So what do I do?” he asked, in a smaller voice than he intended. (Regina was not someone he’d ever thought he’d be vulnerable in front of.)

She shrugged. “You know I can’t answer that for you. But if there’s anyone I know who can figure it out, it’s you.”

Regina was far more confident in his abilities than he was—and it showed in his next failed attempt (or successful, depending on how one looked at it: his anger overtook him once more, and a nearby rock split in half).

She tutted as she put it back together with a(n annoyingly) casual wave of her hand. “You literally turned your back on the Darkness; this should be easy. How did you do that?”

After catching his breath, he said, “Well, Emma was quite literally having the life choked out of her; I’d rather not reenact that.”

Regina shook her head. “Both of you are so literal. It wasn’t the act; it was the emotion. For someone who wears their heart on their leather sleeve, you��re being awfully dense.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but channel your love for Emma, or something.”

He smirked at her discomfort. 

“Look, that’s the best you’re gonna get from me; you’ve gotta talk to your mother-in-law for all the lovey-dovey crap.”

It got a little better after that—but only his control; there was nothing so powerful as when he reacted instinctively and frustratedly. Regina seemed content enough at the end of their scheduled lesson, as the sun started to cast long shadows, but despite her uncharacteristically encouraging farewell, he still felt off-kilter.

Which brought him here, drinking on his ship, hunched over the railing, in what was proving to be a vain attempt to settle his soul. (Though he realistically should have known that would be no easy feat; it was well-documented that his soul was quite troubled.)

One terrible thought kept plaguing him, especially as he felt the magic in his blood sing in reaction to his proximity to the water: if his love for Emma wasn’t as strong as the anger at his core, then what did that say about him? There was no doubting the immensity of his feelings for her—True Love and all that—but, despite everything they’d been through in the last couple years, had he not yet risen above the depths of his own depravity enough to outweigh it?

And if so, would he ever?

Perhaps he and Dorian were still more similar than he’d like to admit.

“Drinking alone?” Speak of the devil. Killian stiffened at the noise, though; he still wasn’t used to the sound of his own voice coming from someone else. “Doesn’t seem very heroic.”

“What would you know about that, anyway?” he tossed over his shoulder at Dorian. Footsteps sounded as the other man apparently descended on the deck. 

“Oh, nothing; just figured you’d be off with your lovely wife and all your friends, getting high on your own innate goodness.”

Killian turned around—only to find he was well and truly looking in a mirror; As he’d suspected, Dorian was wearing his clothes, his hook, and even more of his face than usual. “Bugger off,” was the only quip he could produce. 

“What, trouble in paradise?” Dorian went on. “Color me surprised.” His smirk said the opposite.

“Sure you are,” Killian answered dryly. “And where does this little rendezvous fit into your futile plan? Come to see how well you’re ruining my life?” He was being a bit of what Henry called “emo,” but he figured it was deserved.

“Why must everything be part of some grandiose plan?” Dorian tossed back casually. “Everyone’s been telling me I should take a lesson from you; what if that’s what I was doing?”

“I’d say you need to study better,” he lectured.

“Ah, I was never much of a book learner. Too flammable.” As if to emphasize it, a burst of flame licked over him from head to toe as he dropped the glamour he’d been using.

“At least that’s one thing we don’t have in common.”

“Definitely more than that,” Dorian continued, either oblivious to or willfully ignoring Killian’s less-than-chipper mood. “You’ve got terrible taste in liquor, too; could barely drink half the rum I stole.”

“Poor you.”

From nowhere, a cigarette appeared in Dorian’s fingers; as he approached Killian, he snapped the fingers of his opposite hand and a flame danced at his fingertips that he used to light it, then shook the fire away as he took a drag.

“No smoking on my ship,” Killian warned, then doused the roll with a quickly summoned bit of seawater.

Dorian pouted, but then tossed the wasted cigarette overboard before leaning backwards against the railing next to him. “I have a feeling we could swap stories on where to find the best booze in all the realms; have you ever been to—”

“Not interested,” he interrupted, and corked his flask to hopefully put an end to that conversation.

“Suit yourself. But perhaps you can tell me: last time you were in Agrabah, how were the brothels? It’s been so long—”

Killian stepped to the side to face him. “Why don’t you go there and find out for yourself—and leave me the hell alone?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dorian’s smirk was both audible and familiar—far too similar to Killian’s own, right down to the dimple that Emma had often told him was adorable, but just seemed insincere on the other man’s face. 

(Though…he couldn’t deny he’d used it in the past to lull others into a false sense of security.)

He turned away and crossed the deck, no longer wanting to look at his counterpart. He imagined this was similar to what Belle once saw looking into the Ice Queen’s mirror: a twisted vision of one’s most intrusive thoughts brought to life.

“Do you really expect me to believe that Captain Hook, of all people, enjoys life in this…hamlet?” Dorian went on. “It’s just so…boring.”

Killian scoffed. “I had two hundred years of exciting; I’m fine with a bit of boring.”

“Please; you’re a wanderer. For all our differences, I know that’s the same.”

“It’s not; not anymore.”

“I think you’ve just forgotten,” his twin hypothesized, and he could hear and feel his steps getting closer. “Come on, man—let’s take this thing out and set sail. Do some pirating in the Caribbean, eh? Head back to our home realm and visit Pleasure Island. Or we could go to Agrabah, like you said; check out those whorehouses ourselves. Bet things are getting pretty dull with the missus, eh?”

It was like a spark ignited in Killian at the mention of Emma—how bloody dare he assume that? (Especially when it couldn’t be further from the truth.) He didn’t even think; he just dropped his flask, whipped around, pulled his right arm back, and unleashed an instinctive punch right on the side of Dorian’s nose.

He staggered back, bringing his hand to his face; his fingers came back bloody. The other man sniffled, but it did nothing to stop the sluggish flow from his nostril. 

He glared at it for a moment, but then laughed. “Oh, it’s definitely still in you, Hook,” he snarled, glancing up with a wicked grin. “It never leaves.”

“What is?” Killian demanded.

Dorian jumped into his personal space. “The darkness,” he hissed. “Admit it: part of you is fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.” 

Killian shoved him away. “Fuck. Off,” he bit out, but he knew he was talking to his own doubts and worries just as much as he was to Dorian.

“You can’t deny it,” Dorian told him cockily. “It’s always going to be a part of you. Each of us has heaven and hell in him.”

If Killian had been thinking straight, he’d have remembered Dorian was talking about that shred of the Dark One deep within; but with the way his day had gone, all he heard was that he hadn’t truly changed—not enough.

“You know I’m right. I can fucking feel it.”

Killian glanced down and saw a tempest forming in his palm; he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or the waning light, but he swore he saw hints of black within, much like when he was the Dark One.

“Tell me, brother: how much blood has that hook spilled?” he prodded.

“Apparently not enough,” Killian spat back, grabbing Dorian’s lapel with his hand pressing the tip of his hook to the other man’s jugular; he could hear the metal scraping against his stubble.

“Do it. I fucking dare you. See what everyone thinks when you’ve murdered me in cold blood.”

“If only that would work. But I get the impression you’d find a way to weasel yourself out of death.”

“Something we’ve both done.”

“No.” Again, he pushed Dorian away, rejecting such selfish similarities. He wasn’t that man anymore—right?

“You can try to deny it, but the facts speak for themselves.”

Killian blinked back tears of frustration. No—he’d come too far from the man he once was—had done so much to make amends—and yet—and yet—

It wasn’t enough. No matter what he did, he’d always be Hook first to everyone.

He glanced down at his namesake appendage. It glinted in the waning light, almost taunting him.

With a dejected cry, he twisted the tool out of its socket, yanked it from its brace, and threw it with all his force at the deck; the point stuck in the wood. 

“That doesn’t change anything and you know it,” Dorian taunted, lighting another cigarette.

He was right; it didn’t. But what would anymore?

Rain started to fall on them despite it being a clear evening; the way it sparked against his skin told him it was his own magic overreacting to his emotional turmoil. Oddly, though, it just sizzled against Dorian as he stared on, unfazed; it didn’t even touch the ember at the end of his cigarette. 

Killian’s heart was racing and it felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack; he hadn’t had one of those in over a century. His vision blurred and it got hard to breathe, and he could feel his magic racing through his veins. He needed—he needed—he needed Emma.

The next thing he knew he was standing in their bedroom at home, sopping wet, and the room was beginning to spin.

He fell to his knees on the rug beside the bed as stars began to swim in his vision; he could still see effulgent blue in the veins of his hand, but faded from where it was a moment ago. 

“Killian?” Emma was on the floor in front of him, worry furrowing her brow. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I—” he gasped, but had no idea what to say. 

A sudden rush of fatigue took hold, anyway; his eyes refused to stay open any longer, and he was aware of his arm buckling underneath him as he fell forward. 

The last thing he heard was Emma frantically calling his name before darkness took over. 

Good. That was what he deserved. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Emma was trying to process…whatever the hell was going on. Why had her husband just appeared out of nowhere in their room, soaking wet, and promptly passed out in her lap?

Regina had texted earlier, letting her know that his lesson had been a little rough, so she knew to at least expect him in a stormy mood. But not to look like he’d been caught in an actual tempest. 

His hook was missing, and she could see light fading in the veins at his neck as his magic receded; she still had to ask Regina or Gold why his powers did that. But he didn’t appear to have any other injuries; he’d probably just used too much magic at once and overexerted himself. (She’d definitely done that a few times.)

His brow twitched when she pushed the hair out of his eyes, but he didn’t move otherwise. She knew she should let him rest, but if something was wrong, she needed to know.

But first, she dried him off with a wave of her hand; the subsequent sparking that appeared all along his body in reaction to her magic told her that whatever downpour he’d been caught in was one of his own creation. (That and the fact that she hadn’t seen a cloud all day.)

She’d hoped to rouse him in a more gentle way, but his eyes flew open at the shocks; that was probably hard to sleep through, even if he’d been completely unconscious a moment ago.

“Hey; you okay?” she asked as his eyes darted around from where he was still laying on her thighs, until they finally settled on hers. The normal clear and bright blue was edging on a turbulent grey—a good tell of where he was mentally.

He suddenly jolted upright and then scurried away from her; not far, but enough that there was some distance between them, and he was facing away from her. 

He was sitting with his legs bent up, arms resting on his knees, and was staring at his hand, turning it over to look at both front and back—and it was shaking. 

“Killian?” she asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” he said on a breath. 

Knowing him, that was probably hyperbole, but it was clear he wasn’t in a good place, mentally or emotionally. Normally, she’d check to see if he needed space, but he’d already had that tonight and he’d come home (or, at least, his magic had brought him here) for a reason.

Slowly, she got up and moved over to him. He didn’t notice her barefoot steps on their plush rug, so she whispered “hey” when she got close, before she gently took his hand in hers. 

He tried to pull his hand away but she held on tight. Then he glanced up at her, eyes watery, but still apparently speechless. 

“What happened?” she asked as she knelt in front of him. “Talk to me.”

“How can you even touch me, love?” he replied. “After everything I’ve done?”

She made a mental note to call Archie as she wiped a tear from his cheek; he’d come a long way from where he used to be in regards to self-loathing, but still regularly wrestled with his guilt. “Because I love you, that’s why. Pretty sure that’s well-established, certified by the gods and all.” She pressed a kiss to the back of his unsteady hand. “And you’ve come so far from where you used to be; you’re not that man anymore, I promise you.”

“I had thought so, too, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

It didn’t take any further prodding for him to tell her what had happened that day—his growing frustration with the way the town was giving him the cold shoulder thanks to Dorian’s shenanigans; how that affected his lesson with Regina and their subsequent conversations; and then the confrontation he’d just had with Dorian on his ship, including their physical altercation and his rejection of his hook (which answered that question). He held onto her hand like an anchor through the whole thing; she just listened and gradually lowered herself until she was sitting next to him.

“What if I haven’t done enough?” he finally asked her, voice thick. “He’s right—I will always be fighting against my baser instincts. It’s constantly there, simmering beneath the surface. It’s easy enough to ignore when we’re just going about our daily lives, but when tensions rise—when things get unstable—I don’t know that I’ll make the right decisions. And, Swan,” he continued, “I know I love you more than life itself; why isn’t that enough for me to overcome it?”

Well, shit; that was pretty heavy. But they’d both gotten used to helping ease each other’s burdens.

She pulled his hand into her chest and turned on her rear to face him. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but yeah, you are always going to be fighting against it. You were in the dark for a long time; that’s always going to be a part of you.” He visibly swallowed at that, and she perhaps slightly regretted that choice of words when it came to, y’know, the actual piece of the Darkness that was supposedly inside of them somewhere. Anyways. “It won’t be easy—just ask Regina; she’ll probably tell you it’s a constant choice. And no, you might not always make the right one, but guess what? I won’t either; we both have a long track record of just that. I know my experience was a bit different, but I remember what it was like, with the Dark One whispering my deepest desires in my ear—and enabling them. But we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you hadn’t already proved you’re capable of rising above all that.”

He blinked and sniffed. “Logically, I know all that. But deep down…what if I fail, Emma? What if I succumb to that again?”

“Why would you?” she countered easily. She couldn’t imagine any scenario where he—either of them—would risk losing everything they had now to pursue anything that could place them on a darker path, other than something drastic. 

Which, of course, was exactly what he was imagining; should have known that someone who had literally lived through the worst things possible would very quickly find themselves reliving that, or envisioning worse. She could feel his magic sparking against her palm as his emotions began to spiral again.

“Hey—no,” she said firmly, cupping his face with her hand to make him look at her before he could follow that train of thought further. “Nothing is gonna happen.”

“You can’t confidently say that, Emma.”

“And yet, I just did,” she winked, hoping to lighten the mood. He gave a tiny smile back; she took it as a win. “And if for whatever reason you ever did go that way again—well, I’m not so pure and light either, regardless of my savior status. I’m not going anywhere; I will always be at your side.”

His eyes bored into hers and she was expecting some grandiose statement of love, but instead, he surged forward, finding her lips with his own. Well. She recognized well enough when actions spoke louder than words.

She leaned into the kiss without hesitation, her free hand drifting down to his chest. He still held tight to her hand but used his left arm to pull her into his lap, which she promptly straddled. He had a death grip on her whole being and was hardly giving her room to breathe, but she wasn’t complaining; she’d let him have whatever he wanted.

When they did finally come up for air, he gasped out, “Emma; I—I need—”

“What?” Her voice was just as breathless.

“I need to feel…” he whispered, eyes squinted shut.

“Tell me.”

He opened his eyes, and frantic blue was looking out. “Good.”

“You are good,” she reminded him.

“I just…I need you.” He sounded desperate.

“Always.”

They made quick work of their clothes in tandem; wherever he touched her as he helped her undress, sparks danced along her skin. Once she slid his shirt and vest off of his shoulders, she had to bite back a gasp at the way his veins glowed from within all across his body. She stared at it for a moment, but he didn’t let her linger long, gently guiding her chin back up to claim her lips again. 

Awkwardly, they shimmied out of their pants (but they were used to that being a bit unpolished in their usual hunger for each other) and fell against their mattress side-by-side. She was about to ask how he wanted it, until he wrapped his arms around her and rolled on top.

But he hesitated, even though he was hovering above her (and she was more than ready for him). “What?”

“Can I…?” It wasn’t hard for her to tell what he was asking. They usually kept things fairly reciprocal in the bedroom, but every so often, for whatever reason, one or the other would take the lead. Given that Killian was feeling somewhat out of control at the moment, she knew what he was asking. 

“Of course,” she answered, reaching up to cup his neck and toy with the short hairs at the nape of it; he seemed to melt a bit at her touch. “Take what you need.”

His expression softened, and he again kissed her lips as he carefully lowered his hips against hers.

There was no formal foreplay—he was too anxious, and frankly, she was already worked up—but the way his length brushed against her folds as he began to move above her felt divine and had her eager for more.

His leather brace was cold against her increasingly flushed skin where he rested it along her side, but his hand was warm where it gripped her waist. They hadn’t yet broken the kiss, but he came close a few times—either from his own growing arousal, which she was increasingly aware of, or from the play of her fingers through the hair of both his head and his chest. The way his veins continued to pulse incandescently was tell-tale, too.

Finally, he did pull back a bit, but not much—only just enough to give her a little breathing room (not that she wanted any). He sat back on his haunches and stroked himself, but the way his hand was shaking was visible. 

So she propped herself up on one arm and stilled his trembling hand with her steady one. “Let me?”

He closed his eyes, somewhere between frustration and gratitude, and nodded. “Aye.”

Gently, keeping her hand around his, she helped him get the rest of the way to hard—which didn’t take long, but long enough for her to admire the wrecked look on his face and the way his long lashes sat on his cheekbones. Then she guided him to her entrance; he needed no help pressing in, though. (But she wrapped her legs around his waist, anyway.) 

For a moment, they both adjusted to the feel of him being inside her; she never tired of the perfect way he filled her (both physically and emotionally). He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking down at her with not a small amount of lust, but there was still some trepidation in there. 

“You are a wonderful man, Killian Jones,” she murmured, cupping his cheek. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said on a breath, then pressed himself closer as he began to move. 

She figured at the outset, she’d have been the one loving on him; and yet, here they were, with him sucking kisses into the most sensitive parts of her neck as he continued to pull out and press in, delivering the best kind of friction that had her steadily climbing to her peak. 

She’d never had as giving a lover as Killian, and in her experience, those were few and far between. In her opinion, that said enough about what kind of man he was. 

He picked up his pace as they both chased release; she urged him on, pressing her heels into his lower back. “Emma—are you—?”

“Almost,” she breathed. 

He reached between them and found her clit (seriously—he was on another level), massaging it gently, but she still gasped at the sensation. How he was able to work it without losing his rhythm was a mystery to her, but she was the farthest thing from complaining. 

“I’m—I’m—” she stuttered, approaching her apex. 

“Come for me, love,” he whispered, and she did, with a cry and a jolt—literally. 

It felt like her every neuron was lit up as she hit orgasm—which wasn’t unusual, but the fact that her magic was humming beneath her skin was new. Tiny pinpricks of electricity sparked along her spine and through her veins, then danced at her fingertips. 

With the way she was gripping his shoulders as she fell into oblivion, she hoped she wasn’t hurting him—from either her grasp or her magic. But he didn’t seem to give any indication of discomfort as he found his own release a few moments later. 

Once she caught her breath, her eyes fluttered open to look up at him—and her breath was immediately stolen again, because he was entirely alight, the blue glow of his magic shining from within. She wasn’t sure if the sheen on his skin was sweat or an expression of his own water powers, but each drop was almost fluorescent. 

She brushed his wet (again) hair from where it hung in his face; there was again a reaction when her own inherent electricity met his personal precipitation. His eyes flew open at her touch, and even his irises seemed to be lit from within. 

“What is it?” he asked softly, his eyes darting back and forth as he studied her face.

“Just…look at you,” she told him. “You’re incredible.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, but then he glanced down at himself. He stilled at first, but then slowly sat back (pulling himself out in the process) and held his arms out in front of him, staring. 

At first, she couldn’t quite tell if he was in awe or shock; there was an unusual lack of expression on his face as he studied himself and the magic flowing through his veins, glowing especially bright under his breast—at his heart. 

He clenched his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. She propped herself up on her elbows as she watched…whatever he was doing. It still seemed like he wasn’t sure—until she saw his jaw clench in a determined way. 

Not just that—no, he suddenly seemed confident. 

The beads of water all along his skin seemed to glow brighter for a second, then lifted away from him. Slowly, they began to twist and swirl, circling Killian and coalescing into one spiral of luminescent liquid. 

Few things she could recall looked more beautiful. 

The coil of water made a few more revolutions before snaking away—towards the bathroom, she realized; of course, he’d be conscientious about cleaning up his mess (they’d deal with the other one later). 

The glow under his skin had faded as the physical evidence of his magic disappeared, but a different kind replaced it: he opened his eyes—and grinned. 

“Believe me now?” she asked—a bit smug, but mostly proud and just so, so in love. 

“Aye, I think I do,” he answered; she thought he was being unusually modest, especially when he scratched behind his ear, but then he was glancing up at her through his lashes, gaze filled with lust. “But maybe you could remind me again?”

“Mm, I think that can be arranged.”

Round Two was just as magical. (So was Round Three.)

Some time later, calm and sated, they fell into bed again, but this time for rest. She was tucked into his side, her hand resting over his heart on his bare chest, and he was holding her close. 

“Thank you, Swan,” he murmured as she began to drift off. 

“For what?”

“For helping me come back to myself.”

She tilted his head to face her. “Always. But I hope you don’t need it as often now.”

“I hope so too, but—”

She stopped him mid-sentence by pressing a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh. No buts. Do you honestly think a selfish man would have made me come four times tonight?”

He chuckled. “I suppose not.”

“You are one of the best people I know, Killian, and it’s because you once weren’t that makes you so good now—you’ve walked that path, you know what it was like, and you learned what not to do. Nothing and no one can change that.”

“No, I don’t think they can,” he agreed. “Not as long as I have you by my side.”

She cupped his cheek. “Well, I’m not going anywhere, but you don’t need me. Remember—I know what your heart looks like, and it is the brightest red.”

“There’s a bit of black.”

“A bit. The part that kept you alive long enough for us to find each other. And the part that’s a reminder of how far you’ve come. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

“I won’t.” 

She pressed a kiss against his lips and settled her head on his chest (her favorite pillow). “Good. I love you.”

“I love you too, darling. Eternally.”

“Same. Now stop being melodramatic and go to sleep.”

He laughed again—she loved the feel of its vibration under her cheek—but complied, and they both drifted into a peaceful sleep. 

And hopefully, that was the last time she had to convince him that he was no longer defined by his past. They’d certainly had that conversation before, but this one had a sense of finality—of closure. 

Whatever lay ahead—whatever Dorian had planned—it was even more unlikely to succeed now. 

And that was the comforting thought that put her to sleep. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Back on the ship, Dorian stood over where his twin’s hook still sat lodged in the deck. He was smirking, and frankly impressed with himself. 

He knew he’d have to get his hands on it at some point, but hadn’t expected it to be this easy. A piece of metal that had been touched by all three former Dark Ones? (Everyone knew the story of Hook attempting to stab Rumpelstiltskin with his namesake appendage, and he’d seen the sheriff touch it more than once.) A rare thing to come by but crucial to his plan. 

He extinguished his cigarette on the ship’s railing, leaving the ashes behind, then knelt down to inspect it. So unassuming, but so much potential. 

He fished a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his coat and wrapped it around the curved metal. It took more force than he anticipated to free it from the wood, but once he did, he tucked it in his jacket and then transported himself away, back to the room he was squatting in.

While that was an important ingredient, it wasn’t all he needed to complete the spell. Obviously, blood was required, and there was still the matter of getting at their souls, but progress was progress. 

Though the night was young, it was definitely past closing time for most businesses, so his next step would have to wait a bit. He’d seen another bar that day that looked to be less trite than the Rabbit Hole; it’d be good enough to spend an evening. 

He took out the hook and put it in the drawer of the bedside table, ignoring the overflowing ashtray atop it, then placed a locking spell on it that only he could undo (he wasn’t fool enough to think a blood lock might hold, even if Killian was nowhere near that kind of magic yet).

Tomorrow, he’d keep moving forward. Tonight, he’d just have fun. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy@mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic​ @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet​ @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells​ @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly​ @stahlop​ @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

[snowbellewells]

@jrob64 Oh my goodness, was this sweet and beautiful!!! 💕💖💕 I absolutely adore this perfectly heartfelt and amazing father-daughter moment you created for Emma and David in honor of K’s birthday!! It had been long enough since I did the proofread for you that I had forgotten just how wonderful it was, so it was great to read it again and savor it a second time. 🥰

For one thing, in a single one shot, you manage to encapsulate why I love David/Charming’s character SO So Much! He fiercely loves his family, is strong and protective, but also able to admit he had been wrong directing that at Killian - and to know call the man his best friend without hesitation. Also, for all his strength, he isn’t afraid to be vulnerable- as we see in his telling Emma how proud they are of her, how much he and Snow had always wanted her, how sorry he was to miss her childhood, but also how grateful he is that they were able to see her meet and fall in love with her soulmate. Their tears and little moment in an embrace and short dance is just perfection!!

I also loved his sweet little playful lovey-do ey moment with Snow. I like when we get to see that OG True Loves chemistry between Snowing as well. From start to finish, this was simply flawless, and I could completely see it playing out just as you described. Thank you for sharing your gift for Krystal with all of us!!! 💕💖💕

I Loved You First - a Daddy Charming birthday fic for @kmomof4

As many of us in the CS fandom know, Krystal is the best cheerleader, encourager and flailer for our Captain Swan stories. However, she also loves the relationship between Emma and Charming, so I've written a Daddy Charming birthday story for her. l wish you the happiest of birthdays (a day early), my dear friend! Love you!

Special thanks to @cs-rylie and @snowbellewells for checking this story over and leaving lots of lovely comments and suggestions!

STORY SUMMARY: Emma and her father share some special sentiments with each other before he walks her down the aisle to marry her True Love. A canon compliant missing moment for 6X20, just prior to Emma and Killian's wedding.

RATING: G

WORDS: 1083

ALSO POSTED TO A03 and ffn

*********

David Nolan paced in the hallway outside the room where Mary Margaret was helping Emma get ready for her wedding. He could hardly believe he would be giving his daughter away in just a few minutes, and to a pirate, no less.

He remembered in Neverland when he said he would see to it that Hook would never get Emma. David wasn’t too prideful to admit he’d been wrong. Nobody can stand in the way of True Love, after all - he and Snow were proof of that.

And now that pirate, whom he’d tried so hard to hate, was his soon-to-be son-in-law…and his best friend. While Killian was earning Emma’s heart, he was also earning her father’s trust and friendship. So much so that Emma and Mary Margaret teasingly accused them of having a ‘bromance’.

The door opened and Mary Margaret emerged, brushing joyful tears from her cheeks. “She’s ready, David, and she looks absolutely beautiful!”

David pulled his wife into his arms, murmuring, “So do you, Sweetheart.”

She hiccuped a laugh. “You’re only supposed to notice the bride on her wedding day, not her mother.”

He leaned back, giving her one of his trademark smiles. “There will never be a day when I don’t admire your beauty.”

“I knew I called you ‘Charming’ for a reason,” she beamed. After kissing him soundly, she wiped his lips clean of the lipstick she’d left behind and said, “Now, go see your daughter before it’s time for us to walk her down the aisle.”

David straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket, then gently rapped his knuckles on the door. “Emma? May I come in?”

“Sure, Dad,” came her reply.

He turned the knob and slowly opened the door, peeking around the edge of it. His breath hitched when he caught a glimpse of his daughter. She was truly a vision in her wedding gown and veil, causing him to blink back tears of his own. “Oh, Emma,” he breathed.

“How do I look?” she asked nervously, twirling in a circle.

“You look…perfect,” he managed to choke past the lump in his throat.

Her cheeks flushed at his praise and she looked down at herself, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her gown. “Do you really think so?”

“I do,” he assured her.

“Hey, I think that’s my line today,” she giggled.

David laughed and stepped forward to take both of her hands in his. “Any second thoughts?”

“None,” she said confidently. “Besides, if I don’t marry Killian, you might just snap him up.”

“Very funny,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. Then his expression sobered. “I know you’ve had a lot on your mind the last few weeks, but I want you to put everything aside today and just enjoy your wedding.”

“I’ll try.”

“I’ve thought about this day ever since we found out we were having a daughter. I was sure no one would ever be good enough for you, but Hoo-, um, Killian has proven himself time and time again. I suppose if I have to give your hand in marriage, it couldn’t be to a more worthy man.”

“You didn’t always think that.”

“I know, but I was, well…I was wrong.”

“I’m sure Killian would be very satisfied to hear you say that,” she quipped.

“Of course he would,” David sighed. “But enough about Hook. What about you? How are you feeling?”

Emma’s face took on a serene look. “I’m happy, Dad. Really, really happy.” She swung their still-clasped hands back and forth.

“Happiness looks good on you,” he replied, letting go with one hand and using the other to spin her around. Then he pulled her back toward him, putting his free hand on her waist as hers moved to his shoulder.

They slowly danced in a small circle around the room to music only they could hear. “We missed out on so much of your life, Emma. I’m very glad we didn’t miss out on watching you fall in love and marry the man who won your heart.”

“I know we lost a lot of time with each other, but let’s not talk about regrets today, Dad. We’re together now, along with Henry and everyone else in town. I have more family and friends here than I ever dreamed was possible. And I’m marrying a man who has been at my side without fail, even when I didn’t really want him to be.”

David chuckled. “He has proven himself to be persistent, that’s for sure.”

Their swaying came to a stop as Emma looked up into her father’s face. “You and Killian are such good examples for Henry. He’s lucky to have both of you in his life, and so am I.”

They heard the wedding music beginning to play, and David checked his watch. “I guess it’s about that time. Will you allow me to get a little sentimental before we leave this room?”

“Just don’t cause me to smudge my makeup.”

“I’ll try not to,” he promised, then took a deep breath. “Emma, from the moment your mother and I found out we would be having a baby, I wondered what our child - what you - might grow up to be like. Nothing I imagined even came close to the person you are - strong, smart, determined, brave, and so very, very beautiful. You’ve defeated dragons, ice monsters, witches, the darkness and Hades himself; yet you’re one of the most loving, generous, and kind-hearted people I’ve ever known. To say I’m proud of you doesn’t do justice to my true feelings. I love you, Emma, and I’m blessed beyond measure to be your father.”

A tear spilled over her lower lashes, and David dug into his pants pocket to retrieve a white handkerchief. After dabbing the wetness away, he tucked it back in his pocket, kissed her forehead, then pulled her into a hug, cupping the back of her head, as usual.

“I love you, too, Dad,” she whispered in his ear.

They stayed that way for several moments, until they heard a tap on the door. Mary Margaret stuck her head in, whispering reverently, “It’s time.”

David nodded and stepped back, gripping Emma’s upper arms as he looked into her eyes. “Ready, Princess?”

“Yes,” she replied firmly.

“Alright, then,” he said, “but just remember this - Killian loves you now, but I loved you first. You’ll always be your daddy’s little girl.”

“I’ll remember,” she said, a soft smile on her lips.

“Good. Now, let’s go get you married.”

*********

Please join me in wishing Krystal a very, very happy birthday!

Tagging: @hookedmom​​​​​​ @kmomof4​​​​​​ @cs-rylie​​​​​​ @qualitycoffeethings​​​​​​ @grimmswan​​​​​​ @wyntereyez​​​​​​ @the-darkdragonfly​​​​��​ @ultraluckycatnd​​​​​​ @paradiselady19​​​​​​ @xarandomdreamx​​​​​​ @motherkatereloyshipper​​​​​​ @julesep3026​​​​​​ @courtorderedcake​​​​​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​​​​ @pawshapedheart​​​​​​ @vampcoffeegyrl23​​​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​​​​ @captainswan4life85​​​​​​ @bluewildcatfanatic​​​​​​ @eleveneitherway​​​​​​ @elfiola​​​​​​ @kday426​​​​​​ @julieenchanted-swans​​​​​​ @gingerchangeling​​​​​​ @andiirivera​​​​​​ @djlbg​​​​​​ @jonesfandomfanatic​​​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​​​ @huntressandlioness1​​​​​​ @anmylica​​​​​​ @booksteaandtoomuchtv​​​​​​ @pirateherokillian​​​​​​ @cocohook38​​​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​​​​ @laschatzi​​​​​​ @zaharadessert​​​​​​ @jennjenn615​​​​​​ @yasbio2015​​​​​​ @lyssapup27​​​​​​ @nachocheese-itsmycheese​​​​​​ @singersdd​​​​​​ @mie779​​​​​​ @undercaffinatednightmare​​​​​​ @winterbaby89​​​​​​ @xsajx​​​​​​ @jackieorioncat​​​​​​ @teamhook​​​​​​ @bdevereaux-blanche​​​​​​ @soniccat​​​​​​ @searchingwardrobes​​​​​​ @jarienn972​​​​​​ @apiratewhopines​​​​​​​ @softkilly​​​​​​​ @goforlaunchcee​​​​​​​ @kymbersmith-90​​​​​​​ @captainswan217-blog

[snowbellewells]

@kmomof4 I am really glad you chose to make this one your Self Promo Sunday story this week. I think I must have read it at the time - and I remember the art! But I had forgotten so many of the details, and this was such an intense, adventurous, exciting fic to revisit!!

You know that I share you love of any sort of werewolf/wolf 🐺 CS writing, and you give us such amazingly believable and endearing versions of both Emma and Killian in their wolf forms with this one. I absolutely couldn’t resist it!! There were many, MANY segments in here that I could have chosen as favorites, but there was something so natural and enchanting about their first meeting as wolves - the joyous freedom of their run - that I had to pick it to quote back to you: “Emma spun away from him and mouthed gently at his muzzle before taking off through the woods. She didn’t need her heightened hearing to know that he was following her lead. The blood sang in her veins as she unleashed a howl at the full moon up above. He joined her in a chilling duet that carried both to the village and to the lagoon. She made to jump over a huge decaying log across their path when her back leg was caught in the rotting bark. A surprised and pain-filled whine was torn from her as she landed on top of the log. Mere seconds passed before the other wolf was by her side and ripping at the disintegrating log. Finally free, she jumped off the log, landing gingerly on the injured leg. The pain speared through her with each step she took, so she walked with a slight limp. He was by her side in an instant, bumping into her, supporting her as she tried to walk off the pain.

It took a few minutes, but the supernatural healing did its work and she resumed the chase through the woods until they burst through the foliage onto her beach. Suddenly mindful that Neal would have a much easier time seeing her and her companion when they were this exposed, she ran back for the cover of the forest. She came to a stop and turned back towards him, just as he burst through and tackled her. They rolled a few times until Emma laid on her back. The black wolf hovered over her before he lowered his face to hers and stretched himself out, half on top of her, half along her side. A wolfish sigh left her as she tentatively licked his muzzle. The crystal blue eyes half shut in pleasure and a pleased low growl left him.”

At any rate, I could ramble on for some time about how much I should have been praising this one before! I am so glad I got the remind to check it out a second time. I love the connection Emma and Killian have from the very start in this, how he gives her the courage to in truth save herself from Neal, and how they find their fated happy ever after together in that little village near the water. SO SO SO GOOD!!!! 😍❤️😍❤️😍❤️

Self-Promo Sunday!!!

I had the very happy occasion of rereading one of my older fics this week and I thought it’d be good to feature on this weeks edition of Self-Promo Sunday! It had been quite a while since I’d enjoyed this particular fic.

It all started when @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 shared with me this moodboard she was working on for @cssns20

My squeal about rattled the windows! In the next few min the outline of an entire fic poured out of me and, with her blessing, I wrote it!

If you haven’t read it, I hope you do and let me know what you think! And if you have, I hope you enjoy it again!

The Moon… Tells the Sea

One Shot, just over 7k, rated M for smut and violence. The smut is at the end and easily avoided if you wish to read the rest of it.

[snowbellewells]

@booksteaandtoomuchtv It’s almost embarrassing how often I have been checking for the next chapter of this story. I love what you are doing with it so much, and I am so genuinely invested in Emma and Killian’s second chance at their relationship and so anxious to see how the plot will play out. You’ve woven so many neat elements of character and events into it that keep me excited and wanting to read what’s next. Who (or what) is creating the sigils and what are they trying to do? What does it mean that Neal is back, and just how much danger is Emma in?

Imagine my chagrin when I went back to the start to re-read it all, and I realized I never reviewed and reblogged this one! I really do apologize. I know it really helps a lot as an author to hear what people thought of an update and know they are getting something out of your work. I definitely am! I have read every chapter twice now! 😍

I love the relationships you’ve created with Emma and her sisters. How real Emma’s struggle to open her heart to Killian fully feels. The scope of Killian’s devotion and patience and true love for her. You’ve done all of this so well and then the element of danger and suspense from the mysterious happenings and Neal’s presence. I really do love it!! Can’t wait to read more!!

Witchy Woman (6/10)

0.5 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | AO3 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

art by @cocohook38

Summary: When Emma came into her position as Storybrooke Coven Leader, she ended things with the powerful Vampire Overlord, Killian Jones. She’s spent over a decade working alongside him and ignoring the growing tension between them.

During his best mate’s wedding, Killian decides he is done waiting. He is ready to have his mate back in his arms (and bed) again. Emma is not an easy woman to woo, but Killian has never backed down from a challenge.

When Emma’s jilted ex-boyfriend returns to town and Emma goes missing, Killian will stop at nothing to get her back and ensure that nothing can ever separate them again.

Rating: E

CW: Mention of domestic abuse, blood and blood drinking (vampires), threatening situations, minor violence, death, mention of parental death

Entry for Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2023 (@cssns)

Tagging: @anmylica, @deckerstarblanche, @elfiola, @goforlaunchcee, @jrob64, @kmomof4 , @pirateswhore, @stahlop, @teamhook, @tiganasummertree, @undercaffinatednightmare, @xarandomdreamx, @zaharadessert

A huge thank you to @ultraluckycatnd for betaing this beast. Thank you so much!! Another thank you to @kmomof4 for sanity-checking and talking through several points with me. Dear reader, I ask that you trust me a bit through this chapter.

“Why won’t you tell me where we are going?” Emma demanded as they walked toward the city centre with their hands clasped together, fingers intertwined.

“Because it would spoil the surprise.”

Emma huffed at him. The heat of her feigned annoyance was tempered by the smile tugging at her lips. She couldn’t fight her smile; holding Killian’s hand and walking together like tourists in their town made her feel a light-heartedness that she hadn’t allowed herself since taking on the role of Head Witch of Storybrooke. She relaxed into the moment and allowed him to guide her, enjoying the freedom that came with letting someone else be in charge.

As they turned on to the main thoroughfare through Storybrooke, a sea of white canvas tents could be seen lining the street. Most of the town seemed to be out with their families leisurely strolling between the tents. Between patrons Emma could make out tables set up with various foodstuffs and fine handmade crafts. She looked up with curiosity at Killian. “The Farmer’s Market?”

“I find I have the most inexplicable urge to ensure that my kitchen is filled with treats.”

“But vampires don’t have to eat.” She was fishing a bit, but she needed to hear him confirm what she was trying very hard not to hope for.

“Aye, but witches do.”

Emma warmed at his words. After a lifetime of providing for her younger sisters and putting her entire being into her work for the supernatural community, having someone do something solely for her felt like the most indulgent luxury. It was a ridiculously small thing. And, for some reason, it meant absolutely everything.

He tugged gently on her hand and led her into the busy street. He put their joined hands tight against his back so that he was able to keep her close and make a path for her through the crowd of familiar faces. She peered over at the stalls as they walked and made a mental note of the ones she wanted to look at closer. Killian’s purposeful steps made it clear that he had a destination in mind and she was interested to see what all he had planned, so she kept the list to herself for now.

“Ah, our first destination.” Killian nodded toward a stall on their left, pulling her attention to a single table with a tablecloth and a flat stone disc. A young woman sat in front of the sign, so all Emma could read was epe pens, which certainly didn’t help her figure out what this first stop was. 

As they approached, the woman smiled at them in greeting. “Good morning. Two?”

“Aye,” Killian answered. The woman quickly moved into action, pulling a pitcher of batter from somewhere hidden under the table and pouring it over the stone surface in a quick, smooth motion. When she dipped back under the table, Emma snorted at the words now visible on the sign - Crêpe Happens. An impossibly large tub of Nutella surfaced before the woman stood and returned to her task.

“The first destination is fresh crêpes that won’t make it back to your kitchen?”

“Your stomach has been growling since you sighted the cheese display that Remy sets up every weekend.” Killian pulled her closer and kissed her nose. “Don’t shop while hungry. Isn’t that a thing people say?” He handed her the crêpe before grabbing his own and stepping back toward the crowded street.

The morning passed quickly as they meandered through the market stopping to procure everything that caught her eye. They made their way back home to Killian’s home, she corrected, carrying canvas bags laden with artisan cheeses, farm fresh vegetables and fruits, and more baked goods than were reasonable.

“Swan, last night was…” Killian started, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen between them. Emma’s stomach dropped. Nothing good followed an opening statement like that.

“Love, no. Nothing like that.” He stopped walking and turned toward her. She could feel him looking at her, but she couldn’t bring her eyes up to meet his. He released a breath, the warm air rushing over her head before he continued. “Emma, I never stopped wanting you, craving every part of you that you will give me, sometimes even daring to dream that you would let me back into your heart. Last night, I hoped you felt…erm, I have to ask. Are we…? What I mean to say is, is this something that you want? You and me - can we be an us?”

With the heavy weight of her initial fear lifted from her, Emma finally raised her gaze to meet his. His expression was open to her, a book wanting desperately to be read. What she read in them filled her with a new kind of fear and the urge to run because Killian wanted her. His eyes were promising her forever. Being with him again felt good and the sex was, well, there was no question they were compatible. But, he was asking for commitment and labels and all the lovey-dovey girlfriend things she was absolute shit at.

“Killian,” she sighed, “I like what we’re doing. Can we keep doing this? This is working. Does it really have to be a…a something?”

“Of course not, Swan.” The seriousness in his expression vanished beneath a mask of playfulness before he turned to continue walking back to his home. “Does this include repeats of last night?”

“Absolutely.”

“And dates?”

“Yes.”

“So…we are dating?”

“We are testing the waters. We’re not exclusive or anything, that would be a something.”

She thought she heard a low growl, but Killian’s expression was still playful as they turned onto the path to his door. “And, we are most definitely not a something.”

“Right.” The lie was bitter on her tongue. This is better. This won’t hurt when it ends.

Killian opened the door for her, gesturing with his armful of bags into the welcoming entry. “Coming in, love?”

Emma nodded. “I have to grab my stuff, but I can’t stay. I promised Mary Margaret lunch."

§§§§ §§§§ §§§§ §§§§

Killian berated himself as Emma's car drove out of view of his study windows. He knew better than to press her into defining the relationship. All morning, he kept replaying the sweet words she said the night before - I am yours. He had known they were merely words uttered in the heat of the moment, driven more out of a need for him to satisfy her physical demands than out of an acknowledgement of a committed relationship. He knew that was all they were.

And yet...

The domesticity of the morning mixed with the fact she came to him before that failed date, that she had told him that she was ready, had lulled him into thinking that she meant she was ready to establish a something - he scoffed - with him. He realised, now, that she hadn't clarified if she was ready to try dating again in general or in exclusivity. Given she had not had a date in years, perhaps not since the one he had come across with that bloody werewolf alpha, he should have considered that she was opening herself up to dating - in general - again. He assumed, truthfully, he blindly hoped, that she was opening the door to him that she slammed shut all those years ago.

Fortunately, she had permitted him to continue courting her. She was giving him a chance and with it, he intended to continue to prove to her that she could rely on him and trust him with anything, even her heart.

Sighing, he poured a finger of whiskey from his decanter. He took a slow sip from his glass, basking in the burning of the liquor as it distracted, if only momentarily, from the ache, and the hurt forming in his chest. He knew she needed time and he would give her all the time she needed. But understanding what she needed and being resolved to give it to her did not prevent the creeping sadness he felt that she still was not ready to jump wholeheartedly into this with him. Not yet. He reminded himself. Not yet, but there was always hope in time.

He took another sip before settling into his desk chair to research those somewhat familiar sigils. Emma would be glad for the information to help solve this latest mystery.

§§§§ §§§§ §§§§ §§§§

“You did WHAT?!” Mary Margaret was dangerously close to yelling. The air around them was shimmering red with her frustration. “Emma, you didn’t.”

Emma shrugged. “You didn’t see the way he was looking at me. It is too much, too soon.”

“It has been over a decade.” Mary Margaret weighed each word carefully. When Emma didn’t respond, she continued. “You have been dancing around each other for over a decade. I thought you were talking about really trying this time. What happened?”

“I can’t be responsible for his heart.”

“You ran.”

“No, it is not like that…”

“It is exactly like that,” Mary Margaret countered. “You ran with your tail between your legs because you saw something real. Something that would mean something. You say you can’t be responsible for his heart. Emma, like it or not, that man gave you his heart all those years ago. You’ve been keeping it tucked away under all that pretence of friendship and professionalism or whatever nonsense you tell yourself, but it clearly has always been yours.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Emma mumbled, pushing her spoon through the cold soup on the table before her.

“You didn’t have to. What are you going to do?”

“Give it back?” An angry pulse of magic hit her and Mary Margaret’s glare made it clear she didn’t regret the slip of her magic. Emma held up both hands in a sign of surrender. “It is not like I broke things off with him.”

“Again.”

“I just said that we weren’t exclusive or anything. That’s hardly ending anything,” Emma said, ignoring Mary Margaret’s interruption.

“You’re smarter than that.”

“He said it was fine! Why are you making it seem like I have done something horrible? What is so bad about not putting a label on it?”

“You told a vampire that you don’t want to be exclusive.”

“Yeah?”

“There is no creature in the realms as possessive as a vampire! He wasn’t asking you to live the rest of your lifetimes together. He was asking you to allow him to protect and possess your heart. You basically told him that he wasn’t worthy of the honour or of your trust. He has spent all this time showing you that he was more than deserving. And, you just told him that you would prefer to share it with several suitors than entrust him.”

“Several suitors?” Emma scoffed. “If I can’t put a label on one relationship, how could I possibly be juggling multiple?” But something that felt a lot like guilt was chewing at her.

Mary Margaret cut her eyes at Emma over the mug from which she was drinking- seriously, Emma?!

A text lit up on her phone, saving her from continuing this conversation. Another area was found covered in sigils and corruption, this one near the lake. Excusing herself and paying for their meal, Emma took off to investigate the new site. It was fresher than the last one, according to Ruby’s text. She hoped it would provide her with some answers.

§§§§ §§§§ §§§§ §§§§

Despite the bleakness before her, Emma was unable to escape into the work that needed to be done. Her mind kept coming back to her conversations with both Killian and Mary Margaret. She wanted to pretend that Mary Margaret was being dramatic, but the awful feeling that accompanied her since her conversation with Killian suggested that her sister had a point. Neglecting her heart had been the only way to endure working alongside him for so long. In her attempt to protect herself, she unintentionally hurt him. She needed to fix it.

What did that mean exactly?

She allowed herself to be vulnerable with him. Wasn’t that evidence aplenty that he’d already earned her trust? Not enough. She was surprised that it didn’t feel like enough for her. The forever in the depths of his eyes felt less scary than it had this morning. Rather than the commitment she thought he was demanding from her, she realised what he had been offering her, promising her. It was exactly what she wished for when they danced at Mary Margaret’s wedding. She let fear kick it away, a knee-jerk reaction. Fuck, what did I do?

“I got Ruby’s text.”

“SHIT!” Emma yelped, jumping out of her skin and her heart racing with the fright. “Killian! Gods.”

“I had no intention of scaring you, love.” He wrapped his arm around her in a quick side hug and kissed the top of her head in greeting. Releasing her, he scanned the decay around them.

“I know. I was just lost in thought.”

“If you’re trying to figure out the sigils, I have made some progress on that.”

“Actually, I was thinking about what we discussed earlier. About this, us.”

“You were clear that…”

“I know, but I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what exactly, Swan?” Killian’s eyes turned to ice, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He was protecting himself and Emma felt awful that he was preparing for her to break his heart. But it also gave her an odd sense of security and peace with which to speak her next words. Killian was trying to build against the pain of losing her. A pain she was trying to avoid with her words this morning. A pain, she realised, that he wouldn’t cause her because he would feel it just as sharply.

“There is an us. We are most definitely a something.”

“Oh, aye? And what kind of something are we?”

“The real couple-y kinda thing.”

“You’re certain?”

Done with the emotional conversations that kept surfacing today, Emma pulled him into her and crashed her lips against his. A surprised noise escaped him before he deepened the kiss. He wrapped one arm low around her, pressing her tighter to him. His hand cradled her head, thumb rubbing her cheek gently.

When they finally broke apart, Killian lifted her chin so she had to meet his eyes. His expression was serious and his voice hardly more than a growl when he spoke. “No one else gets to kiss you like this, Swan.”

She whimpered at the command in his voice. Killian let out a low chuckle. “Hmm, let’s see what we can figure out here. Then, we can go back and I will show you all the things that no one else can do to you.”

The following afternoon was the longest of her life as they carefully walked the desolate scene, searching and finding nothing to indicate who was casting these spells or what would happen to Storybrooke and its inhabitants if they were successful.

I promise that I did not do that just to add some relationship drama. It was important to me that Emma make a very conscious and very intentional decision to pursue a fully defined relationship with Killian. We've seen where her emotions are but that doesn't necessarily mean that she will follow. Often when her heart goes one way, Emma handcuffs it before running away from it as quickly as possible. I would love to know what you think.

[snowbellewells]

@whimsicallyenchantedrose This is such a fun start to a story - and especially enjoyable as it lets me travel back to our fun in Pigeon Forge and writing together at the cabin. That tidbits of this actually happened just makes it all the more special. 💕💖💕 I’ve just been trying to get a moment to really reblog this and flail properly over what you’ve posted so far!!

I get really cracked up at the ladies’ (our) reaction to Isaac’s arrival! (“Really? Of all the people in OuaT who could have appeared?!?”) 😆😂 His “everyone’s a critic” response made me chuckle even more. I really liked his reasoning of all writers giving off a sort of energy though, and how all of them writing fic together all day created a “tidal wave”. He probably couldn’t have avoided them much longer, even if he tried!

The concept of getting to pick a scene of choosing to enter in the book and participate in, and possibly fix, is of course irresistible!! I have a feeling we would all do a pretty good job of it. Better than Isaac might think… 😉

The Girls’ Trip Fairy Tale Ending

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

Word Count: 1123

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list): @sailormew4 @annaamell @flslp87 @emmateo26 @bethacaciakay @ultraluckycatnd @effulgent-mind @ilovemesomekillianjones @kat2609 @brooke-to-broch @missgymgirl @galadriel26 @the-lady-of-misthaven @charmingturkeysandwich @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma @daxx04 @nickillian  @gillie  @britishguyslover @ginnyjinxedandhanshotritafirst @kmomof4  @linda8084 @golfgirld @captain-swan-coffee @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @laughswaytoomuch  @allyourdarlingswans  @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82 @therooksshiningknight, @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree  @jrob64  @anmylica   @booksteaandtoomuchtv​ 

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Chapter 1

“Does anyone remember what we used those puzzle pieces for in the escape room?” Krystal asked, looking up from her laptop at the kitchen table of the Pigeon Forge cabin.

“It had something to do with that map of France, didn’t it?” Joni answered from one end of the couch.

From the other side of the couch, Jen looked up from her laptop where she was busy editing.  “Yeah, it led us to that big map on the wall I think.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Krystal said, going back to her typing.

Across the room, Marta sat in the armchair, trying futilely to keep her eyes open.

Keep reading

[snowbellewells]

@hollyethecurious oh my goodness!!! This opening chapter is SO GOOD!! 😍😍😍 I’ve known I had this to read, but not had time to enjoy it for too long, and today I finally got to start it!! I had no idea what an intriguing story I was depriving myself of- you’ve really got me into it already!!!

I loved the idea of the brothers Jones defecting from George’s army when they learned of his treachery against Snow and David and how they hurried to save King David and his ship from the planned attack. It’s amazing to me how well you’ve worked the altercations and the course your own story is taken so smoothly into many elements of OuaT canon. It feels seamless and I was swept right along with your plot and my concern and feeling for your characters. (Naturally King David didn’t want to be saved and leave Killian aboard a sinking ship, so I thought it fitting Killian just finally had to give him a push to safety. Of course, that made it all the more traumatic to see it lead to the loss of his hand. I did love that it was Snow waiting at his bedside when he woke though, and the closeness that developed between she and Killian, at first largely due to her gratitude for him saving her husband’s life. 💖👑💖

And then her gifting him his hook? That was brilliant, perfect and fitting, and just lovely!! “It is the very hook you used to strap yourself to that barrel, which ultimately saved your life that day. It is my hope that this hook will bring you the same favor each and every day you wear it, as it did the day you brought favor back into my own life when you first employed it.” That honestly ended up being my favorite part of the chapter!!

And of course the trip to Neverland still went tragically wrong - I should have known!! Pan just cannot help meddling which deviously horrible cruelty, can he?!? He is such a little psycho! 😳😡 The way he turned Killian’s promise around on him, and how Killian managed to save Liam and his crew, but had to sign over a decade of his own life it’s so awful and painful - and yet something you could totally see happening when Pam is exacting a price. This version of how he becomes a pirate is almost more heartbreaking than canon (and that was certainly painful enough!!)

I’m holding out hope, but I know the next ten years are going to be awful for our Killian. (You are really good at putting him through it, you know that, right? 😉) in all seriousness, I can’t believe I haven’t this being reblogged over and over and over again, just ENDLESSLY. It starts out so amazing, and I CANNOT WAIT to see where you are taking it next!!!

CS AU: The Law of Surprise (1/3)

Summary: The Law of Surprise: a custom as old as humanity itself. The Law dictates that a man saved by another is expected to offer to his savior a boon whose nature is unknown to one or both parties. In most cases, the boon takes the form of the saved man’s firstborn child, conceived or born without the father’s knowledge.

A/N: This is NOT a Witcher AU. Want to make that clear from the get go. The idea for this fic WAS inspired by the show, however. I’m not sure if the Law of Surprise was a show/game creation or if it existed before. Regardless, this fic is my spin on the concept and will be posted in three parts.

Much love and thanks to the @cssns mods for keeping this event going year after year! A HUGE shout out to my artist @eastwesthomeisbest for the AMAZING pieces she made to accompany my fic. Go give her ALL the flails! Finally, all the hot chocolate, rum, and grilled cheese sandwiches for my amazing betas @ultraluckycatnd and @kmomof4. LOVE YOU LADIES TO BITS!

Rated T (for now) / Also available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me!  

Part One

Smoke billowed from the hull, choking the air as steel clanged around them. Shouts and screams echoed across the deck that was coming apart beneath their feet.

“The King! We must save the King!” Liam bellowed over the melee, dispatching a man who, up until a few days ago, had been one of their brothers-at-arms. No sooner had the man’s body hit the boards than another rushed forward to take his place, challenging the traitorous sea captain whom they had expected to aid them in their mission, not take up arms against them.

“Brother!” Killian cried out, moving through the throng towards Liam with slashes of his cutlass clearing the way.

“The King!” Liam commanded once more. “Get to the King! That’s an order!”

Killian’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword and he swallowed past the instinct to ignore such an order. Notes of black powder, brine, and blood filled his sinuses as he took in a fortifying breath and turned away from his captain in search of His Majesty King David. Through the soot laced plumes, the dying breaths of a ship that would soon find itself on the bottom of the sea, Killian could see King David fending off multiple assailants with sword skills that had become legend. Movement through the swirls of ash caught Killian’s attention and his stomach dropped. Lurking behind the King was an unseen assassin, and Killian had but a few seconds to launch himself between his would-be sovereign and certain death.

The force of their meeting blades jarred Killian, but he held firm. Applying a few less than savory tactics to give him the upper hand, he made quick work of the assassin then threw himself into the fray, defending the King as they fought side by side until the remaining adversaries lay dead.

“Y-You,” King David panted, his chest and shoulders heaving from his exertions as he tried to catch his breath. “You serve my… my father, King George.”

“Not any longer, Your Majesty,” Killian told him. “Once we learned of George’s treachery against Queen Snow, we could not stand idly by and accept such orders.”

“We?”

“My brother, Captain Liam Jones, and those of us who chose to follow good form rather than betray a treaty made in good faith.”

“Lieutenant!” one of their men shouted. “Captain says we must abandon ship at once!”

“Too right!” Killian called out, grasping the King by the arm. “Time to go, Your Majesty.”

The planks they’d used to board the crippled vessel were just coming into view when the ship lurched and began to list violently. Grabbing onto the rigging, Killian prompted King David to hoist himself up onto the gunwale.

“Here!” Killian shouted, forcing a length of rope into the King’s hands. “Take this and swing over. Our men will catch you!”

“What about you?”

“There’s no time! You must go, Your Majesty. Now!”

When the King attempted to voice his protest once more, Killian gave him a firm shove, forcing him to cling tightly to the rope as his feet lost purchase with the side of the ship. The sight of the King being hauled to safety was the last thing Killian saw before the deck beneath him gave way. Agony ripped through his wrist where the rigging was still wrapped around it. The weight of his body and the vicious twisting of the rope as it held to the cleats it was knotted upon effectively severed his hand, dropping it into the flood waters below with a sickening splash that preceded the rest of Killian’s body as he desperately tried, and failed, to grab onto the railing with his remaining hand.

Sea water filled his mouth, still open from his screams of pain, and forced its way down his throat. Panicked, he reached out, hoping against hope to make his way out of the collapsing hull, determined it would not become his tomb. Through the vanishing streaks of sunlight, Killian watched in horror as crimson began to surround him. His own blood, freely flowing from the shredded remains of his wrist, colored the frigid waters as his consciousness started to wane and black threatened to overtake red. Something brushed his side, and with the last vestiges of his strength and wits, Killian noted it was a barrel, still sealed and buoyant, making its way back towards the surface with the line and hook that had once secured it within the hold still attached. Scrambling, he secured the hook to the straps crisscrossing the front of his uniform and prayed the sea would not yet claim him, giving into the oblivion that was proving too much to overcome.

Keep reading

[snowbellewells]

@anmylica I am so sorry it’s taken me so long to read the start of your CSSNS story, but wow!! I am completely wrapped up in it now and anxiously awaiting what happens next. Clearly the black feather they found was indeed a clue, if their silent visitor at chapter’s end is any indication. 😏

I loved the way you sent the scene so vividly in the opening paragraphs. I have rarely felt so much like I was skimming along the waves and feeling the wind and water droplets in my face while I was reading as I did here. You captured the sailing of the Jolly Roger brilliantly! It’s also neat to see this version of Hook. He’s very much still the revenge-driven, season two rogue we first met, and that added another layer of mystery and uncertainty to what he does and what might happen yet.

Granny’s appearance at the tavern and her obvious distress over the change in Dark One and then the memory in the dream catcher Smee found paints a sad picture for Emma, but also brings more questions I’m eager to learn the story’s answer to. Did Emma know the Darkness would take her over? Was she the Princess in this version? What lead to her facing Rumplestiltskin alone?

I can’t wait to read more and find out!!! Thank you so much for sharing this!!! 😍😍😍

Fly With The Black Swan

Tagging the Usual Crew: @kmomof4 @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @snowbellewells @sotangledupinit @zaharadessert @whimsicallyenchantedrose @deckerstarblanche

Read on AO3

Read on FFN

Summary: Captain Hook has finally returned to the Enchanted Forest after an all-too-long stint in the Enchanted Forest, ready to get his revenge, only he’s too late. His Crocodile has been killed by another, but the demon partially responsible for his Milah’s death remains. He sets out, determined to kill the demon once and for all, but a life or death situation puts him right in the demon’s clutches. Reluctantly, he joins the new Dark One, finding himself falling for her against his will and his motivations change. Now, he needs to save this woman from the same demon that killed his first love, and he plans out a way to save her.

But the Darkness has plans of its own.

CSSNS ‘23 Entry. Based on the Sonata Arctica song “Fly With The Black Swan”

Note: I have no idea if this is going to post or not. I am currently in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico with crappy satellite internet and none of my other attempts have gone through. Seriously, I’ve tried it a million times by this point. Maybe this time is the charm? I guess we’ll see. If it does post, I will be editing this Saturday to clean it up when I get home.

———————————

The Jolly Roger landed hard in the ocean waters with a great splash that sent droplets of water into the air and on the deck, drenching most of her crew in the process. Captain Hook stood at the helm, seemingly unaffected by the wake, scanning the seas for any danger, always on his guard. He took a deep breath, turning his face up to the sun high in the sky, practically tasting the ocean on his tongue and thought, ‘This is what freedom smells like.’ The sails glittered with the remnants of the last vial of pixie dust he would ever have to use to get his ship airborne for a sojourn back to the Enchanted Forest again.

He had just spent countless years sailing the never ending circle of Neverland’s waters in the reluctant employ of a demon in a child’s body, never seeing the sun except for when he was Pan’s errand boy on a supply run back to the Enchanted Forest. His years under the deal with Pan were finally complete, and he felt that he had enough information to achieve his true mission: skinning his Crocodile.

Captain Hook stared at the cloudless sky, pondering his next steps as his first mate, William Smee, blundered about giving orders to the others. His crew scurried about letting out sails, hauling in lines, securing their goods, and generally making preparations to sail to the destination their captain ordered. Throughout the hustle and bustle, their captain stood stoic at the helm. He did not steer; his helmsman, Antonio Buckham, had the pleasure of directing the ship, and he stood with his hands tight on the wheel and his eyes on his captain’s profile, awaiting orders.

Hook’s forget-me-not blue eyes finally left the horizon and focused upon the map in front of him. If he had landed his ship in the location he had wanted, then he was just due south of Glowerhaven. This was a pirate-friendly port, and it was going to be the best place at which they could restock their supplies. He looked over at Buckham, who stood anticipating his orders.

“Make way to Glowerhaven,” Hook ordered, and Buckham nodded once.

“Aye, Captain,” he responded, turning to the rest of the crew before bellowing, “Make way to Glowerhaven!”

The crew repeated the order, and Buckham turned the wheel slightly as the others adjusted the sails. Through it all, Hook said nothing else, just watched the sea and the sky pass them by as they sailed towards their port of call. It was a sunny day with nary a cloud in the sky. A good wind at their backs filled the sails and carried them over the water so smoothly it was as if the ship was flying over the waves. All around the deck, his crew carried out their orders, bringing them into the port where they could find a tavern and food and relish their newfound freedom. Hook surveyed the work with disinterest, for so long as they arrived at their destination without issue, it did not matter to him how his crew did their jobs.

His cold, hard, forget-me-not blue eyes watched ahead of the bow as the land of the Enchanted Forest appeared in view. His jaw clenched at the sight. It was there that he would finally fulfill his life’s purpose. As the land grew closer and the short skyline of Glowerhaven became more distinct, he was filled with a sense that, at last, he was on the path for his vengeance. He was about to find his happy ending, however bittersweet it may be. A determined, almost manic glint filled his eyes, and his crew gave him side glances and moved away from him, hoping to avoid his ire, though he paid them no mind.

An hour later, The Jolly Roger had been docked into her berth, the crew had all left, and those tasked with her watch were settled in for a few hours. Hook was the last to leave, wanting to make sure everything was just so. He sauntered down the alleyways between buildings into a tavern at which he had long since been a patron. He knew that the last pieces of his plan could be crafted with information the owner likely had.

He opened the door and stepped inside, scanning the room for any potentially unsavory situations. The room was dimly lit and dirty, much like all portside taverns throughout the realms of the Enchanted Forest. Rough hewn tables of various sizes filled the room and stools of varying heights were haphazardly placed by each table. There weren’t many people occupying the tavern at this time of day, and so most of the tables were empty. His crew occupied a few, already having drinks and food delivered by several barmaids. The bar was manned by a lone attendant, and it was to her that he made his way.

He slid onto a stool at the bar in front of her with a beguiling grin on his face. The old woman scoffed and rolled her eyes, but she moved closer, grabbing a bottle of rum and a glass on her way.

“What are you scallywags doing here,” she demanded, plunking down the bottle and glass roughly. She looked over her glasses at Hook and stared him down, causing him to grin even wider.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend,” he responded, moving to open the bottle and pour himself a finger’s width of rum. He had no plans on getting drunk, but he wasn’t about to turn down the libation.

“You’re hardly a friend,” she retorted, causing him to laugh.

“A patron then,” he amended. “A well-paying patron.”

The woman surveyed him hard and then nodded. “What do you want, Hook?”

He shook his head slightly as he raised the glass to his lips and knocked back the measure of rum. “Many things,” he said, placing the glass back on the bar. “Mostly, I’d like information at the moment.”

The woman crossed her arms. “I ain’t got information.”

Hook smirked. “Come, now, Granny, you and I both know you’re the best there is at collecting information. And we both know how valuable I find it.”

He took out his coin purse and very deliberately counted out five doubloons. Granny watched him as he did so, quirking an eyebrow at him before sighing.

“You want to know about the Dark One’s movements,” she said, grabbing a second glass and pouring herself a measure of rum.

“Aye.” Hook eyed her with curiosity, as this was definitely out of the norm for their usual pattern of conversation.

Granny took a sip of her drink and met his eyes. “You’re a bit behind the times.”

“How so?” Hook questioned, leaning closer to the old woman, a frown on his face at Granny’s implication.

“The Dark One you chase is no longer the host of the Darkness. The host has changed,” Granny said bluntly, a strange look crossing her face.

Hook blinked as Granny fell silent, sipping her rum to allow him time to process her words. He didn’t move as he tasted the information on his lips, a horrible sensation of dread and despair filling him. His immediate instinct was to deny that it was possible, but he knew deep down that the woman’s look of despair and grief couldn’t be anything but real.

“Who is it now?” he asked, studying her face carefully, hoping to pick up on some nuance in her communication. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but he felt disappointment all the same when he realize how upset she was.

Granny poured herself a bit more rum into the half-full glass and knocked back the entire thing in one swallow. Hook watched her dispassionately. She grimaced out of grief, and Hook realized this topic was a festering wound though he didn’t know why.

“I don’t know,” Granny denied, and Hook got the sense that she did indeed know but didn’t want to admit it.

Hook clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes. He felt a rage that he hadn’t felt since Rumplestiltskin had taken his hand and his love from him. All these years of seeking revenge, and for what? What was he left with now? He snarled at the thought of the Crocodile evading his hook another time.

Granny cleared her throat as she choked back tears, calling his attention back to her before he could fall any more into his anger. Her wet eyes shocked him out of his rage long enough to restore sense to his head. “You want any more than that, you’re out of luck. I know nothing else.”

Granny poured herself another shot and knocked it back. Once she had finished, she stood and moved down to another end of the bar without another word. Hook contemplated the bottle before deciding that today’s news had been bad enough. He poured himself a healthy measure and drained the glass. He glanced over to Smee and beckoned his head. Smee scrambled to his side, and when Smee was within earshot, he said, “Tomorrow we travel to the Dark One’s castle.”

Smee blinked before widening his eyes in fear. “To the Dark One’s castle?”

“Aye,” Hook responded. “There will be information there that we need.”

“But won’t he-“ Smee began but Hook cut him off.

“Apparently someone else got to the Crocodile before us. I want to know who and why.” Hook’s eyes hardened in resolve, and Smee gulped before nodding his head. “My best chance at getting answers is there.”

As Smee scrambled off back to the crew to pass the news around, Hook drank another healthy measure of rum, resigned to the situation at hand. This was merely a minor setback in his quest for revenge. He’d waited this long; he could bide his time a little longer.

The next morning dawned bright and cheerful, completely at odds with Hook’s mood. Hook had already left instructions to the next man in charge for getting supplies in his stead. He and Smee arranged for a couple of horses for the journey inland, and they made sure to have the necessary supplies for their journey.

The journey itself to the Dark One’s castle was mostly uneventful. Hook and Smee endeavored to find out all they could about the Dark One’s whereabouts, but no one wanted to talk. Either they didn’t know or they avoided the conversation once questions were asked and quickly hurried off on their way. Hook was quickly becoming vexed with the situation. He needed answers now.

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Smee attempted to reassure him after their latest fruitless encounter in a village just south of the Southern Kingdom’s borders. “We’ll find out more at the next inn.”

Hook just sighed in response. It would do no good taking his ire out on Smee. Not when the man was trying to help. Hook just nudged his horse forward into a trot.

“We can find out all we need once we reach the Dark One’s castle. Come and let us stop wasting time,” Hook replied.

Smee said nothing in response. Hook supposed it was because Smee could see just how fine the leash was on his temper. The two rode on in silence, crossing into the Moors kingdom just before nightfall. They stopped at an inn for the night, keeping their ears fruitlessly peeled for any hint of gossip. None could be heard that bore any importance for their quest.

The next morning’s travels brought about similar results. They crossed the small leg of the East Mountains and into Capetia at around noon. They stopped briefly at a tavern for food before moving on. The ride was boring, and Hook’s mind wandered as the horse trudged onward.

Just who had managed to get the best of the Crocodile? How had that happened? Would there even be anything of value at Rumplestiltskin’s old castle? Was all of this just Hook grasping at straws, unwilling to let a past wrong go, even after the culprit was long gone?

Hook didn’t think so, but he had been wrong before. He decided that the only way he was going to get answers was by raiding Rumplestiltskin’s castle. He could decide on the next course to set once he saw the state of things there.

They reached the edge of the Dark Forest that evening. He and Smee lit a fire for safety and camped under the stars. Neither spoke very much, for Hook was too deep in thought and Smee knew better than to push his Captain when the man was pensive like this. The night passed by uneventfully, and the next morning dawned bright.

A hard ride resulted in their arriving at the perimeter of the Dark One’s lands just after noon. They pulled their horses up short as they surveyed the imposing structure in the distance.

“So that’s the Dark One’s castle,” Smee muttered. “Do you think maybe he was compensating for something?”

Hook sniggered. “Most assuredly. We need to be cautious. If the rumors are false, and he is still alive, he won’t take kindly to seeing either of us.”

Smee nodded vigorously and they dismounted their horses. They tied the mounts off, leaving them plenty of slack to graze, and they slunk off in the direction of danger. They crept along in the surrounding woods, keeping their eyes peeled and their ears alert.

The woods were silent. It was eerie how no animals rustled in the undergrowth, how no birds tweeted in the trees above them. The closer they got to the castle, the quieter it got. Hook felt dizzy with how much he kept looking around them, just waiting for an ambush.

Finally they got close enough that the front doors were just in front of them. The castle had a derelict, abandoned feel. No smoke rose from the myriad chimneys; no movement could be detected behind the windows. The facade was covered in overrun ivies and weeds littered the overgrown lawn.

“Well, Captain, there might just be some truth to the rumors after all.”

Hook glanced at Smee. “It seems safe enough so far, but keep on your guard.”

Hook and Smee each grasped a door handle of the giant wooden doors and pulled with all their might, not noticing the wave of blue light that swept the yard as they did so. Slowly, creaking in protest the entire time, the doors gave away. Hook was just about to step inside the foyer when a fireball came soaring at them. Hook and Smee dove for the ground, managing to just narrowly avoid it. They watched as it flew into a tree and caught it on fire. The flames whooshed as it engulfed the large tree and devoured it until nothing but ash remained. They stared at it before looking at each other.

“Let’s hope that’s the only thing waiting for us,” Hook said. Smee chuckled nervously and they both scrambled up into standing positions. They glanced at the opening, but nothing else seemed to be waiting.

“Shall we try this again, sir,” Smee asked uncertainly.

Hook nodded once. “Without the fireballs, preferably.”

They crept through the arched doorway, sticking to the sides, but nothing else happened. The foyer beyond was dark and cold. It gave off a chilling air of abandonment. Hook and Smee exchanged looks.

“Shall we split up sir? Cover more ground that way,” Smee offered as he shrugged.

Hook considered his first mate for a moment, eyebrow tilting up a bit. On the one hand, splitting up could be a trap, but on the other, they waste valuable time searching together.

Hook nodded once. “Yell if you find anything.”

“Aye, aye,” replied Smee before heading to the rooms on the left. Hook decided to go up the grand staircase that lay in waiting just in front of him.

He walked up the steps one at a time, slowly prowling forward, always expecting another type of security measure. Nothing happened.

The lack of reaction set him on edge even more than he had been before entering the abandoned building. He expected Rumplestiltskin’s slimy high pitched giggle to sound behind him at any moment. As the minutes dragged on, he became even more unnerved at the lack of the coward’s appearance.

He stepped onto the next floor and looked around him. The second floor had the same derelict feel as the downstairs. There was no sign of anyone’s inhabitance. He crept forward, resting his palm in the jolt of his sword, keeping his hook at the ready. The first room he came to was some sort of guest room, but for whom, Hook couldn’t begin to say. He didn’t believe the Crocodile had many guests. The imp hadn’t been known for his hospitality, after all. He searched the room, but nothing was there besides tacky furniture and dusty bedclothes. Hook left the room as quickly as he entered it.

The silence in this place was eerie. It set his teeth on edge, and he clenched his jaw out of tension. He crept down the hallway, forgoing searching other countless bedchambers. The stench of Dark magic hung in the air, cloying and sickening. The further down the hall he traveled, the more palpable the magic became.

He went up another staircase, choosing to follow the feeling of the magic instead of investigating every room. Hook figured the odds of finding something were better if he traced the magic. He hadn’t felt this kind of sensation, this tingling numbness, since the Crocodile had been on the deck of his ship, changing Hook’s life forever.

He followed the tingle of the magic until he arrived in front of what appeared to be a private study. He opened the double doors and walked into a large room. A giant table occupied the center of the room, and display cases that had once held whatever objects Rumplestiltskin deemed important surrounded the table. The room had been decorated in rich shades of red and gold, but now a thick layer of dust covered everything.

The room looked as if it had been ransacked by looters at some undetermined point. Hook breathed a heavy sigh. This beyond anything else convinced him that the Crocodile was gone. Looters wouldn’t have been able to mauraud this castle if Rumplestiltskin had still been alive. Hook felt a dull sensation curdle in his stomach that he belatedly recognized was disappointment.

Discouraged, he wandered into the room, no less on his guard than before, but no longer expecting his mortal enemy to appear before him sniggering with twisted glee. He rummaged through the detritus, looking for something but not knowing what it was. After shuffling a few plates around, he saw a brown piece of fabric, dirtied with age and a few dried blood stains. He frowned and picked it up, his heart sinking even lower in his chest.

He knew those stitches.

He stood and shook the fabric out, using his hook to help fan it out to make sure that it was what he thought it was. He smiled a grim smile at the confirmation. It was a shawl. He recognized the handiwork as Milah’s, and he suddenly felt like crying. It must have belonged to Bae.

He swallowed and cleared his throat, hoping to drown the burning sensation, and rapidly tried to blink tears away. He folded it as carefully as he could, caressing the fabric as he did so. He took a step towards the door, intending to leave this room and all its ghosts behind, when he stepped on something that slid as he put his weight down.

Catching himself from falling, he looked at his feet and saw a cane. He moved his shoe off the wood and bent down to pick it up, recognizing it to be that old cane the Crocodile had once used to walk when the coward boarded his ship for the first time. He held it against the shawl that was also in his hand for a moment, considering all the possibilities that could have happened and didn’t, all the ways fate could have worked out differently for him.

Frustrated, he threw the cane away from him and turned to walk out. As he threw it, a shimmering came from the far corner of the room, catching his attention. The shimmering revealed a cabinet that extended from floor to ceiling. He stared in disbelief at it before his heart started racing. This was what he had been looking for!

He hurried to it and wrenched the doors open, seeing all kinds of magical items and whatnots. Books were stacked high in all areas, potion ingredients were stored three lines deep in bottles, with some already being completed. Magical objects filled the empty areas, and wands were held in stands. The magical items weren’t necessarily what he needed, but the books… the books might just be the missing link.

Hook tore through the books stacked high inside the cabinet, desperately searching for something that would help him piece together what had happened. He quickly discarded the ones that looked as if they were magical instruction books, having no interest in their contents. No, he was looking for something more personal.

Seeing nothing in the stack that could help him, he turned to the table, searching for any hidden compartments. Finding two, he tore open the drawers, the contents rattling as he jerked the drawers out, quills and empty ink bottles and other rubbish littering their insides. There was nothing that could even hint at the circumstances that finally resulted in the demon's demise.

He searched in this manner until he had combed through the entire room. If there had ever been any records, they had long since been hidden or destroyed. The fruitlessness of the search just made Hook more determined.

There had to be another room he had overlooked in this overgrown hunk of an imitation castle. Moving decisively towards the door, his hook got caught in a hole in a shelf of the cabinet in his haste. Hook yanked his hook out of the hole it had gotten lodged in, and the shelf came crashing, the contents falling to the floor in a great crash. Hook just managed to jump out of the way in time.

Hook scanned the rubbish, finding it absolutely ridiculous that Rumplestiltskin had never bothered to secure the blasted thing when it had borne all that weight when something caught his eye.

He scanned the back of the cabinet again, his brow furrowing in concentration. There! A glimmer!! He tilted his head this way and that as he tried to determine from where the glimmer had come. He noticed a notch from in between the wooden panels that covered the back of the shelf.

He put his hook into the notch, which was just big enough for the tip of his hook to lodge into, and pulled. The back panel was stubborn and didn’t come off. He sighed and maneuvered his hook deeper into the hole to provide himself with a bit more leverage. He wrapped his hand around his brace and pulled again, this time with all his strength.

The back panel came loose with a loud screech. It had detached just enough so he could see a small book inside. The cabinet must have had a false backing that only the crocodile would know about.

“Clever,” Hook muttered to himself as he reached in and clasped the book in his hand. Once he had pulled it out, he wiggled his hook out of the hole and set out to peruse the book. It had to contain something of importance if the Crocodile had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden.

He opened the book as he sank into a nearby chair that hadn’t toppled over in his haste to further ransack the room. Hook was pleased to find that it was a handwritten journal. He flipped through the pages slowly, finding a lot of drivel about magical experiments that didn’t interest Hook. Most of it was useless, but almost at the end of the journal, the writing changed. It was spiky, with very slanted words (a far different type of handwriting from Rumplestiltskin's scrawled handwriting).

The script made the document hard to read, so Hook skimmed the pages looking for any clues as to what had happened to the Crocodile (and most importantly, whom had killed him). He flipped through page after page, almost falling into a trance as he skimmed over the entry. Just when he thought the journal had nothing of importance, his eyes caught upon a very familiar name.

Milah.

Hook’s heart skipped a beat. He read the sentence that contained her name but found it didn’t make sense in the context, so he backtracked until he fell upon a section that seemed to detail why her name was on the page.

As he read the entry, his blood began to boil.

It had been easy enough to convince Rumplestiltskin that the only way to satisfy his broken heart upon learning his once beloved wife had fallen in love with someone else was to rip out her heart and crush it. With this, I believe that Rumplestiltskin’s last dregs of humanity have been thoroughly eradicated. I have been successful in imprinting myself irrevocably within his soul. With his black heart now thoroughly darkened, he will have no hope of the use of Light Magic against me, that cursed abomination of a magical force.

I had thought seeing him abandon and break a deal with his son was the ultimate test of his loyalty to me, but his murder of Milah showed me the depths of depravity he is willing to sink to. It will be so much easier to twist and bend Rumplestiltskin’s actions to my will. It was amusing to see how little he resisted the urge once I placed the thought in his head to kill her. He almost seemed to welcome it.

I think the coward enjoyed the thrill of the power I wield over life. He will be much more pliant to fulfilling my desires, I think. After all, he will not want to give up the control over the magic I have given him easily. This just serves as further proof that humanity is corruptible and unworthy of the gifts they have been bestowed. They will all bow to me before it is over. I must make my own plans for that day. This vessel will not be able to support me for very long, and the time will eventually come to find another host.

Hook continued to read, but the rest of the passage detailed how it felt to crush a heart and the magic that had to go into the action. He felt sick the more he tried to read, and he closed the book in disgust. His heart lay in jagged pieces at his feet at the information he had sought and obtained.

Rumplestiltskin had merely been a pawn in Milah’s death. Oh, Hook didn’t doubt that Rumplestiltskin desired her death; by the end, the man had looked upon his estranged wife with hatred in his eyes. But to learn that Hook’s love had been killed because some demon had wanted it done to prove a point? That was like rubbing salt in an already festering and infected wound.

Hook grit his teeth. He snatched the journal up and tucked it into one of the hidden pockets in his leather duster. His revenge was still possible. All he had to do was find the demon that killed her and find a way to end its existence.

He threw open the door, hollering for Smee. His first mate came running.

“Tell me you’ve found something of value in this place,” Hook commanded.

Smee held up a dreamcatcher. “I found this. I think it could tell us who the next Dark One is!”

“What is it?” Hook asked, puzzled as to how such an object would be able to tell them anything.

“I don’t know what it’s called, but when I held it, I could see something. I think it might hold memories.” Smee held it out to his captain.

Hook took it in his hand, and once he touched it, images started to play out amongst the strings. It did look like memories. He watched as a pretty young girl, possibly mid to late twenties, approached the Dark One. Rumplestiltskin giggled, dismissing her, when she held out the dagger. He watched dispassionately as Rumple froze in disbelief. He watched the woman say something and then plunge the knife into Rumplestiltskin’s chest. He watched as oily tendrils of darkness began to ooze out of Rumpelstiltskin, making their way up the woman’s arms until it coated her in the substance. She disappeared, the knife disappearing along with her. Rumplestiltskin fell to the ground of his castle, obviously dead.

“Where did she disappear to?” Hook asked once the memories went black and the images reverted back to the strings once more.

“I don’t know, Captain. But I found this with it,” Smee said as he held up a giant black feather.

Hook took it, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Perhaps we can use this to find out.”

He turned and made his way back into the study where he had found the stash of potions. He went to the box and scanned its contents, pulling out a bottle once he had found what he was looking for. He uncorked it, Smee looking on, and poured its contents over the feather.

“Is that a locator spell?” Smee asked.

“I think so. It’s some kind of potion for it, at any rate.” He watched as the feather floated in the air before darting towards a ragged map of the Enchanted Forest that hung on the wall. It gouged itself into the map, and Hook and Smee hurried across the room to see where it was pointing.

“The North Mountains?” Smee read aloud.

“Aye,” Hook agreed. “That is our next destination. We must return to the ship at once.”

Smee nodded, and after a brief moment to figure out the exact location on the map the feather pointed to, the two men left the Dark One’s castle, never to step foot inside again.

After several days’ journey of riding hard and resting only when needed, Hook and Smee arrived back in the port town they had left the Jolly Roger moored at. After a quick replenishment of supplies, she set sail once more, this time to a village called Sapphire Springs in the Northern Kingdom.

Hartford was a quaint little village that had little to offer pirate crews, so Hook and his band rarely made port there. It was out of the way of the major shipping lanes, as it was the most remote village of the Northern Kingdom. Hook preferred doing most of his business at Glowerhaven and other larger ports where it was easier to blend in with the locals and visitors, but he had been to Sapphire Springs enough to know the lay of the land.

Hook and his crew sailed hard, avoiding most traffic in the shipping lanes. They stumbled upon a ship from Agrabah, and Hook gave the order to take it. He knew his crew would appreciate the opportunity to acquire jewels and riches when they hadn’t yet been able to take any ships since their permanent arrival back in the Enchanted Forest. The crew of the merchant ship were very amenable to surrender, and after a couple of hours, the Jolly Roger rode deeper in the water, her hull full of spices and jewels and Agrabahn wine. Hook allowed them to open a barrel, and the evening was spent toasting their success.

They made a quick stop at a port in Sherwood Forest to sell off the jewels and spices. Smee divided the spoils to the rest of the crew after selling off their wares. The crew didn’t dally long; Hook was in too much of a hurry to make it to the North Mountains to spend much time in port.

After selling off this particular haul, they set sail once more, making a beeline straight for Sappire Springs. Hook stood back, letting his crew do the sailing and navigating as they had been for centuries. He kept his eyes trained on the horizon as he came ever closer to fulfilling his destiny and achieving his happy ending (however miserable an end it may be). If he had any doubts about the dangers that lay before him, he didn’t express it.

Hook continued his vigilance until the sky turned to dusk and the night crew took over. He looked out over the water at the waves, felt the breeze on his face, and heaved a sigh. He turned and slid open the hatch to his cabin and descended the ladder, not noticing the giant black swan that swooped down from the clouds and glided over the ship for a brief moment before ascending once more into the clouds.

[snowbellewells]

@spartanguard I am probably not going to say as much as I should about this chapter. I’m too anxious to dive into the next one and find out what happens!!! Still, it has to be said that you had me spellbound once again -from start to finish.

You even had me quietly praising Rumple for the calm, quiet, normal person sort of bravery he showed at finding Dorian in his home and himself at the other man’s mercy without his magic. It would have been really interesting to see him try to do that in show canon. I have a feeling he was also quite smart to direct Dorian to that particular dream catcher. The tears on his cheeks make me hold out hope there’s still some bit of love or affection for his brother in him somewhere.

But I’m dying to go on and see in chapter twelve. Please forgive me for this shorter review. It was every bit an amazing chapter, and you’ve perfectly teed up the big climactic moment!

sons of love and death, 11/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: Back to the main story in this chapter! Fair warning: you may need a tissue… Only one more big one after this, and then an epilogue! Can't believe this @cssns adventure is almost over! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl!) rated M | 4.5k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Dorian hummed to himself in thought. He’d been sneaking around the former wicked witch’s property, stealing some of the leftover golden straw made by Rumpelstiltskin (he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it the first time), when he noticed his brother at the front door of the house. So, obviously, he decided to eavesdrop, lingering just below the kitchen window. 

He had to admit—the heroes’ idea of using the Crimson Heart to render him powerless was a valid one, if the connection between his and his brother’s magic was accurate. And he had every reason to believe it; there was a period of a few weeks a couple years ago when his own magic wouldn’t work. He’d been in New York City at the time and just attributed the dysfunction to the lack of magic in the rest of this realm finally catching up to him. But based on what little he’d deduced about the timing of Hook’s dabble with the underworld, it was likely then, and it returned whenever his twin had been resurrected. (He’d spent the bulk of that time with a lovely redhead anyways.)

(He’d also finally read the novel supposedly inspired by his life, after delaying it for over a century. Damn, Oscar had taken quite a number of liberties with that story, but given what he knew about the man, none were surprising. He loathed that he gave it a moral, though, and a tragic ending to boot, when Dorian himself had few and had no plans of failing.)

He translocated away before his brother could leave the farmhouse, heading for the queen’s vault. He’d heard of the Crimson Heart, but never thought he’d have a reason to seek it out—he was all about acquiring power, not losing it. He still wasn’t sure how exactly he could use it, but better to have it in his arsenal before it could be used against him. 

As he approached the vault, he could sense the protection spell the queen had placed around it—far stronger than the one at the town line. Well, that was no problem; he reached into an inner pocket and pulled out an odd-looking dagger; the blade looked vaguely like bone. It was precisely what he’d been looking for during his ill-fated adventure in London all those years ago: the knife was made from a sliver of Maui’s legendary fish hook, having the ability to cut through any spell (though he didn’t come across it for a few more decades). 

He flipped it in his hand, then stabbed at the air, connecting with the barrier. Then he cut down; a bright red line followed, glowing as it created a break in the spell. When he reached the ground, he was able to slip his other hand into the split and part it like a curtain, then stepped through. 

Foolishly, the queen hadn’t put any further security measures on her hideaway. To be fair, that was a strong spell guarding it—few would be able to get through with their lives. But he was usually the exception to any rules.

He’d been focused on the books the first time he’d been down here, but could easily tell it was a treasure trove of other useful items. Based on what he’d overheard, the object he was looking for had some inherent magic of its own; that would make it easier to locate among all the other clutter.

It took a few tries—and only after uncovering a number of other, actual hearts—before he found it, set casually on a shelf in a box. It was a clear-ish stone, vaguely tinted green or red, depending on the angle, but he could feel the void-like enchantment it held. It was just waiting to absorb whatever magic it could get.

For a brief moment, he wondered if there was a way to use it as a siphon—perhaps he could merely take his brother’s magic for his own, including that bit of Darkness? But no; everything he’d heard about this was that it was a one-way vacuum, and he was too close to achieving his goals to risk it by getting greedy.

He closed up the box and tucked it under his arm, then transported away, to another part of town. If a town as quaint as Storybrooke could have a seedy side, this was it: a short strip of warehouses and industrial spaces near the docks. A plain, almost charred-looking cinderblock building sat at the end of the lane, with a sign by the door reading Wayland Smith (if one could read it, that is; the metal sign was almost tarnished beyond recognition).

A rush of heat welcomed Dorian as he pulled the door open; inside, a number of forges were going, giving the entire space an orange glow.

In the back of the shop, a man wore a welding helmet and was shaping red-hot metal with a hammer; the resounding clang echoed in the large space as sparks erupted from his project. He stopped when he saw Dorian approach, though, and lifted the mask.

There was nothing special or unique about his appearance. He was just…a man, albeit a large one. It was near impossible to tell he was the centuries-old Wayland the Smith of legend. Perhaps that was how he’d survived so long, though. But that wasn’t Dorian’s style.

“Y’ready, then?” Wayland asked gruffly.

“As ever,” Dorian replied.

Wayland beckoned him to follow to one of the massive furnaces, which was currently cold. But at the table in front of it, a crucible was waiting next to a fresh-looking mold. “Wha’ever you’ve got, put it in there,” he brusquely explained, nodding at the cup. 

Dorian first pulled out his brother’s namesake prosthesis and attempted to put it in the melting pot, but it was too big. Wayland took it from him, whacked it on the edge of…some sort of structure within the foundry to snap it in half, and then put the broken pieces back in. 

Then, Dorian pulled out the strands of gold he’d taken from the former dungeon at the farmhouse, as well as the last ingredient he’d taken from the Evil Queen’s vault the week prior: ambrosia dust. Neither of those objects was very potent on their own, but in combination—oh, they were going to be everything.

He set the gold down on the worksurface and dumped the vial of dust into his left hand. He then picked the gold back up and closed his eyes, focusing on the remnants of dark magic that lingered in the metal strands. Even if the Darkness no longer truly existed, it still left its fingerprints—like it had on his brother and the others, and like it did in this bit of gold, fabricated with its use.

The strands began to glow and warm in his hold; he smirked at the feel of it, then opened his eyes and dragged the wires through the dust in his other palm. The ambrosia—known for its ability to resurrect the dead when in its pure form—would help bring back those powers, and the metal gleamed even brighter as it picked up and held onto the specks of dust. 

He bent the bits in half and added them to the crucible. Obviously, that wasn’t all it was going to take to bring back the Darkness—he still needed to get at those bits stuck to their souls, and that would require a blood tether first—but this was the start of finally getting what was his.

“Care to light it, sir?” Wayland asked, pointing toward the furnace. They could have used any of the other ones, but Dorian figured it would be all the more meaningful if his own magic fueled the fire.

He stood in front of the cavernous hole, then put his hands together at chest height. Between them, he created a dense fireball, small, then growing larger as he moved his hands apart, calling on his magic to increase its size and intensity.

When he had a fireball nearly the size of his abdomen, he pushed the whole thing into the furnace; it immediately began to lick at the brick walls and set it alight from the inside, to the point that he had to shield his eyes.

Wayland was watching the temperature gauge on the outside; when it was heated enough, he gestured for Dorian to step back. Then the smith pulled his visor back down and pushed the crucible into the blazing hot oven. 

Dorian had no idea how long it took for metal to melt down, but it was somehow both longer and less time than he expected; perhaps he was just anxious. Still, the next time Wayland moved, it was to bring the crucible back out, now filled with bright orange liquid.

(There was something exceedingly satisfying about the fact that he’d not only taken Captain Hook’s hook, but that he’d also essentially destroyed it.)

Expertly, Wayland turned around, not losing a drop of the molten alloy, and poured it into the mold Dorian had commissioned earlier in the week. From the angle he stood at, he could see the light from it illuminate the inside of the form until it just reached the top.

The men shared a beer as they waited for it to cool, and once it got close to being ready, Wayland fitted it with the handle that Dorian provided—made from a chunk of wood he’d kept in his pocket from a tree on the grounds of the Dark Castle. (It had been his favorite tree to climb as a child, and he’d always kept a piece of it on him in case he ever needed help finding his way home. But this seemed to be a far more fitting spot for it now.)

Wayland assessed the form, then nodded; he assumed that meant it was ready. Dorian tossed the cigarette he’d been dragging on into the furnace, then watched as the smithy tapped and pulled with his tools to undo the mold.

It took a few hard hits, but then—there it was; a bit rough still, but gorgeous: a new dagger for a new Dark One.

It was similar in shape to the one of lore—it had mostly the same tapered shape with its undulating edges, but had a few more curls added on the sides, ending in dangerously sharp points. A pattern similar to the old one was pressed into the blade in relief, but was the same color as the rest of the metal at the moment.

Wayland took the blade to yet another part of his workspace and flipped the switch on another machine, first sanding it a bit and then buffing it until it gleamed.

He gave it one final inspection then, seemingly satisfied, took it carefully by the blade and extended the handle to Dorian. “All yours, m’lord.”

Dorian couldn’t hold back his grin as he took it and looked it over. “Oh, it’s perfect,” he remarked, turning it over in his grip and enjoying the weight of it in his grasp. He pressed a fingertip into one of the points; it came back bleeding. “Yes—perfect.”

“Good,” Wayland answered. “Anythin’ else ya need?”

Dorian hummed, giving it another once over. “There is one thing.”

“Wha’s that?”

Swiftly, Dorian took the dagger and shoved it into Wayland’s shoulder. The man cried out in pain and fell to his knees, which seemed dramatic; it’s not like it was a fatal stab. 

But then Dorian pulled it out to an even harsher scream, and realized that the extra points on the edges probably made it worse. 

Still, the blade was covered in blood. It looked wonderful, but it wasn’t the blood he ultimately needed. 

He summoned a small fireball and ran it along the sides of the dagger; the blood turned dark and filled in the designs pressed into its surface. There—now it looked like the Dark One’s dagger. 

Time to make it real. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Since becoming mortal again, Rumpelstiltskin had learned to appreciate the blessings of a full night’s sleep. Although he had forgotten how light a sleeper he’d been prior to taking on the curse; it didn’t take much to wake him—especially once his son arrived and didn’t seem to understand the concept of a normal sleep schedule. (Not for the first time, his heart went out to Milah having to do that on her own centuries prior.) 

Gideon had at least grown out of that now (mostly), but Rumple retained the ability to wake at the slightest disturbance. Given that he still had a number of enemies, it was a useful skill, even if he largely towed the correct side of morality nowadays.

So he wasn’t surprised to wake in the middle of the night. However, he wasn’t sure why. A glance at the monitor sitting on his nightstand indicated Gideon was still asleep, and Belle was lightly snoring next to him. No other sounds could be heard; not even the hooting of an owl outside (the only thing that typically woke him lately, and—if he was being honest—his main rival at the moment).

The moments he missed having magic were few and far between, but this was one of them. As he sat up, so did the hair on the back of his neck—someone was there.

And he could only think of one foe who would be able to enter undetected.

“What do you want, Mr. Gray?”

The shadows shifted on the far side of the room as the man in question came forward. “Color me impressed, Dark One; you still have your wits about you.”

“I had them before I had that title; why wouldn’t I when that title no longer exists?”

“For now,” Dorian countered. He could only just make out the shape of him in the bit of light that came through the drapes.

“Please; you’re not still on about that, are you?”

“Indeed I am,” Dorian countered, then suddenly appeared at Rumple’s bedside—and was pressing a cold bit of metal against his neck. 

Rumpelstiltskin jumped away and looked down; that fool had the dagger. Or, a version of it—this one seemed a bit more dangerous (and far more impractical). “Where the hell did you get that?” he asked, hoping he sounded unimpressed—though, in reality, it did worry him a bit. The dagger was only ever a conduit, but the fact that Dorian had one wasn’t a good sign. 

“Why, I made it,” Dorian boasted. “And I came here to thank you for your help. It’s mostly my brother’s hook, but you left some gold behind in that storm cellar; gives it just that little extra boost of magic, I think.” He pressed it close to Rumple’s neck again. “What do you think? Pretty great, eh?”

Of course, that’s when Belle stirred next to him. “Rumple?” she asked sleepily. “What’s going—”

Her (obvious) question was cut off as she was quickly frozen in place. “I thought your magic was fire, not ice,” Rumple bit out. 

“Bit of everything,” Dorian shrugged. 

Rumple took a deep breath but tried to be steady about it, and not let on the nerves that were stirring. (He may have been a coward long ago, but he was no such thing now—not when it came to his family’s safety, at least, and he was at a severe disadvantage here.) “I’m surprised you didn’t already put your name on it,” he instead taunted. “Since you seem to think you’re entitled to be the Dark One.”

“Oh, no no no,” Dorian replied. “I need to earn it—just how you did. I want to know the joyous feeling of watching my name engrave itself after I’ve won it outright.”

Rumple remembered his own emotions upon suddenly seeing his name etched in that cursed steel. “Joy? I just remember feeling sick.” The memory had dulled over his years in the Darkness, but it was another of those things that came back to him with mortality. “I was willing to do anything for my son, but I didn’t know that would be the cost.”

“You were fine with murder, but not with the Darkness?” Dorian scoffed. “That’s an odd line to draw.”

“Desperation does that to people,” he countered. “Your father was apparently determined enough to make sure you didn’t get those powers that he duped me into it.”

Even in the dark, he could see the fire of anger light the other man’s eyes. 

“Which actually brings me to a question,” Rumple went on. “Why are you so desperate to be the Dark One? And don’t just tell me it’s because you were promised; you already have magic and found a way to immortality, so what could you want with them?”

“Because I have nothing else,” Dorian spat. “No family, no friends—no loved ones. I’ve devoted and sacrificed so much of my life in pursuit of this. I deserve it.” Rumple rolled his eyes, but Dorian didn’t notice. “My birth parents gave me up—in favor of another, I’ve recently learned—and I killed my only other love. This is it—this is all that remains of the only person who showed me any care. And I will have it.”

Rumple narrowed his eyes—and was suddenly sympathetic. “You want to prove to your father that you were worthy of the magic.”

Dorian said nothing.

“Trust me, I know all about complicated paternal relationships. But you can move past that; you can find something else worth living for.” He looked over at Belle, still frozen, to emphasize his point. “I did, and so did your brother.”

“No, I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Dorian answered, almost sadly.

And with a flick of his wrist, both men disappeared in a cloud of fiery smoke.

Rumple just hoped he wasn’t about to lament the fact he couldn’t say goodbye to Belle.

He knew he was resourceful and could find a way out; but he knew the target wasn’t just on his head, and hoped his inevitable allies were thinking just as far ahead.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Dorian was beginning to regret not drawing up a dramatically oversized checklist of the things he needed to complete his plan. First on the list was the dagger—check; Rumpelstiltskin was a little further down, but he could cross him off, too.

Next up: his portrait. Much like the Crimson Heart, he mainly wanted to keep it close to prevent it being used against him, but he also wanted the inherent magic in it handy if the situation called for it. He transported himself and the former Dark One to the storage room above the library, making sure to tie up Rumple’s hands in the process, lest he make a grab for any potential weapons.

The room was musty and dim, with only a bit of light coming through the spaces between the boarded-up windows from the streetlamps outside. But he didn’t need to be able to see to find the portrait—he could hear it, the steady beating of Sybil’s heart still echoing his.

At least—he thought he was fine, until he ran into several somethings dangling from the ceiling.

He cried out in surprise; meanwhile, Rumpelstiltskin laughed. “Careful, lad; I’m sure there’s a metaphor there about needing light in the darkness.”

“Lad? You’re hardly older than me.”

“Still am,” he shrugged.

Dorian turned away and tried to brush…whatever it was out of his path, but there were more of them. “The bloody hell are these? Some primitive security system?”

“Dreamcatchers,” Rumple explained. “I forgot we put them up here.”

“What value do those have?” He’d never heard of spells requiring stolen dreams—but the longest Dark One to ever hold the title probably had.

“It’s a bit of magic that originated from the indigenous folk of this land,” he said. “Not just to hold dreams, but memories.”

“There are stones for that,” Dorian retorted.

“Aye, but only in a few places. These can be made anywhere. See for yourself how they work.”

Dorian looked over at his foe; he felt like he was being baited, but he didn’t know into what. He could play along, though; Rumpelstiltskin’s hours were numbered, so he might as well take in any bits of knowledge from the man he could.

He reached up to grab the nearest dreamcatcher. “No, not that one,” Rumple interrupted. “That one, over there—with the black feathers. You’ll like that one.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow skeptically, but obliged, and took down the one made with a reddish ring of wood (at least, as far as he could tell in the dark) with feathers hanging off of it as described.

It didn’t do anything at first, but he could feel the magic simmering inside the web of strings across its middle.

“Now what?” he asked, impatient.

“Just give it a second.”

He looked back at it, and then, slowly, an image appeared in the empty middle of the dreamcatcher. He leaned in closer to study it, and then—it was like he was inside the memory.

A couple dozen hooded figures stood in a half circle at one end of the clearing; at the center stood Hook and Emma. But they looked very different from the couple he’d met here in town: Emma had bleached-white hair and a severe, all black outfit; while Hook…looked a bit more like him—hair parted on the right, dressed far more casually than he’d seen him yet (though still in all black), with an emptiness in his eyes that seemed out of character.

What was most astonishing, though, was the fact that his twin was holding a united Excalibur in his hand, and it wasn’t hard to make out the names Killian Jones and Emma Swan both engraved in it. 

“Impossible,” Dorian gasped.

“Just keep watching,” Rumple told him from…somewhere beyond his awareness; this must be his own memory.

Next to Hook, a cloaked woman stood—with noticeably scaly skin. Was that… “Nimue?” he wondered aloud.

“In the flesh, so to speak,” Rumple confirmed. 

He scanned the rest of the figures, and realized the posture of one was exceedingly familiar. “Zoso,” he whispered. They were all the past Dark Ones. Gods, he was about to get starstruck.

Nimue announced, “It’s time,” though for what, he couldn’t tell. But it triggered Emma, who angrily proclaimed, “No—you are not taking the people I love.” Her voice was harsher than he recalled.

Nimue lifted her hand to magically choke Emma; it obviously wouldn’t kill her, but it definitely stopped her in her tracks. The original Dark One taunted Emma, but Dorian was more focused on his brother’s reaction. At first, it was nothing; then, he seemed to be avoiding Emma’s eyes. But the moment he met them, the change in his countenance was visible, from realization to horror to anger.

“That’s enough,” he spat as he turned to face Nimue. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, not giving up her hold on Emma’s neck.

“Being the man I want to be,” Killian answered. 

“You can’t stop us,” she boasted. 

“Yes, I can.” Hook held Excalibur aloft, then closed his eyes and concentrated—on pulling all the other Dark Ones into the blade. Emma was let go and caught her breath, but Dorian was focused on the disappearing image of Zoso from the ring of sorcerers. 

When it was done, the blade had changed its color, to black with a red glow from its engravings. His brother was visibly shaking at the effort to hold it—them—in. 

“Killian, you can’t do this,” Emma told him tearfully; it reminded him somehow of his last moments with Sybil. 

“We both know there’s no other way, love,” Hook told her, equally emotional. “We have to hurry; the Darkness won’t stay trapped in Excalibur much longer—take it.” (Were Dorian actually there, he would have done so in a heartbeat—but not to do what he had a feeling was about to happen.)

Emma tried to refuse him, but after a brief debate, Killian was able to convince her. “Let me die a hero; that’s the man I want you to remember—please.” Dorian rolled his eyes a bit, but they were also glued to the scene.

Reluctantly, Emma took the sword; it wasn’t obvious if its own weight or that of her next task was making her struggle to hold it. 

Hook was beginning to brace himself, but Emma wasn’t ready. She whispered that she loved him, and pulled him into a kiss that clearly had goodbye written all over it. He returned the sentiment, then nodded at her as she stepped back.

She hesitated again, until Killian told her it was okay. She lifted the blade slowly, and it seemed like she wasn’t going to move—until she abruptly surged forward, piercing him through the chest with the sword.

Dorian sucked in his own breath at it; despite being told the abridged version, he almost thought she wouldn’t go through with it. Almost immediately, Hook collapsed on Emma’s shoulder, but managed to push himself away in time to see the Darkness drop its hold on Emma; she glowed briefly, but then was left looking much the same as the sheriff that Dorian now knew.

She pulled the blade out—likely only hastening death—and it disintegrated, but she was too distracted by the dying man in front of her to care. 

She grabbed him as he fell to the ground, and went down with him. Her sobs filled the clearing, echoing around him.

But then, all of a sudden, he was back in the storeroom above the library. He gasped, and could feel the wetness on his cheeks from the tears that scene apparently elicited. 

“Impressive magic, eh?” Rumple said; Dorian had almost forgotten that he was there—why either of them were there. And he wasn’t sure if the man was referring to that which allowed him to watch that scene unfold—or what happened in it.

“Rubbish,” he tried to counter, but the emotion in his voice betrayed him.

“Like I said, you don’t have to do this,” Rumple told him again, softer. “Your brother—”

“Is a completely different person than me,” Dorian spat back. “You really thought this would get me to change my resolve? Some little mind game?” He tossed the dreamcatcher aside. “Nothing will stop me from getting what I want.” 

He turned on a dime and followed Sybil’s heartbeat to his portrait; he was glad there wasn’t enough light to see what it looked like. 

When he returned, Rumple was still looking smug. “Come on,” he snapped, then shoved the man with magic, compelling him to follow him.

“What now?” he asked.

“If my brother is half the hero he says he is, he and his bride won’t hesitate to come to your rescue. And then I’ll finally take what should have been mine—what he threw away.”

They made their way down the stairs and into the night, but he could still feel a sense of self-satisfaction coming off Rumple, as if he was convinced that showing him that scene had impacted Dorian at all. It hadn’t.

(At least, that’s what he was trying to convince himself.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

[snowbellewells]

@spartanguard This chapter too was incredible!!! I loved how creative it was (particularly in the literally steamy and sizzling love scene 🔥) And how incredibly well it showed Killian and Emma’s connection, their passion and devotion, and also just how their magic only enhances their rare true love and how woven together they have become. It does give a bittersweet sense of loss if he truly does have to give up the magic he has just discovered to try to stop Dorian, but knowing he will have Emma there to support him in whatever he has to do, and who will also help him honor the sacrifice will make it alright in the end.

I also really enjoyed his whole visit to Zelena’s and the conversation between the two of them regarding magic, and it’s loss. Of course, she greeted him with snark (she is Regina’s sister, after all.) Both, just as Regina has been doing throughout this story, she does back off, listen, and prove an excellent sounding board. We didn’t really get to see these two characters interact this way in canon, and you handled it so deftly; I could completely see it happening just as you described.

As ever, I also loved he and Belle’s research, plotting and planning together. They make the best brotp, and you write them so well in that regard!!

sons of love and death, 9/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: Things stay a bit steamy this week in my @cssns story...hope you enjoy it! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​ !) rated M | 4.7k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

For the first time since Dorian had crashed into their lives, things were suddenly quiet after Killian’s encounter with him on the ship. No one was fool enough to think that meant he was gone—they were still ever on alert—but the reprieve from actively being on the defensive was appreciated. 

Killian still had a few magic lessons, but after his emotional breakdown, he seemed to have made an equal breakthrough when it came to using his powers at will. 

Even in the middle of the forest, he easily extinguished the ring of fire Regina conjured. She waved the subsequent steam away from her face with a wince, but then arched an eyebrow. “That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen magical flames put out. Impressive, pirate.”

He smirked and hoped she attributed the flush in his cheeks to the lingering heat and not the blush it actually was. 

It was mainly his elemental magic that he’d mastered, but he did begin working on testing out some more general magic. Not with much success, but Regina was unusually patient. “You’ve done the hard part; the rest will come with time,” she assured him. 

At least that was going well. He was having less success to adjusting to life without his hook. He’d searched all over the deck of his ship the morning after his confrontation with Dorian, but it wasn’t to be found; he had to assume his arsehole brother had taken it, but couldn’t fathom why (other than to make his life harder). 

He’d had that hook longer than he ever had a hand—it’s what he was accustomed to. 

He did, however, find a burn mark in the railing the size and shape of a cigarette; he was fighting back the part of him that wanted to similarly scar Dorian.

Until he figured something else out, he’d dug his false hand out of storage; it was better than nothing, but not what he’d prefer. It was too bulky and imprecise. But it beat the alternative of nothing, especially given that he wasn’t yet confident enough to go without his brace in public. (Though he had come to appreciate, since they’d begun to cohabitate, the way Emma massaged the blunted end of his wrist after he removed the brace at the end of the day.)

(He also wasn’t going to complain about the way the use of his false hand was apparently reminding Emma of their adventure in the past, particularly the ball, and that she’d taken to slow dancing with him in the evenings while holding tight to it. Or that it inevitably led to a more horizontal form of dance.

Perhaps he’d have to ask Regina if it was possible to learn how to transform clothing, to truly recreate that night—and finally act on the things he’d only imagined doing with her when he held her close in that red ballgown.)

At least now Belle couldn’t admonish his handling (or, rather, potential damaging) of ancient book covers as she once had, though it had long since become a joke. They were still doing research to figure out whatever they could about Dorian and what he hoped to achieve, largely from Gold’s personal collection; he may have given up the Dark One’s powers, but not their library. 

For what it was worth, Killian did also read the novel supposedly written about Dorian, but as its inspiration had said, it appeared to only be very loosely based in truth and while an enjoyable story, was less than helpful. 

They were following any potential lead they could, particularly anything about dark magic, but also whatever they could find about Killian and Dorian’s inherent magic. There was so much Killian didn’t know about his parents and family; if he could learn anything about his background this way, he’d like to. 

During their down time at the library, they worked their way through whichever books Belle had brought from home, if only to take stock of each one’s subject matter even if it didn’t hold any answers. 

Killian was skimming over a volume on magical botany (and quickly losing interest) when he noticed a sudden but well-known change in Belle’s body language as she studied her own tome. First, she leaned closer over the page. Then she followed several lines of text with her index finger. She picked up the whole thing, bringing it close to her nose, eyes darting as she read. 

Then she nearly slammed it back on the table (as carefully as she dared to slam a book that was twice as old as he was—which was saying something) and exclaimed. 

“Holy shit!”

Well, that took him aback; her excited outbursts were usually far less profane. “Language,” he chided, though far from serious. 

She clamped a hand over her mouth, briefly. “Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but, “but I found something big.”

“Something relevant?”

“Yeah—though I’m not sure how you’ll react.”

He quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it?”

“If I’m translating this correctly—and I’m almost positive I am—it implies that the magic of twins born around Cailleach is connected.”

Killian tilted his head. “How so?” He found that curious, given how long it lay dormant in him.

“Well, it’s anecdotal, but it talks of a set of twins who used their powers together. But then one died unexpectedly—and the other lost the ability to use magic.”

He hummed in thought. “It could have just been due to the loss of their twin, though—that’s a hard emotional hurdle to overcome.” He knew he’d have been unable to use his powers after the loss of Liam—at least, not with any control.

“Perhaps,” she agreed, but her eyes were still on the page. “But it goes on to talk about another pair who had lived apart for decades; their powers never faded, but when one eventually passed, the other’s magic went with it—even before they learned of their sibling’s death.”

“So…” He quickly did the math in his head. “You’re saying the easiest way to stop him…would be my death?”

She gasped at him. “Of course I’m bloody not saying that! I’m saying that if he died, you’d lose your powers.”

“That doesn’t exactly negate my conclusion.” 

She huffed. “I suppose not—but have a little self-preservation, okay?”

“Can’t say that’s something I’m known for,” he quipped back—though it wasn’t far from the truth, given his track record. 

But then he realized— “He likely already knows about that, then.” 

Now it was Belle’s turn to be confused; her brow furrowed, until she apparently remembered. “Oh, right; you died.”

“For a few weeks, if I recall correctly.”

She shrugged. “I kind of lost track of time when I was under that sleeping curse.”

“Fair,” he chuckled (because that was really the only reaction he could have to that entire line of conversation; as Emma frequently said, “What even is our life?”)

“But if he only just found out about you, then he may not have made the connection yet,” Belle pointed out.

“Mm, true.” He thought more about what they knew of Dorian’s plan. “And if he does mean to kill me, then that would be cutting himself off at the ankles before he even got to finish it.”

“...Which would make your death rather convenient,” Belle had to concede.

“Told you,” he teased.

They thought in silence for a moment, Belle staring away in thought and drumming her fingers on the table. “I wonder…” started, then skimmed over the pages again.

“Wonder what?”

She read for a bit more before replying. “I can’t find any specific evidence to support it, but I wonder if simply one twin losing their magic would be enough to cut off the other one.”

He leaned back and considered her hypothesis. It was certainly a safer option, but still had its risks. “Were you thinking him, or me?”

“That’s why I wasn’t sure how you’d react,” she told him.

He studied his hand—which, for once, wasn’t pulsing with blue lights, but he could feel it simmering under the surface. “It’s definitely the easier of the two options.”

“But?”

“But this is all I have to protect Emma from him. And if it doesn’t work, I lose that.”

“You know she can defend herself,” Belle lectured.

“Oh, I’m fully aware. But for once, I’d like her to not have to.”

Belle gave him a somewhat melancholy smile and placed her hand over his. “Let’s keep it in our back pocket, then, alright? Besides, we don’t even know how to remove your magic anyways.”

“Yes we do,” he quickly reminded her. While he wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea, it was a solid backup plan—and he knew exactly who to talk to.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

He probably should have called or texted ahead, but when faced with making such an odd social call, Killian found himself somewhat nervous. He wasn’t even sure how the phone number ended up in his device, as he’d never once used it, nor had they—it was purely for emergencies, which had thankfully been in short supply lately. 

So he figured it might be better to simply show up at the door and see what kind of reception he got. He still hesitated to knock, though; his hand hovered over the weathered wood as he second-guessed this entire meeting. 

Before he wavered any longer, he quickly rapped on the door, firmly and fast. And held his breath. 

It took a moment, but he heard footsteps approach the other side of the door, then saw the lace curtain in the window briefly move aside and fall back. The deadbolt turned, the door swung open—

—And a blade was at his neck. Zelena was holding a kitchen knife to his carotid, her other hand fisted around the open edge of his coat. 

“Which one are you?” she snarled.

“The one with one hand,” he snapped back. “Is this how you treat all unexpected visitors?” (It checked out, if he was being honest.)

“Glamour spells are easy,” she countered. “Prove it’s you: tell me how we escaped from the Dark Swan’s cave?”

He squinted his eyes shut at the memory (and also because he could feel the edge of the knife on his skin). That wasn't a moment he ever cared to revisit; as such, it had stayed private between the two of them. “I had an enchantment in my hook and used it to remove the magic-blocking cuff; you did the rest.”

She stepped back and let go of him, seemingly satisfied. He still checked his neck where the blade had been, but no blood came back.

Zelena leaned out of sight, setting the knife down inside the house, and then crossed her arms as she glared at him. “Well, now that that’s settled, what do you want? Robyn’s asleep so I’ve only got an hour to myself, if I’m lucky.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but might I come in? I wanted to ask you about something.”

She smirked and raised her eyebrow. “This should be good. Come on in.”

He’d somehow never been inside her farmhouse. It was cozy, if a bit messy, but not any less than the Nolan’s home; he supposed that came with the territory of small children. “I just put some water on for tea; care for any?” she called over her shoulder.

“Depends; is it laced with nightroot? Because we really don’t need another evil version of me,” he couldn’t help but quip.

“Fresh out,” she deadpanned. “I only have green.” 

“How in-character of you.”

They settled at the worn kitchen table and took a few sips from their mugs (it was actually very good tea). But now that he was here, he wasn’t exactly sure how to start the conversation.

Zelena had no such hesitation. “Out with it, then,” she started, setting her mug down. “What is it you come seeking my expert advice on?”

He let a sip of his tea wash down as he debated how to start. “When you gave up your magic, what did it feel like?”

“What, already tired of yours? Regina said you were actually catching on.”

It felt incredibly odd to receive anything resembling a compliment from Zelena. “Not quite, but…it might make things easier.”

“For you, maybe; it wasn’t for me. But you’re already used to doing things manually.”

“That’s it?” he asked, incredulous. “You could no longer wave your hand and have things done for you? That was the only change?”

“Of course it bloody wasn’t!” she said angrily. “It felt like…losing a part of myself,” she admitted. “It wasn’t unlike the emptiness I felt after I gave birth—like there was a hole inside.”

“Do you still?”

She stared at her mug. “Most of the time, no. Just like after I had Robyn, it healed, mostly—but it also left its marks. I still feel the loss sometimes.” She glanced up at him. “A few days ago, your twin was here and I just…handed over my daughter, because I thought he was you. I was so mad at myself. If I still had my magic, I could have sensed that he wasn’t who I thought—that he had his own magic. But what scared me the most was that I couldn’t have protected my child if he’d wanted to hurt her.”

That was a deeper confession than he was expecting. Despite all they’d been through together and the fact there was a tenuous level of trust, they weren’t exactly what he’d call close. But he did come here to seek her advice, right? 

“I appreciate your honesty,” he told her. “And I know how you feel—that’s my greatest concern as well.”

“You have a backup, though,” she scoffed. “You’ve got your sword and years of fighting experience to rely on; I’m not quite so skilled.”

“Those only go so far when your foe has magic,” he countered. “Especially when he’s out for blood.”

“Yeah, Regina told me,” she said. “I assume you think losing your powers would have an effect?”

He explained Belle’s hypothesis regarding the connection of their magic and the possibility of severing it. She listened intently and then sat back, staring up at the ceiling in thought. 

“It’s definitely a valid theory,” she told him. “I mean, that’s essentially what happened when I gave up mine—once that was gone, the Black Fairy couldn’t use those crystals anymore, even though they were more a side effect of my magic than anything.”

“Do you still have that object you used—that heart thing?”

“The Crimson Heart,” she corrected. “And I don’t, but Regina does; she stuck it in her vault for safekeeping, so gods only know where exactly it is in that mess.”

He glanced at the state of Zelena’s living room through the entryway from the kitchen, but made no further comment. 

“I’ll talk to her; we can probably get it out whenever you want. How soon were you thinking about doing this?”

“The sooner, the better,” he decided—not just on when, but that it was the right course of action as well. If it worked, Dorian was so reliant on his magic that its loss would likely render him bereft, and Killian was indeed skilled enough to fend him off. 

“I’ll ask Regina about it tomorrow, then.”

“That works,” he agreed. “Cheers,” he ended, offering his mug in a toast. 

She clinked hers against his and they made small talk as they finished their tea, as if they hadn’t just had a fairly serious conversation. 

Not long after, whimpers came from the baby monitor sitting on the counter. “I’ll leave you to that, then,” he said, intending to excuse himself, and stood up. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Zelena countered. “Robyn is in an intense water phase right now. If you want to return the favor, you’ll flex some of that magic for her before you ditch it.”

He had to smile at that. “Aye, we can manage something.”

Little Robyn was thoroughly entertained by the fountains, splashes, and whirlpools he created in the stoppered basin sink (and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Zelena was impressed, too—though he didn’t miss the bit of melancholy in her eyes, likely from what they’d previously discussed). 

He finally left feeling a bit lighter than when he’d arrived, though still obviously trepidatious. He’d talk it over with Emma, though; she’d either confirm he was doing the right thing, or tell him he was being a bloody idiot. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

“You’re sure about this?”

“It’s the easiest way to ruin his plans. We don’t have a ton of options here.”

Emma had listened to Killian’s explanation of the plan to get rid of his magic, but wasn’t completely sure she was on board, even if it made sense. 

She set her mug of cocoa down on the kitchen table and leaned back in her chair. “I know, but you were there when I tried to give up mine. It might not be the easy way out you think it is.”

“I’m aware,” he acknowledged from his seat adjacent to her. “But we also both know that if I was just doing this because I didn’t want to take ownership of my powers, I’d have pursued this a week ago.”

“Yeah,” she conceded. “And at least it’s not Gold this time.”

She slightly regretted bringing up that memory when Killian shuddered; that whole situation—with the hat and subsequent theft of his heart—had been far more traumatic for him than her, though who knows what would have happened without Elsa’s intervention. 

“Indeed,” he finally said. “If this works the way we think it will, it’ll make sure this whole situation is resolved without any bloodshed—most importantly, yours.”

She rolled her eyes. “Hey—yours too,” she chided. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“Then we come up with a new plan,” he assured her. “And I start wearing my sword belt again.”

She chuckled a bit, if only because she enjoyed the way the leather sat on his hips (though she also admired the fit of a gun holster on his shoulders, even if his stint as deputy was short-lived). But then she sighed. “I meant it when I said I was into the whole power couple thing,” she told him. “I’m gonna miss that.”

“You’re far better at it, darling,” he tossed back. “But perhaps if our time is limited in that regard,” he went on, leaning in and looking down coyly, “we make the most of it?”

Now he was glancing up at her through those long lashes of his, a smirk cutting a dimple into his scruff. 

Well. She could never say no to that. 

So she leaned towards his ear and whispered, “Race you to the bathroom.”

(She won, for the record.)

They’d long since mastered the most efficient removal of clothes; the lone perk to Henry being out of the house was that no one was around to judge them for the trail of shirts and underwear left on the stairs and hallway landing.

She may have assisted their water heater in getting the shower up to temp; once it was nice and steamy, she dragged Killian in and wasted no further time in getting on with things. It wasn’t the first time they’d had an encounter in the shower since he’d mastered his magic, but knowing this was the last time, she was impatient to get going (and was going to loathe the end).

As the hot water washed over her, she shivered, both at the heat on her skin and in anticipation of what was to come. Killian, too, was eager, it seemed—both by the way he wasted no time in pressing himself against her back and wrapping his arms around her waist, and by the beginnings of an erection that she could feel against her rear.

She turned in his embrace and similarly placed her arms around him, resting them at the small of his back, and aligning as much of her body to his as she could—even though the initial brush of his chest hair against her nipples made her arch her back. 

He smirked at her reaction, but then it turned into a softer, more intimate smile that she only ever saw come out in these shared moments, and he buried his hand in her wet tresses to press a tender kiss to her lips. 

They took their time, sharing languid kisses, hands gently wandering and gradually building the best kind of tension between them. 

The water continued to rain down on them, drawing meandering paths down their bodies. But…was some of it going backwards?

At first, she thought it was just spray bouncing up at her ankles. But then it felt like droplets were trailing up her back alongside his fingers. 

The sensation continued, swirling subtly up her legs and abdomen; when it eventually traveled over the sensitive area between her legs, she knew exactly what was going on. 

She went up on her toes—partly in reaction, and partly to look him closer in the eye. “I felt that,” she jokingly accused.

“I bloody well hope so,” he countered. “Was wondering when you’d acknowledge that.”

“Maybe I was enjoying it too much to say anything.”

“Then I suppose I better get back to it,” he said, just as she felt simultaneous threads of water swirl around her nipples.

After that, it was like every drop that fell on her had a destination; as much as his fingers drew designs on her skin, the water similarly made patterns all over her body: circling her breasts and navel, spiraling down her thighs, caressing her shoulders and back, even tickling the sensitive spot just under her jaw. (That one may have earned him a similar touch under his arms, making him briefly squirm away.)

She was getting completely lost in the sensation—of him and his magic all around her—when something made her jump. It felt like when Killian went down on her, but he was obviously still fully upright.

She gasped when it happened again—the same gentle but firm touch, right over her clit.

“Oh, that is so not—fair,” she admonished, stuttering as he did it again. Typically, he just raised an eyebrow at her, somehow both in pride and challenge.

Well. She had a few tricks up her sleeve, despite being very naked.

She slipped her hands around his waist and found his lips again, mainly as a distraction. And then she called her magic to her palms, making them tingle with heat and light.

She let her fingers graze over his hips, sparking a bit as they went, then reached down in between them to his hardening cock and gripped it carefully but firmly.

“Fffuck,” he hissed, throwing his head back. She smirked and stroked his length. “Bloody…hell,” he gasped.

“What’s it you say? ‘Turnabout’s fair play’ or something?” She was probably butchering that line but he couldn’t exactly respond when her extra-warm hand had a grasp on his manhood. 

But he could growl, which he did, making tension coil deep in her core. He placed his hand and wrist on her hips and rested his forehead against hers—she thought in bliss at first, as she continued to massage his shaft, but then a mini maelstrom took over their shower stall: droplets began to float and whirl around them, hissing into steam when they hit her overheated skin. 

That was new. To test it, she drew a line with the index finger of her free hand down his bicep; it sizzled the whole way, but left no mark. “Did that hurt?” she asked softly. 

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

She experimented further, letting go of his cock and pressing her palms against his pecs. She dragged her fingers through his chest hair and he sucked in a breath, both at her touch and the ensuing steam. 

His eyes had fallen shut, but he opened them when her hands reached his collarbones—and fire was in his gaze, almost literally given how hazy it had gotten in there. 

He surged forward and grabbed her ass, sliding his hand down her thigh to lift her leg and press his hips against hers. She inhaled sharply at the brush of his erection against her keyed-up clit. 

“Now?” he asked with a further nudge of his hips. 

“Not yet,” she answered; she was probably ready for him, but wanted to play a bit more first. 

She found his lips again and continued to kiss and press herself against him. Her skin was beginning to tingle as water drops continued to evaporate as soon as they hit her; she had to assume his was, too, as her wandering hands still hissed wherever they went, especially when she squeezed his pert, perfect rear end.

Well, that may have been her undoing—or close to it, because when she gripped those firm muscles, it brought them even closer together, making her realize just how much she was aching for him. 

“Okay, now,” she whispered in his ear. 

He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. He just carefully guided her to the wall behind her so it would be easier for him to get leverage. Normally, she had to brace herself for contact with the cool tile, but it was unusually warm tonight. 

Killian guided her leg to sit on the footrest she’d put in the shower for this exact reason; between that and the wall, it just made things so much easier. Although her foot slipped the first time she tried to set it down; despite no longer being directly under the shower head, water was still coming down on them, from every direction, it seemed; definitely Killian’s handiwork. 

Once she was in place, he pressed one more kiss to her lips, then gave his cock a couple of strokes (not that it really needed any further priming, but she certainly enjoyed watching). And then he expertly found her entrance and slid in. 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes at first. “So warm,” he breathed; but she was caught up as ever in how perfectly they fit together. 

But now that he was inside, she craved friction; she moved a bit to let him know, and he took the hint. With the way they were positioned, it’d be more him than her in action, but she wasn’t worried about not finding her own release. 

(Not that she ever was, but there again was a stream of water gently circling her clit that probably meant she’d be coming sooner than anticipated.)

He pulled back and pressed forward, languid at first but then picking up the pace. She met him on each press as best she could, but now there was water on her breasts again—still all over both of them—and she was getting a bit overwhelmed as she quickly approached her peak. 

He noticed, like he always did. “How close?”

“Pretty damn.”

“Aye.” And then he increased his speed as much as he could, given the awkward angle, and it felt like her clit was going to drown, if that was possible, with the sudden whirlpool it suddenly was at the center of. 

She tried to hold out as long as possible—to revel in this experience—but—but—

“Let go,” he murmured—and she did. 

Her release crested over her much like the falling water had, until she was entirely awash in it. Killian came just a bit later; she could tell not only from his actions, but also because the constantly moving water suddenly stopped like it had been instantly frozen, sitting still on her skin. 

It wasn’t long until he pulled out and the water trailed away like it was supposed to, falling off their bodies to the tile below. He took her hand and led her back to the space under their shower head, letting it take care of the clean up. 

“That. That is what I’m gonna miss,” she told him as she curled into his chest. 

He placed a kiss on her temple. “Then we best make the most of this, eh?”

They certainly did, not fully crashing until a couple hours later. She made a point to memorize every detail of that night; hell, she was debating preserving it in a dreamcatcher. 

If that was the last night they’d have like that, then at least it was a perfect one. She smiled to herself, thoroughly content, as she drifted off in his embrace. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic​ @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells​ @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

[snowbellewells]

@spartanguard Wow! 😮 I probably shouldn’t be as shocked as I am - I mean, we knew Dorian was pretty far gone. But still, it was hard to see him throw away his chance at a love that might have changed him or even helped him find some sort of peace. And not only that, but I did not see his parting of the ways with Basil at all. Perhaps I should have, but you really got me!! 🤯

(And it very much did read like an OuaT take on its classic source material. Even has me thinking I should read Portrait of Dorian Gray at long last!) it reminded me very much of parts of the Jekyll and Hyde backstory in OuaT’s season 6, but with your own memorable twist on it too.

The echo in the painting Dorian heard at the end of the chapter is a wonderful, haunting touch, and shows there is at least an inkling of regret in there somewhere. Of course, that’s only fuel to his fire- the determination not to have the cost he paid go to waste…

sons of love and death, 10/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: I know this off my normal posting schedule for @cssns, but this chapter is a little different as it wholly focuses on Dorian's backstory. It's an important part of the story, although none of our Storybrooke faves appear. They'll be back on Wednesday, though! Hope you like this chapter; it's what I consider to be an OUAT-esque take on the original novel. (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl !) rated M | 4.3k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Late 1880s

The realization that Dorian was aging—and would continue to do so until he finally claimed the Darkness for himself—plagued him the next few days after he noticed that first wrinkle. He found himself wandering about town, trying to find a way out of this predicament; alas, the only way he knew to become immortal was to gain the powers he sought. But what if he ran out of time? 

Perhaps Basil knew something? Or maybe the answer lay in another realm? He had lingered in this one for quite some time; the bean in his coat pocket was still waiting to be used. (It was also worth noting that he’d transformed his jacket into one far more casual, under Basil’s advice.)

But considering he had no clue where to go next, this was as good as any place for now. 

He sighed. He needed a distraction. (Not like this entire realm wasn’t already one.) At some point, he’d wandered into the working class part of town—a stark difference from Basil’s world, in a way he found refreshing. The upper crust was his brand of indulgent, but stiff when it came to social mores in a way that occasionally got stifling. That was when he sought out the brothels, the opium dens, or just the pubs by the docks or wandering the streets lined with rowhouses. 

A battered marquee caught his attention up ahead, advertising what was likely a similarly worn theater playing a tired version of an ancient play. It sounded perfect. 

The playbill listed a show called Othello; he’d never heard of it. Perfect. 

Just as he’d thought, the seats were threadbare, the backdrops were faded and flaking, and the costumes barely fit the overzealous actors. He had to bite his tongue from laughing at how terrible it was at times. 

Except for one, though—the actress playing the female lead, Desdemona. She captivated him immediately, and not just because she was better than the rest of her costars (though she was by far). She embodied the character fully, holding the audience in the palm of her hand whenever she was on stage. 

Not to mention she was rather comely, with her hair in dark curls and bright eyes that seemed lit from within. 

Dorian had seen many a pretty face and known countless women. None had ever truly caught his attention like she had. 

He sat, entranced, for the rest of the performance, then rushed out of the auditorium after the curtain fell. Outside the theater, he again read the playbill: her name was Sybil Vane. 

Using all his charms, he managed to get backstage. He was nervous as a schoolboy outside her dressing room; gods above, he’d never felt so anxious to meet someone. 

His breath caught in his throat when the door swung open, and there she was: even more beautiful up close, with a sweet smile that reached her sparkling eyes. 

He eventually stammered out a compliment on her performance, which she accepted demurely, her cheeks blushing bright pink. 

And then she invited him in for a cup of tea, and he knew then his life was about to change, as melodramatic as that sounded. 

She was indeed as sweet as she seemed—as well as good-humored and intelligent, despite having seen little of the world outside her corner of London. It wasn’t a surprise that she seemed charmed by him as well—most were—but for the first time, he was glad of it. 

Conversation flowed faster between them than the tea, and all too soon, the theater manager was ushering her out so he could lock up. But she told Dorian when her next performance was and he promised he’d be there. 

He kept it, too; for a brief while, he wondered if this was just a momentary infatuation, but the more he watched her and the more time he spent with her, the deeper in he fell. And if he wasn’t mistaken, she reciprocated; he didn’t pretend to hide his vices, but if he ever made mention of them, she simply looked past it. 

Simple. That’s what this was—no angles, no scheming, no revenge; just living life day by day and finding happiness where it could be found. He’d never known a life like that—and it had him wondering if maybe simplicity was all he needed, too. 

When they eventually started to see each other outside the theater, it was much like when Basil first showed him around his part of the world—but this had a sense of innocence and optimism that belied even reality. Sybil just had a beautiful way of looking at the world; he began to hope it would rub off on him. 

At one point, she introduced him to her mother and younger brother; they seemed like generally pleasant folk, but somewhat distrustful of him. He supposed he didn’t blame them for that, even if his reputation had yet to precede him here. 

But it did make him wonder what it was like to have a family—a real one. Zoso had cared for him, as much as the Darkness would allow. But he’d long resented his birth parents; what kind of people were so desperate that they’d trade their child to a demon?

He had to assume they were nothing like Sybil’s mother, whose wariness clearly came from a place of love. And watching the playout of her relationship with her brother made him wonder how different his life might have been with a sibling (any peer, really).

Was that what he wanted? Would that make him happiest? He’d never considered an alternative to becoming the Dark One, but it seemed as though a viable option was being presented.

Even his friends noticed the change in him. Basil at first commented on his frequent absences from their gatherings, but Oscar picked up on the reason why immediately. 

“He’s in love.”

Love? Love. Yes, that’s what this was. It had to be; he’d never felt anything like it. He just knew that thoughts of Sybil invaded his mind constantly—even more than the dream of finally murdering Rumpelstiltskin.

Like gossipy ladies, his mates demanded to know all the details. And while he normally kept such personal things close to his chest—he’d not once uttered anything about the Dark One since coming to this realm, leaving even those closest to him unaware of why he’d truly traveled here—he found himself telling them everything.

“Sounds like you’re halfway down the aisle,” Basil joked.

“Aisle?” He wasn’t yet familiar with that reference.

“He means you mean to marry her,” Oscar explained. “I’m inclined to agree.”

Marriage. That wasn’t something he’d ever considered for himself. But that was what someone did when they loved someone, right?

He asked her about it that night, after her performance in Romeo & Juliet. She accepted without hesitation, and her joy spilled over to him.

His friends congratulated him on the event, though he honestly wasn’t sure what followed. He barely knew wedding customs in his home realm, let alone this one. He just knew that whatever he did next, he wanted it to be with Sybil.

The next night, she was performing as Desdemona again (he was becoming intimately acquainted with a number of that Shakespeare fellow’s works). Basil and Oscar insisted on accompanying him, eager to meet the young woman who’d so taken in their friend.

He’d seen her in this role several times since the first viewing, each time more impressive than the last. She always shined and he felt a sense of pride of being able to show off something so seemingly humble to two men from far more privileged, richer lives.

She looked just as perfect as ever when she first took the stage; both men smiled at him and nodded their approval. 

And it was a typically wonderful performance—at least, he thought so. Perhaps not as exciting as the first time he saw her, and there were a few mistakes, but none that truly tarnished the show. 

After the curtain fell, he turned to his friends to see what they thought. But, to his surprise, they exchanged an awkward look. 

“She is indeed beautiful,” Basil started. “But…”

“But she can’t act,” Oscar finished. “We must take you to see a real show if this is all you’ve seen.”

“I beg your pardon?” he snapped at both of them. “She’s brilliant.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s as sweet as you say,” Basil placated. “But I dare say she’ll make a better wife than she does an actress.”

“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance,” Oscar added.

He told them off and left them behind to make their own way home. How could they not see how incredible Sybil was?

Or were they right, and he had been duped? No, it wasn’t that—Sybil had never pretended to be anything else other than when she was playing a character on stage. Perhaps it was his own judgment, then, that was flawed?

It was wholly possible. He was still ignorant about many things in this realm. All of a sudden, he felt horribly off-kilter, questioning every decision he’d made since he arrived in this godforsaken place. 

Sybil; he needed to talk to Sybil. She’d make him feel grounded again. Right?

Like after every show, he slipped back to her dressing room. She was quick to embrace him and he leaned into it. “Is everything alright, my Prince Charming?” she asked, sensing his discomfort. 

“I…I’m not sure,” he replied. 

“How can I help, then?”

There was such earnestness in her bright eyes, such tenderness and care even below the stage makeup, that there was only one thing he could tell her. 

“You can’t.”

He regrettably stepped out of her space, but he had to. He couldn’t let this wonderful woman throw away her life with him when he was so unsure of himself.

To his shock, she just laughed—that light thing he loved so much. “What, cold feet, my darling?”

“No, my dear,” he said, taking her hand in his. “You deserve so much better than me.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s the opposite,” she countered. “A man of your standing shouldn’t even want to be seen with the likes of me.”

“My…standing? Sybil, there’s so much you don’t know about me.”

“Then tell me,” she encouraged, reaching for his other hand. “There’s nothing you could say that would change my feelings.”

He barked out his own laugh at that, but there was no humor behind it. “Oh, darling; you’ve no clue.”

He let go of her and stepped back, then summoned balls of flames to his open palms. (Not as quickly as he would have liked, either; his magic was slow from disuse.)

Her eyes grew wide; he thought he saw fear in them, but it didn’t last. “Dorian, that’s incredible,” she breathed. “I knew there was something extraordinary about you.”

“And that’s exactly why this can’t be,” he lamented, extinguishing the fire in his hands. “I don’t—I don’t belong here,” he admitted, both to her and to himself.

“You belong wherever you want to be,” she told him sagely; there was certainly some truth in her words, but if he didn’t know where that was, how could he ask her to follow him?

“Perhaps I’ll let you know when I figure that out,” he told her. “But until then—take care of yourself, love.”

He couldn’t look at her as he turned and left. Her cries of his name followed him out the door of the room, but he transported away before she could attempt to change his mind.

He reappeared in Basil’s studio. The rest of the house was silent, so he was still alone for the time being. It’d been a few weeks since he’d been in here and, oddly, felt like something of a homecoming. Not merely because it was where he’d been settled for the past few months, but being surrounded by the potion ingredients—it took him back to learning how to brew in Zoso’s castle.

Back in his home realm, he’d been drifting ever since Rumpelstiltskin took over the mantle of Dark One, having been unceremoniously and unexpectedly evicted from his quarters in the castle. He maybe rented a room for a month or so at a time, but was ultimately transient.

This space had been the closest thing he’d known to home in close to a decade, but as he studied all the magical elements across the room, as well as their products in the paintings along the walls, he realized—he wouldn’t truly be happy and settled until he fulfilled his birthright once and for all.

As much as he loved Sybil, he couldn't fully give himself to her until that was settled—however long that took. In his perusal of the room, he’d stopped in front of his own still-unfinished portrait, perched on an easel. There had to be a way—

His thought was interrupted by the sound of the key in the front door, indicating Basil’s return. But before he could address his friend, a frantic knock sounded at the studio door. 

He lifted the enchanted window covering to glance through it; Basil’s footsteps sounded behind him but stopped short. Outside, he could see Sybil, not even changed out of her costume, panting and banging her fist on the door. “Dorian? Are you there? Please, talk to me!” she was shouting.

Almost too quickly, he unlocked and pulled the door open, and Sybil stumbled inside; he just barely caught her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m here for you, obviously!” she answered, once she’d righted herself. “Dorian, please—I don’t care who or what you are; I just want to be with you.”

Couldn’t she take a hint? She was making this harder on both of them than it had to be. “It can’t be, Sybil.”

“Yes, it can,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“To a whole other realm?” he threw back. “Because that’s where I’m headed.” The bean still weighed heavy in his pocket.

Sybil swallowed nervously, but then her resolve hardened. “Wherever, Dorian, and I’ll do whatever you want—as long as I can be with you.”

“You’ve no clue what that means,” he snarled, now annoyed. He was trying to make a clean break from her, but she was making it difficult. “Just go back to your life and to your family, darling; you’ll be much happier that way.”

“That’s not for you to decide!” she yelled at him. He wasn’t used to being scolded, and it rankled something within.

“Maybe not, but I’m perfectly capable of making decisions for myself. And for now, I need to be alone,” he insisted, then stepped back from her.

“Dorian!” she cried—in both senses of the word; tears were brimming at her eyes. “Please, my love; my heart is yours.”

“Is it?” Something snapped in him; his temper finally broke loose in a way it hadn’t in months. In two strides, he was back in front of Sybil, and without thinking, his right hand dove into her chest, and came back out with her still-beating heart.

“Bloody hell,” Basil gasped; Dorian had forgotten his so-called friend was still there. Sybil, for her part, was merely staring in shock, though her hand slowly drifted to the now-empty place on her chest.

She could drag this out all she wanted; but now, he could end it whenever he felt.

The room was quiet but for the somewhat amplified beating of the heart in Dorian’s hand. No one moved; no one knew what to say.

Dorian began to pace with the bright red organ in his hold. It was no surprise that it was such a pure color; gods only knew what kind of discoloration his own bore. Then his eyes fell back on his portrait, and he remembered his previously interrupted train of thought.

“Say, Basil,” he said slowly, turning to the painter. “Are there any spells you know of that work in reverse? Perhaps one that might keep the subject of one of your pictures looking the same as when you painted it, but let the painting grow old and decrepit?”

Basil sputtered. “Only dark magic can do that.”

“Oh.” Dorian looked over at Sybil, still stunned, then reached for Basil’s hand.

Into the open palm, he began to crush the heart. He made himself watch as the light—that had once been so brilliant and pure—left Sybil’s eyes, and her body collapsed as the crumbled bits of her organ fell, too.

He swallowed whatever bit of feeling he still had for Sybil (which was quite a lot) and turned back to Basil. “Is that sufficiently dark enough for you to use?”

Basil was staring agape. “I…I…I won’t do it,” he finally said.

Dorian quirked an eyebrow. “But that means it’ll work?”

Basil blinked. “Uh, yes, it should,” he confessed. “But I won’t—I refuse to do it.” 

The remnants of Sybil’s heart were beginning to drift to the floor, and some remained on Dorian’s hand. So he grabbed the mortar bowl that Basil used when mixing ingredients for pigments and brushed the dust from both his hand and Basil’s into it, then bent and gathered what remained. “Well, you have everything you need here,” he began. “And if you insist on not doing it, well…” Then he grabbed Basil’s own heart. He didn’t do this often, but if he was burning his London bridges, he may as well do it in spectacular fashion. “You will,” he said into the organ, and he watched as Basil moved not entirely of his own volition. “And you’ll finish it by morning.”

Basil glared at him, but set to work right away (not like he had a choice).

Dorian held tight to the heart, but not so much as to cause damage (though maybe some pain) and went up to his room. He dreamed that night of murdering Rumpelstiltskin, which he took as a sign that he’d made the correct decision. 

(He was ignoring the fact that the Dark One’s dying screams came out in Sybil’s voice.)

The following morning, he went down to the studio. Basil was asleep in his work chair, but, as commanded, the painting was done. The background had been filled in with a gritty black color, and the eyes seemed impossibly brighter. It was perfect—and it’d be even better if it did what he hoped it would. 

He then spared a glance over to the door; it was shut, and there were odd trails in the dust on the wood floor. It looked as though Sybil’s body had been dragged out at some point in the night. Good; he didn’t want to look at it again.

He turned back to Basil and shoved his heart back into his chest unceremoniously; he subsequently woke with a start, falling from his seat. “Shite,” he cursed. “Have you always been such a bloody demon?” he asked. 

“Not yet, but that’s the hope,” he answered, feeling more and more like his old self. “Excellent job, by the way.”

“As if I’d do anything else,” Basil sneered. 

“It’s done, then?”

“Almost,” Basil replied, then stood and walked across to the counter, where he picked up a small bowl with uncolored powdered pigment. “It has yet to be signed, but there’s one thing I still need to activate the spell.”

“Which is?”

As he moved past Dorian again, Basil seemed to pull a blade from thin air—and promptly used it to slice into Dorian’s left cheek. 

“What the hell?” he hissed, his hand rushing to his face as blood spilled over his fingers. 

“It’s the final part of any of my spells,” Basil explained coolly, holding the bowl under Dorian’s chin and catching drops of blood in it. He was avoiding eye contact, but seemed to take some amount of pleasure from Dorian’s discomfort. He couldn’t blame him, honestly. 

Basil set the bowl down on his chair and, with the pocketknife, performed a similar ritual on his own hand (which curiously had no scar, despite the number of times he’d likely done this). 

Once both bloods were in the bowl, he found a small spoon to mix up the paint. When it had reached a satisfactory consistency, he picked up a fine-tipped brush and painted his name on the corner. 

He dotted the “i” on his first name, and the whole canvas briefly glowed red, then returned to normal. “Is that it, then?”

“Yea; it’s done,” Basil confirmed, still refusing to meet Dorian’s gaze. “And then some. You have a wicked soul, sir, and that leaves its mark on a person; the portrait will carry all of that.”

“Oh?” Well, that was a nice touch. Gods above only knew what kind of sins he could get away with, then. “Well, let’s test that out.”

With a flick of his wrist, Basil’s knife appeared in his hand—and then disappeared into Basil’s chest, right above his heart.

Basil gasped and finally looked up at him. There was a tear on the cusp of falling and a look of hurt and betrayal that he wasn’t able to put to words—probably because of the blade in his lungs.

Blood slowly seeped out onto Dorian’s hand—not for the first time, and likely (hopefully) not for the last. But to hasten the whole process, he yanked the knife out and watched as Basil collapsed and quickly expired, the red pool on his white shirt hardly having a chance to grow.

“What the devil…?” Dorian turned at the voice; he hadn’t heard the door open, but Oscar was standing in it, a look of shock on his face. “I saw her outside, and then I…you?”

“Aye, me,” Dorian answered. He tossed Basil’s knife aside, grabbed a paint-covered rag from the easel to wipe the blood off his hand and face, and gave Oscar a vague rundown of what had gone down here in the last several hours.

“You’re a monster,” Oscar finally stammered.

Dorian picked up the painting from the easel and tucked it under his arm, then fished the magic bean from his pocket. “That’s kind of the point,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

He thought of home, then tossed the bean towards the vacant end of the studio. The portal appeared almost immediately. “Farewell,” he shouted over his shoulder, then jumped through, finding himself back in the Enchanted Forest. 

The magic in the very soil of the place sang to him immediately; he took in a deep breath and let it tingle through his veins. Yes, he was home—at least, until he was finally able to reclaim the one of his youth (the one he was entitled to). 

That entire adventure in London certainly wasn’t what he thought it would be, nor had he done what he had hoped to accomplish there. But if this portrait truly did what Basil said it would, it was the extended lease on life he needed.

He grabbed the canvas out from under his arm to take another look at it. Indeed, the wry smirk that Basil had first painted had fallen a bit; the Dorian in the image was scowling a bit—a touch of cruelty in the mouth—with frown lines at his eyes and mouth and a jagged scar across his cheek. 

Just to check, he summoned a looking glass to his hand; there was no change in his reflection whatsoever, aside from the cut. Excellent. What did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas, then? He would be safe. That was everything.

He would need to find someplace to keep this safe—it wasn’t practical to tote around a mid-sized painting everywhere—but surely there was a gallery or a museum in some town he could stick it in and not have to worry about its safety.

And so he set off on foot for the next closest city (he did prefer to walk sometimes), painting in tow and a spring in his step.

At least—until he heard it. He thought it was imagined at first, but no; it was quiet—almost an echo—but he was hearing the definitive sound of a heart beating that wasn’t his own.

He spun around, looking through the trees to see if someone was following him, but it was closer than that. He paused to listen closer, and then he realized: it was coming from the painting.

It beat at the same tempo as his, but just a hair behind. He placed his palm on the back of the canvas, and he could almost feel the steady thump-thump coming off of it; it felt like something from deep within, rather than the relatively thin fabric of the painting.

He sighed and closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sybil,” he whispered; now that the adrenaline had run off, he could let the regret and heartbreak wash over him. 

But it also solidified his resolve: he had to see this through now. He’d given up the only other thing that had ever meant anything to him.

(All too quickly, though, the guilt wrought by that quietly beating heart forced him to find a place to hide the portrait, sooner and much less ostentatiously than he’d wanted. He’d found his way to an ageless realm—one supposedly of “untold stories”—and made the acquaintance of a moderately wealthy woman with an art collection. She promised to take care of it; he warned that he’d know if she didn’t.

The years continued on, and nothing changed in his reflection, regardless of how many realms he crossed and sins he committed.

However, he did find himself avoiding dark-haired women at the brothels he began to frequent again. Anytime his efforts took him to the Land without Magic, he made sure to never go near London. And he stayed the hell away from actresses.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

[snowbellewells]

@spartanguard Admittedly I have fallen woefully behind, but it was such fun knowing that I had this story to return to when I finally got a chance! You really can weave such an interesting yarn! The plot, your characterization of our favorites and some new folks as well is spot-on, and I love the unique aspect of this one. Dorian is unpredictable, often unlikable, and yet you can’t completely write him off or be unintrigued by him either.

Killian’s hurt (and mine on his behalf) that people would still doubt and suspect him so easily was rendered so believably. It genuinely made my heart hurt for him. Thank goodness Emma is there by his side and isn’t fooled by Dorian for a second! (And thank goodness for Granny too! She is priceless here! 😂)

I also loved that David tried to reach him, even offer him a chance to change as Killian did. I’m sure having his own “evil” twin makes him a bit more open to at least trying to understand, but it was still neat to see. Even if Dorian shoots him down rather grumpily. I do love David and Killian’s “bromance” - it’s a friendship second only to Killian and Belle’s in my affections - so I loved that David figured out what was up and tried to reach out.

And Belle didn’t fall for his nonsense either! This Belle is the one I want us to have gotten on the show!! 😍😍😍

I loved the 1800s London section as well. Just the feel and atmosphere of it was so well done, as well as the clever nod to the Dorian Gray source material! 😉 I really liked Dorian’s interactions with Mr. hardwood and found that whole section especially interesting. We’re obviously about to see just how he got himself into such a dangerous deal of a portrait, but as usual, you have me savoring every second along the way… ❤️❤️❤️

sons of love and death, 7/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: Greetings from band camp! But that won't stop me from updating my @cssns story! Hope everyone is having a great week! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​​​​ !) rated M | 5.1k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Dorian hadn’t been seen since his encounter with Regina the previous morning, but Killian knew better than to let his guard down. Every time the bell rang in the library, Killian was alert, ready for the worst (even if logically he knew his twin wouldn’t announce his presence—though, they did share an affinity for melodrama…). And he’d put on his sword belt for the first time in ages, for both comfort and protection. 

He was reshelving a few books when the bell chimed again. He paused to listen, but was mildly surprised when Leroy’s voice rang out in the otherwise quiet library—and sounded more than grumpy. “What the hell, pirate?” 

Confused, Killian shoved the book in his hand on the shelf and quickly made his way to the lobby. “Watch the volume, mate,” he chastised. “What’s the problem?”

Leroy was glaring at him and huffing. “Don’t pretend you don’t know; I saw you! Taking a joyride on my boat this morning, using all my gas, and then you just left it adrift. It almost ran into the shipping lane!”

“Why would I take your dinghy when my ship is right there?” Killian countered. “It was probably my good-for-nothing brother.”

“Then why was he dressed like you? And I saw your hook!” 

He rolled his eyes; of course Dorian would find a new way to make trouble for him. “Well it wasn’t me! I’ve been here all day, and my wife can provide my alibi prior to that—in detail, if you’d like,” Killian threw back, biting back a smirk at the memory of what they’d gotten up to in bed that morning. 

“No thank you,” he responded, stepping back with his hands up. “Just—keep that asshole in check, okay?”

“He’s not my responsibility.”

“Whatever,” Leroy grumbled, and left as quickly as he’d arrived.

Killian was irked by the encounter. Not so much at Dorian’s antics, annoying though they were (and would probably need his attention at some point)—but he was somewhat perturbed by the fact that Leroy was so quick to assume it had been him. There was definitely a time he may have done that, but now? After everything in the past few years? Did the dwarf truly still think so little of him?

He shook his head; Leroy didn’t have much faith in anyone. It was just a stupid misunderstanding; perhaps he’d go down to the docks and see if he could use his powers, meager as they were, to tow the boat back into harbor. But it was nothing to be truly upset over, not on his end.

The day went on without further event and the encounter was nearly out of his mind when he ran into another dwarf outside the sheriff station. Sneezy was coming from the opposite direction and reached the door before he did, but then paused and faced him. 

“Uh, Captain,” he started, then characteristically sneezed. He went on after wiping his nose on his ever-present handkerchief. “I was about to report what happened earlier, but I’d be happy to settle now, if you want—if you’d rather Emma not know.”

“Know what?”

“About the rum you stole,” he said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t exactly hide it.”

Killian scoffed; he’d never been impressed by the rum selection at the pharmacy, nor was he desperate enough to shoplift subpar liquor. “I’ve been at the library all day, mate; you should hit up my lookalike for the cash. Or go ahead and report it; may as well add to his rap sheet.”

The dwarf tilted his head, confused. “But—your hook—and clothes—”

“—Are easy to replicate with magic like his,” Killian sighed. “Really, mate? I thought you knew me better.”

Sneezy at least looked a bit like his brother Bashful at that, then uttered a quick apology before nearly running back in the direction from which he’d come.

Killian pinched the bridge of his nose, again frustrated.

It didn’t stop there, though—on the entire walk from the station to Granny’s with Emma, he was on the receiving end of glares, muttering, and people keeping their distance. Granted, that was typical treatment from the gaggle of fairies they passed, given their history. 

But even mild-mannered Gepetto, upon his exit from the diner, turned suddenly angry at the sight of Killian and wasted no time getting in his face and yelling in his native tongue. Killian was skilled at languages but not well-studied in that one, save for a few curse words—all of which he heard in the tirade. 

The carpenter didn’t give Killian a chance to reply before storming off, leaving him fatigued and Emma confused. “What the hell was his problem?” she griped. 

“No clue—but I’m willing to bet it was my brother; that’s been happening all afternoon.”

“Ugh, that dick,” she cursed. “But can’t people tell the difference by now?”

“You’d think,” he sighed, knowing that didn’t mean a damn thing if a glamour spell was involved. 

“Sounds like he needs to be punched in his pretty nose to make sure it’s more obvious,” she suggested, stepping into Killian’s space and tapping his own nose.

“You think my nose is pretty?” he flirted back. 

“All of you is. Way more than him,” she assured him, then dragged him into the restaurant. 

He obviously knew he was innocent of the various misdemeanors he’d been accused of, and he was certainly no stranger to being a suspect. But that hurt feeling from earlier crept back up in him as he fielded side-eyed stares from his seat across from an oblivious Emma while they ate. 

Hadn’t he earned this town’s trust? Weren’t they well past any questioning of his actions? Yes, his history was rocky—but he’d literally died for the residents of Storybrooke. 

And it was no secret he had a doppelgänger running around. So the fact they were so quick to turn on him was far more painful than he’d like to admit.

“Babe? Your glass—are you okay?” Emma’s concerned voice pulled him from his morose thoughts, and he realized a whirlpool was threatening to spin out of his glass of water. 

“Sorry,” he answered quickly, and focused on calming the tiny maelstrom. “Just—thinking about everything,” he said, simplifying the truth. 

“I know.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Good thing you’ve got another magic lesson in the morning, huh?”

He groaned in response; she giggled. 

“Come on; let’s get you home. You’ll need your rest,” she said suggestively as she got to her feet, taking him with her, hinting that they would spend time not resting as well. 

The lascivious smirk Granny gave him as Emma paid their tab was less out of place than his other interactions today, but was at least positive. So he did still have some friends, it seemed. 

And as he and Emma finally collapsed in each other’s arms later, sweaty and sated, as long as she was still on his side, who else did he require?

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Though Dorian was no stranger to using a glamour spell, and had certainly used far more dramatic disguises in his life, this one was perhaps the most initially uncomfortable—mainly in how little changed. 

As it was, he and Killian were nearly mirror images to start with—what with their scars on opposing cheeks and the fact that they parted their hair on different sides. So to see such minor differences in his reflection was a somewhat out-of-body experience—this was close to what people actually saw when they looked at him. 

He allowed his minor existential crisis to persist for a minute before finishing the transformation; at least his brother had decent style, if a bit different than his own. (How could he stand these tight jeans?) The false hook over his left hand was awkward, but necessary. 

Anyways. It was time to see if he could pull this off; after all, he was far too wise not to do foolish things now and then. He headed down to the diner (after peeking around a corner to make sure neither Killian nor Emma were already there—though the fact that he’d slept in probably prevented that) and slipped onto a stool at the counter. 

This time, when Granny greeted him, it was much warmer. “Early lunch?”

“Aye; the usual, my dear,” he tested. “And I just couldn’t wait to see you,” he added with a wink. 

Granny blushed and chuckled, then shuffled off to the kitchen. Good; she was receptive to his flirting. If he was bold enough about it, surely that would stir up some ill will towards his brother; just what kind of man brashly flirted with a woman who wasn’t his wife? And there was a reasonable audience, even if mid-morning was somewhat slow. 

So hopefully someone noticed when he grabbed the bottle of whiskey sitting behind the counter and snuck it into his lap. 

A few minutes later, the older lady was back, sliding over a plate of fish and chips; predictable of his brother. “Fresh caught, extra vinegar on the chips—just how you like it.”

“Oh, you spoil me,” he replied, holding back a gag at the smell of the vinegar. He leaned across the counter, continuing, “If there’s anything I can do to repay you, you know where to find me,” then suggestively licking his lips. 

To his shock, she just laughed and patted his cheek. “You know you couldn’t handle me, sweetheart.” And went back to her business. 

Hm. Well, that wasn’t quite the response he expected. But he at least passed for Killian; that was a good sign. (Unfortunately, he had to sell it by actually eating this meal; thank the gods for the whiskey to wash it down.)

He headed down to the marina next, finding the easiest boat he could hotwire (which, with his magic, was all of them) and took a bit of a joyride, then poofed ashore when that got boring. 

After a trip through the pharmacy, where he got a five-finger discount on some mid-range rum, he relieved himself in the shrubs outside a convent, knocked over the displays outside the florist, pretended to need the services of the carpenter but just dumped wood stain over his wares, and dragged the tip of his hook along some parked cars. 

Briefly, he took a smoking break outside the elementary school and let the half-burnt cigarette fall into a bush outside a classroom, setting it alight. He was enjoying watching the slowly growing fire when the room’s window flew open and a petite woman with short, dark hair attacked it with a fire extinguisher. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” she snapped at him.

“No,” he answered succinctly, and transported away, hopefully leaving a scorch mark on the lawn, too.

He’d noticed a friendship between his brother and the librarian—the gorgeous woman who had seemingly questionable taste in men. He’d be shocked if the two of them had kept things purely platonic, despite their respective well-known relationships. And if they hadn’t…well, it was time for him to explore that, even if for his own enjoyment. 

The bell on the library rang as he entered. “You here, love?” he called out, suddenly realizing he’d never caught the lass’s name. 

“Right where you left me,” she shouted; shit, he forgot his brother worked here. That was a close call. He followed the sound of her voice to the next room, where he found her desperately trying to reach something on the top shelf. “Perfect timing; can you lend me a hand? Pun intended.”

“Ha,” he answered awkwardly, not sure if he should be acting offended or not. “But of course.”

He didn’t hesitate to grab the volumes she asked for, but rather than just hand them over, he took the opportunity to move into her space. “Oh, uh, thanks,” she said, trying to take a step back, but she didn’t get far before bumping into a cart. 

“That’s all my assistance is worth? ‘Thanks’?”

“Killian, you know I appreciate you—”

“So let me appreciate you, darling,” he said on a breath, leaning in close. “Don’t tell me you’ve never felt something…more…between us.” Subtly, he raised the blinds in the room so any passers by might see his attempted pursuit of someone who clearly wasn’t his brother’s wife. 

She looked up at him, lips parted, and he was aware of her heightened heart rate. She narrowed her gaze briefly. “No, I haven’t—Dorian.”

“Who’s Dorian?” he lied. 

Her knee found his crotch swiftly and strongly; she might be short and slight, but she was the perfect height to do optimum damage to his manhood. He stumbled back, dropping the books and holding his groin, groaning, with stars beginning to cloud his vision. 

“I can’t believe I almost fell for that,” she yelled. “You really thought I wouldn’t be able to tell?”

“Ah, but you almost did,” he countered, even though his voice was incredibly strained. 

He could see her blushing even through his squinted view. “Never,” she insisted, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “I won’t do that, and I won’t help you.”

He scoffed as his breath started to come back. “What use are you to me? Just a silly librarian; even if you are married to the Dark One.”

She smirked. “I’m used to people underestimating me. I suggest you don’t again. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that painting of yours, would you?”

“My painting?” He wasn’t surprised she knew of it—this was a library, obviously, if even the book he’d inspired was largely fabrication—but he’d left it behind in another realm, hoping the distance (and that particular realm’s timelessness) would prevent its aging, or at least slow it. 

But then—he felt it. A faint heartbeat in his ear, just a millisecond behind his own but the same tempo: the heart of his True Love, continuing to carry a rhythm for him even though it was shattered and locked in canvas. It seemed to be coming from above them; he glanced up, trying to locate it, but didn’t get very far before his gaze was forced away rather painfully.

Belle had slapped him—again, stronger than he expected, but he’d been hit so many times that it hardly stung. “Get the hell out of here, and leave us alone.”

“Alright, alright,” he replied, and immediately poofed away—right into the attic of the library. The drumbeat of the heart was even louder up here, and he was easily able to follow it—while stepping lightly enough to not make a sound—to one end of the cluttered storage room. 

And there it was: his iconic portrait. It…wasn’t pretty. Not that it had been when he’d stashed it in the Land of Untold Stories, but it had definitely continued to deteriorate, though thankfully less than it probably should have. There was part of his soul that certainly felt like the withered, grayed, gnarled mess of a man in the image before him, but only a small one.

Actually, it was a good thing the portrait had made its way here; perhaps, when he achieved his plan, he’d also be able to sever his tie to this in favor of the dagger. He’d leave it here for now—but he’d be back for it later.

He had at least one more stop to make. So he transported again to an alley by the sheriff station, knocked over a mailbox, and casually headed inside. While it would be fun to see how far he could take things with Emma, he had no doubt she’d be able to see through this disguise even quicker than the librarian had. But the other deputy, the blond one—he might be slower on the uptake.

“Hey, Hook,” the man said, barely glancing up from the paperwork he was filling out. “Emma’s doing rounds.”

“Aye; I’m aware,” he said, sauntering closer. “I was here to see you, anyway.”

“Yeah?” The man—David, judging by the name plate on the desk—looked up at him. “What’s up?”

Dorian wasted no time in taking a seat right in front of him on the desk, cupping his (rather handsome) face, and quickly finding his lips.

The ensuing chain of reactions was honestly hilarious: the other man stilled at first, then leaned into it, but then seemed to realize who he was kissing and pushed away, jumping to his feet.

“What the hell was that?” he spat, wiping off his mouth on the back of his hand.

Dorian hopped off the desk and moved closer to David. “I was always curious; you mean you weren’t?”

“No!” he shouted. “Not like—just, no!”

“Was I that bad?” Dorian flirted, tilting his head. 

“No, you were—not my son-in-law,” David sighed, realizing who he was talking to.

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Dorian replied. “And you’re only a halfway decent kisser.”

“My wife thinks I’m just fine,” David threw back, somewhat offended. “And if you’re trying to turn people against Killian, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“You almost bought it.”

“Please; Killian only has eyes for Emma. Not that you’d know anything about True Love, I bet.”

Dorian glowered. “You don’t know anything about me, pal. Maybe get off your high horse with your generalizations.”

David stepped closer and put his hands on his hips; Dorian couldn’t help but feel like he was about to get a lecture. “I don’t know everything about you, but I’ve known enough people like you. I actually had a twin, too.”

“Oh? More than one of you? Must have been terribly dull.”

“Actually, you’d probably have gotten along with him famously; he was a selfish cad, too.”

“And where’s this fellow now?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” David went on. “From what I heard, he got a little too cocky, a little sloppy, and it came back to bite him. Or, well, stab him through the chest.”

“Ouch,” Dorian deadpanned. “And your point is?”

“Maybe you should ease up on making enemies. Because you don’t know which one is going to finally take you out.”

“And what—make friends instead?”

David shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Though I also can’t say you have good odds of finding many here, after all the drama you’ve stirred up so far.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey,” David said, softer, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’ve spent a long time chasing one thing, and it seems like you have nothing else to live for. But I watched your brother change his path; it’s not too late for you.”

Dorian gingerly pushed David’s hand off, like it was something disgusting. “Look, I know you hero types, and I know you mean well and want what’s best for me, or whatever. But I also know this: you have to want to change. Clearly my brother did. Me, though? I find good advice rather annoying. So save your breath.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will, thanks.” And he transported back to his pilfered room at Granny’s.

His conversation with David was already forgotten; the deputy had probably hoped his words would linger and Dorian would reconsider his entire life. But no—he knew what he wanted.

And now, he just had to wait to see what fallout his (mis)adventures today wrought.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Late 1880s

Dorian stepped out of the portal onto a dirty cobblestone alley. Once the gateway closed behind him, he placed his second bean in his inner coat pocket for safekeeping, and sealed it with magic—which thankfully worked; he wasn’t sure what to expect as far as being able to normally access his powers in this so-called Land without Magic, but was glad to see they were so far unhindered.

Of course, the irony of this realm carrying that name was that he had come here seeking magic out. It wasn’t fully devoid, he could tell, but he’d heard that it was far-flung, infrequent, and hidden from the general populace.

Which was probably why it was so dark in this backstreet; what kind of uncivilized society hadn’t figured out proper outdoor lighting yet? He could see some primitive lanterns at the end of the way, on what looked to be a main street, but could smell the fuel in them from here.

As such, he conjured a fireball in his hand to get his bearings. He’d arrived in the corner of an alley that went between and behind buildings—great, grimy brick monstrosities. Some parchment sat atop abandoned crates along one side; he inspected closer, reading The Daily Telegraph across the top of the page, followed by a picture of a man identified as the Prince of Wales, which he had to assume was a meaningful title as no proper name was given.

He further studied the fashion of the man, then glanced down at his own clothes, which were decidedly not of this realm from what he could see. That was easy to fix, though, and with a wave of his hand, he was wearing a garment that closely resembled what he saw in the image: a coat with long-ish tails, slacks, and a waistcoat. He didn’t hate it, but the vest wasn’t quite his style. 

Anyways. That settled, he reached into a different pocket (he’d made sure the contents of those stayed the same regardless of what his jacket looked like) and pulled out a slip of paper with a name written on it: Basil Hallward. From what he’d been told, this man could help him find the magic he needed to get him one step closer to the Dark One’s powers.

(That Rumpelstiltskin bastard had placed so many protection spells over the Dark Castle, it was bordering on ridiculous. Didn’t he know it was once Dorian’s home? But no—the demon wouldn’t even grace him with a meeting to grant him access to his old quarters. Granted, he’d have been an idiot to, but one could hope. But perhaps here, in this land that seemed to reject magic, he’d find that which could break through those spells and reclaim his birthright.)

He glanced down both alleys in front of him. The one towards the street was empty—just brick walls and boarded-up windows—but going the other way, he could see a light glimmering outside an inconspicuous door. 

And if he wasn’t mistaken, the light in the lantern was not fueled by whatever oil illuminated the streets; no, this one was quite similar to the ball of fire in his hand. The portal had placed him in the right spot.

Before he headed to the door, he placed the slip of paper in his own flare, letting it fall to ashes on the stone pavement. Then he extinguished it with a shake of his hand and headed over.

Upon closer inspection, the lamp was indeed his variety of fire magic, though there seemed to be an object at the center of it that kept it burning. Clever, he thought; it meant less mental effort to keep it lit (not that he had to exert much anymore for such simple spells). 

The door itself was painted roughly to match the exterior wall—or it had been, once upon a time, and now was faded and flaking, but he could still make out where “B. Hallward” was written in yellowing letters.

He knocked, firmly and insistently, and then waited. He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d get an immediate answer, or even to think he’d be seen tonight, but there was also no sense waiting.

He listened close to the door for a minute or so, but if there was anything to hear, it was unnoticeable. Then he paced a bit, keenly aware of the sounds of his unfamiliar shoes tapping on the stones.

But after nearly 10 minutes, he had to concede that either Mr. Hallward was out for the evening, or didn’t wish to be disturbed. Well, surely a town of this size had a red-light district; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent a night in such an establishment (usually willingly). 

He began to walk towards the sounds of society, at the far end of this alley, when he paused; he thought he heard the turn of a deadbolt. He turned back to look at the door; it was still shut, but the color of the flame in the lantern had changed to blue. Curious.

He moved closer to it, and to his surprise, a small window appeared from nowhere. There was no glass inside it, but he could see nothing but blackness behind it. “Yes?” a voice called out from the void.

“Basil Hallward?” he asked.

“Who wants to know?” the voice replied.

“Someone who has traveled a great distance to seek you out.”

The voice cursed, probably realizing he’d revealed his identity without meaning to. “What for?” he finally came back with.

“A bit of magic,” he answered, then called forth his own fire again.

The window disappeared and the door swung open. “Come in,” the other man called out; Dorian didn’t hesitate to oblige.

Whatever he was expecting—this wasn’t it. Despite whatever spell lay on the entryway—and he could feel it as he stepped through—it was actually fairly light inside, with more enchanted lamps around the open space, which revealed the absolute clutter everywhere. And, to the back of the room, what appeared to be a painter’s studio. 

“You’re an artist?” he exclaimed, minorly disgusted. 

“That I am, sir,” the other man replied, and Dorian finally got a look at him: he seemed young—younger than him, at least—and the narrow mustache above his lip did nothing to make him appear older. He pushed his dark, curly hair out of his equally dark eyes. “What of it?”

“I came here looking for magic,” Dorian spat. “Not to sit for my portrait.”

“A pity; you’d make an excellent subject, with that profile. But I do both, actually.”

“Both?” He raised an eyebrow, skeptic.

“Aye; let me show you.” Basil beckoned Dorian towards his work bench; he hesitantly followed. The man picked up a vial of what Dorian assumed was pigment off the cluttered surface. He uncorked it and held it out. “Do you recognize it?”

Dorian narrowed his gaze and peered inside. It was just a black powder, but he recognized the smell. “Adder’s fork?”

“Good eye,” Basil commended. “And this?” he asked, holding out a small dish with a bluish powder. 

“Mermaid scale,” Dorian identified. “I don’t understand.”

“Magic works differently in this realm,” Basil explained. “No one here is born with it inherently, but what makes its way here usually requires a conduit—some physical tether. Me, I learned how to embed it in my paint, using these ingredients.”

“And then what?”

“Whatever you want,” Basil answered. “Within reason, of course.” He showed off a portrait of an expectant mother, explaining that the woman and her husband had been trying to have children for several years when he painted her; “Now, she has three children and another on the way.” Another painting displayed a vagabond sitting on a street curb. “His wife discovered he was cheating on her; now he’s destitute and she kept his wealth.”

“So you grant wishes?”

“In a sense. A fertility spell was embedded in this portrait, a curse of ill-luck in the other.”

Dorian glanced back at the work space and saw a good number of potion books—many of them he knew—across a bookshelf above it. “Ahhh,” he sighed in understanding. “Then you likely don’t have what I’m after.”

“Which is?”

“A way to break into a heavily fortified castle?”

Basil shook his head. “Afraid not. But if you have something of its occupant’s, we could probably find a way to cast them out, or at least make them horridly uncomfortable.”

“If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Hope you didn’t come far, then.”

“Only a few realms away.”

Basil whistled low. “Then I at least owe you a drink. What’s your poison?”

“Whiskey?”

He nodded and led him over to a sitting area, where they proceeded to chat over (some damn fine) liquor. Basil was curious about the magical realms—he had some acquaintances who passed through the other worlds who supplied him with his materials, but had never been himself. Dorian wondered how he’d fallen into this line of work, then. 

“The man I apprenticed with taught me; passed on all he knew.” Well, that sounded familiar. 

As such, they got on famously, to the point that Basil offered Dorian use of a spare bedroom in his home for as long as he was staying in this realm. 

What the hell, Dorian thought. The Dark One wasn’t going anywhere—he could enjoy himself for a bit. (It wasn’t like he ever needed an excuse to do so.)

For the next few weeks, Basil showed him about this curious town—London, it was called, and far larger than he realized—and introduced him to many interesting people (and vices; opium was a delight, though he saw enough of the strung-out folks addicted to it to use in moderation).

They went to countless parties, gatherings, concerts, sporting events. At one such dinner, he met a writer named Oscar who seemed to be infatuated with him; he couldn’t say he disliked the attention. The man became a regular fixture in their outings as well (and maybe a few private nights). 

Dorian did oblige Basil to pose for a portrait eventually; far be it for him to deny the world his beauty. “And what enchantment will you weave into this one?” he asked, peering over his friend’s shoulder; Basil had finished painting his face and form, but nothing else yet. 

“None,” Basil replied simply. “You have enough magic on your own. 

(There may also have been a few nights he spent in Basil’s room, as well. He was hardly a choosy lover, so long as someone caught his interest.)

He smirked cockily at the praise and admired his face and form on the canvas. Basil was truly a gifted artist and, in his personal opinion, had perfectly captured Dorian’s handsomeness, strength, and form, down to the color of his eyes. 

However, later that night as he readied for bed, he caught a glimpse of something new in his reflection in the looking glass: was that…a wrinkle?

He pulled at the flesh around his eyes, watching as it stretched and returned. Indeed, there was a fine line—a few, even—in that delicate skin. 

He was 30 years old; he knew it was inevitable he began to look it (even if he dare say he looked better than most men his age). But it was a sudden, stark reminder: the being he was chasing was immortal; he, however, was not. 

(There was probably some sage advice somewhere about avoiding vice to extend his longevity, but…where was the fun in that?)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic​ @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @thisonesatellite​ @killianmesmalls​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @ineffablecolors​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet​ @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells​ @idristardis​ @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @stahlop​ @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

[snowbellewells]

@whimsicallyenchantedrose Oh my goodness! This just got even more fun getting to see our first fic writer venture into her chosen scene in The storybook. I loved how confident Joni was throughout - in her mission, in how she figured out what to say to Emma, and even in dealing with (and snarking at Isaac when he first appeared!) Being a teacher myself, I really liked how she told Emma “well, I was a teacher” when she got through to her and convinced her to go back and free Hook, and that she could trust him - and her own instincts.

You also really add a whole extra layer to it by then letting us see the group of princesses, plus Hook, in Rumple’s cell. Emm is still angry, panicked that Cora is on her way to Storybrooke, and doubting herself, but because Hook is with them, he is able to reach her in a way he couldn’t on canon. She already on her way to letting him in and so he is able to comfort her and show his belief in her, even this early on in their story.

Joni definitely did make a difference by getting to take a hand in her chosen part of the OuaT tale!! This gift just keeps giving enjoyment!! Thank you for having such a great idea and sharing it with us!!! 🥰🥰🥰

The Girls’ Trip Fairy Tale Ending--Chapter 2 of 5

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

Word Count: 2116

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list): @sailormew4 @annaamell @flslp87 @emmateo26 @bethacaciakay @ultraluckycatnd @effulgent-mind @ilovemesomekillianjones @kat2609 @brooke-to-broch @missgymgirl @galadriel26 @the-lady-of-misthaven @charmingturkeysandwich @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma @daxx04 @nickillian  @gillie  @britishguyslover @ginnyjinxedandhanshotritafirst @kmomof4  @linda8084 @golfgirld @captain-swan-coffee @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @laughswaytoomuch  @allyourdarlingswans  @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82 @therooksshiningknight, @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree  @jrob64  @anmylica   @booksteaandtoomuchtv​ @elfiola​

Other chapters:  (1)

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

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

Chapter 2

Joni dropped to the ground with an “oof”. She rolled her eyes as she got to her feet and brushed herself off.  She really shouldn’t be surprised that Isaac made stepping into the book this difficult, should she?

Looking around, she found herself in the giant’s outer courtyard. She couldn’t be entirely sure when in the story she’d landed, but she knew what she wanted to fix, so she could make a relatively educated guess.  At any rate, the action was taking place inside, so that’s where she needed to be.

Joni made her way through the giant’s enormous front door and looked around. In one corner stood the giant pile of rubble under which she knew Hook was currently buried. As she began the rather long trek toward him, she saw Emma rush in and begin moving stones and then reaching for the man buried beneath.

Keep reading

[snowbellewells]

@kmomof4 It’s true! I did just re-read this a bit ago, and it’s one of Krystal’s very best!! Definitely give it a read if you never have!!

For Self Promo Sunday…

I decided to highlight a fic that got a bit of attention on ao3 last week…

In the Vipers Den

Posted almost two years ago for the @cshistfic event, this WWII spy fic was inspired by the movie Shining Through, starring Melanie Griffith, Michael Douglas, and Liam Neeson. If you haven’t read it, I hope you do and let me know what you think, and if you have read it, maybe have a reread!

Summary: Emma Nolan, age 22, goes to work for attorney Killian Jones in the fall of 1940. Over the next year, she comes to believe her boss is a spy, only to have her suspicions confirmed when the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. When a German spy working for Killian turns up dead, Emma kisses her lover goodbye and attempts to continue his work of finding and stopping the development of a flying bomb that could spell disaster for the Allied forces.

Find the fic here on ao3.

Below is the original movie poster @suwya maniped with Emma and Killian for her Once Upon a Movie collection after reading the fic. Please go give her all the love!!!

Tagging the usuals, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

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

[snowbellewells]

@hollyethecurious Okay, honestly, now I’m a little overcome. I have completely lost whatever line I might have chosen as my favorite in this chapter, because somewhere between Liam looking him over and pulling him into a long-denied embrace and him bidding goodbye to little Emma and to Snow, I was fighting the stinging my throat and real, literal tears in my eyes. 😭 Killian’s plight and his willingness to give up the freedom he’d worked for indefinitely, in order to save Emma, just struck me to the quick.

The way all of them listened to his story, gave him every minute they could get with him, and made him promise not to give up and to keep fighting , was all I could have hoped for in his new horrible circumstances. And I loved both Liam and the Charmings for not being willing to undo the law of surprise and for assuring him he was the one Fate intended, he was worth the trust and faith, and they they couldn’t know how it would all work out.

And I LOVED young Emma as well. You characterized her so well! And she must have been through something so horrifying with her nighttime kidnapping by Pan’s shadow. Yet you could see her pluck and wit returning even as Killian was bringing her back.

And HOORAY for Tink stowing away and having a plan. I was afraid she doubted Killian there for a minute, but I love her being and ally who can remain with him even in Neverland!!

I am rambling incoherently, but this one was even better than the first and threw me all for a loop!! I have to go for a bit, but I am dying to read part three! And just, WOW!! WELL FONE!! This is going up there in my all-time favorites of yours,Hollye! I can tell already!!

CS AU: The Law of Surprise (2/3)

Summary: The Law of Surprise: a custom as old as humanity itself. The Law dictates that a man saved by another is expected to offer to his savior a boon whose nature is unknown to one or both parties. In most cases, the boon takes the form of the saved man's firstborn child, conceived or born without the father's knowledge.

A/N: This is NOT a Witcher AU. The idea for this fic WAS inspired by the show, however. I’m not sure if the Law of Surprise was a show/game creation or if it existed before. Regardless, this fic is my spin on the concept and will be posted in three parts.

Much love and thanks to the @cssns mods for keeping this event going year after year! A HUGE shout out to my artist @eastwesthomeisbest for the AMAZING pieces she made to accompany my fic. Go give her ALL the flails! Finally, all the hot chocolate, rum, and grilled cheese sandwiches for my amazing betas @ultraluckycatnd and @kmomof4. LOVE YOU LADIES TO BITS!

Rated T (for now) / Also available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me!  

Part One

Part Two

Ten years later…

Hook trudged his way through the Neverland jungle, the humidity dampening the ends of his hair - long overdue for a barber’s hand - and collecting along the bones of his collar and the hollow of his throat. He grumbled beneath his breath as he sidestepped booby traps left by the Lost Boys. Most of them had probably been forgotten and left abandoned when the miscreants’ whims had shifted from whatever depraved game they’d been playing to some new nefarious venture.

During his decade of service, Hook had been tasked a dozen times or more to ferry boys from the accursed realm where Pleasure Island existed. An island that lured boys to their doom with promises of wild frivolity, their fate sealed when they found themselves aboard the Jolly Roger, never to be seen or heard from again once they set foot on the new island of hellish delights. Most didn’t seem to mind, giving themselves over to the feral, lawless ways of the island, following in Pan’s deviant footsteps. Others, however… Well, Hook did not make it a habit of spending time thinking of the others, or their nightly woes that were carried to him by the vindictive Neverland winds as he attempted to find some measure of peace on his ship. Besides, after tonight, he would never have to endure those sobs, or the whoops and war cries, or the perils of the island, or the dangers of its master ever again.

After tonight, he’d be leaving the island of nightmares behind him for good. Too bad the same could not be said of the nightmarish reputation his years of service had crafted.

Pirate. Villain. Void of pity or compassion. Callous. Heartless. Merciless. Barbarous. Cruel.

These were the words he’d seen splashed across countless wanted posters, all demanding his capture - dead or alive - with bounties that had increased exponentially over the years. Posters and decrees that hung in every port, every tavern, displayed on every ship he’d waylaid, and carried in the pockets of every officer or crewmen he’d crossed blades with. Even those from a kingdom in which he’d never committed his crimes. A kingdom he had avoided at all costs, hoping that when his time was up he might still find himself a safe harbour upon her shores of refuge; a place he still might belong, despite his dastardly deeds and fearsome reputation.

Misthaven. His adopted homeland. A place to which he had sworn vows of fealty and devotion, not simply to its sovereigns, but the kingdom as a whole. He had done all he could to maintain his oath, even to the point of waging his own war in allyship as he fulfilled Pan’s ruthless commands by targeting King George’s ships and cargos, even if easier pickings had been available to him, protected by the Misthavian coat-of-arms.

The deck of the Jolly Roger had been bathed in the blood of King George’s men numerous times over the course of the war, which had waged on for the better part of these ten years. It was only in these last few months that peace had finally been achieved. Some sort of deal struck with a sorcerer who ruled a far off kingdom, his dark magic laying waste to George’s forces and ending the king’s reign in, what Hook had been told was, a resounding display of brutality that rivaled his own.

Though he shuddered to think of the deal his sovereigns had willingly made with a madman of such dark proclivities, Hook understood the necessity of desperate measures during such desperate times when those you loved and served were on the brink of death and destruction. Who was he to judge them? They had done what they felt they must in order to safeguard their people. A task made more complex by the fact that the entire conflict had begun with the atrocity of robbing Queen Snow of the ability to conceive an heir. Without a progeny to pass the throne to, Misthaven could have found itself under George’s rule had anything happened to Their Majesties. Hook knew they could not risk their subjects’ futures to such a fate, though he did wonder what the future held for a kingdom with no heir.

He supposed he’d find out for himself once he returned. Assuming he was not killed on sight when he made berth, feeling relatively certain, given the bounty King David himself had set upon his head, that neither his sovereigns nor his brother knew of his true identity. He did not relish the idea of revealing that truth, and could only pray he would find pardon once their shock and disgust subsided. That is… if he even found the courage to return at all.

There was no use denying that he’d considered, on many occasions, leaving the island and sailing as far from the realm as he could. Starting anew in some foreign destination where the names Killian Jones and Captain Hook held no meaning. He could not do that to Liam, though. Could not leave his brother to wonder after his fate, or worse, come looking for him on the island of nightmares where last they saw one another. Plus, he’d made a vow to honor his accords so long as they were honored in kind. He owed it to his sovereigns to return. If the king and queen chose to sever the ties that bound them, by both his oath and the unfilled Law of Surprise, then so be it, but he would not break his oath, not when he’d gone to such lengths to preserve it.

Skull Rock held the same oppressive and imposing heaviness it always did as he marched up the damp stone steps, each bootfall echoing the dread that pounded in his chest. Every time he’d presented himself here, Hook wondered how much more of himself he’d lose while implementing Pan’s bidding. This time was different, though. This time there would be no bidding. No demands. No nefarious schemes or dark dealings. This time, he was being summoned because their deal had finally come to an end. Ten long years of torment would be fulfilled this night and by dawn he would once again taste that which had eluded him for most of his life.

Freedom.

The same, however, could not be said for the poor unfortunate sat cowered in the dark corner of the cavern. A new toy for Pan’s amusement, no doubt. With no sign of Pan just yet, Hook casually glanced back at the small figure who appeared to be trapped in one of Pan’s giant hourglass prisons and was startled to realize it was no boy sitting with their knees curled into their chest, tears streaming down their cheeks, but was in fact… a girl.

Curious. Pan only ever wanted boys to join his little tribe of miscreants. What possible reason could he have for bringing a girl to--

“Ah, Captain! I do hope you have not been waiting long.”

“Only ten insufferable years,” Hook muttered under his breath, though he knew Pan heard him. Pan heard everything. “So we can dispense with the pleasantries if it’s all the same to you.”

They were squared off with one another, each taking on the posture that had become habit. Hook’s stance was always casual yet formidable, his thumb tucked behind his belt buckle with his weight shifted to one side, while Pan leaned against the craggy interior of the cave, his arms and ankles crossed as though he had not a care in the world. However, there was something off about Pan’s comportment this time. Hook could only surmise the change in demeanor was due to the ending of their arrangement and the little bastard’s loss of an errand boy.

A summation that proved wrong when Pan narrowed his gaze and hissed, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Hook’s brow pulled together and his head cocked to one side. “Find out… what?”

Pushing off from the wall, Pan slithered his way towards Hook, circling him in a way that made the pirate’s skin crawl, inquiring again, “Did you really think you could keep it from me?”

“Pan,” Hook sighed. He was so tired of the brat’s games. “I’ve no clue what you’re on about.”

Coming to a halt right in front of Hook, Pan crossed his arms over his chest, and though his feet were in a wide stance, exaggerating their difference in height, he somehow leveled his eyes with Hook’s.

“Did you think I would not discover the boon you were entitled to by King David himself?” Pan asked in a casual but dangerous tone. “The Law of Surprise you were promised for saving the man’s life?”

It took all of Hook’s composure not to react, though his jaw did betray him when the muscle beneath twitched. How could he possibly know about--

“Did you really think I would not keep tabs on your brother? On those whom you had served before me? It was part of our original arrangement that they would not interfere, and I had to make sure they made good on that promise. Imagine my surprise when my Shadow returned from his most recent reconnaissance with the news. The Law of Surprise bestowed upon you long ago.”

Trepidation filled him as Pan set off circling again, his mind spinning even as it tried to comprehend the words that followed.

“You never did find out what that surprise entailed, did you?” Pan made his way to stand next to the golden haired girl who was still trapped, her cries for help unable to penetrate the glass as he practically crowed, “Surprise! It’s a girl!”

“What?” Hook exhaled on an incredulous breath. “No, that’s… that’s impossible. She’s--”

“Princess Emma of Misthaven,” Pan stated. “Her existence was kept secret all these years for her own safety. Of course, now that Misthaven’s war with George is at an end the truth was finally revealed to its subjects. Although, I’m pretty sure only their Majesties and your brother are aware of her special connection to you. Well… and now me, of course.”

Hook’s gaze had been fixed on the young girl throughout Pan’s crowing. Her hair was a bit lighter than the king’s, her complexion not quite as porcelain as the queen’s, yet there was no denying her parentage. Her nose, her chin, her eyes… all features he could attribute back to King David or Queen Snow. She was theirs. Their child. But how? The Queen was barren. George had seen to it that she be unable to conceive and produce an heir, which made her existence a surprise indeed.

His surprise. His Child of Surprise according to magical law. She was his.

Drawing his sword, Hook advanced on Pan, thundering, “Let her go!”

With a flick of his wrist Pan immobilized Hook, leaving him virtually paralyzed in place and unable to move.

“I think not,” Pan sneered. “She’s my keepsake. A little token to remember you by… unless…”

“Unless what?” Hook spat through clenched teeth.

“Unless,” Pan drawled, “You agree to stay… indefinitely.”

Hook’s eyes cut to the princess - his princess - and the fear he saw shadowing her face tore his heart. Had Pan ripped her from her bed? Had his monstrous spectre dragged her here through the night sky with the potential horror of falling to her death whipping over her as they sliced their way through the air? How long had she been trapped in that corner, encased in a glass prison? What must she think of the scene playing out before her? How desperate must she be to return to her parents? Her parents. The King and Queen must be frantic. Almost as frantic as he was over the prospect of her being trapped here. Forever.

Over his dead body.

“Deal,” Hook agreed, casting his gaze once more on the demon boy. “On one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You let me take her back,” Hook demanded. “You let me ensure she gets home safe, tucked away once more in her bed. You let me reassure Their Majesties and inform my brother of our new deal. Give me that at least.”

Pan gave him a bored look, an almost disgusted sneer pulling at his lips as though he were disappointed by the sentimentality of the request. “Very well,” he said, dismissively. “I’ll have my Shadow ready the sail, but you best be headed back here before dawn,” he warned, pointing a bony finger towards the pirate. “And remind that brother of yours, he’s not to interfere. Him and your… sovereigns.”

Pan vanished before Hook’s eyes and the weight of what he’d just agreed to fell heavy within his stomach. The glitter of magic pulled his attention towards the hourglass, its walls dissipating, allowing freedom to its captive, but the princess shrank back further into the corner. Clearly fearful, but doing her best to put on a brave face, she stiffened her posture and lifted her chin, her eyes fixed on him as he tentatively approached.

“Have you come to ransom me to my parents?” she demanded, a quiver of fear trembling in her voice and manifesting in her bottom lip.

“No, Princess,” he assured her in a calm and soothing tone, dropping the timbre of his voice as he extended his hand towards her. “I’ve already paid your ransom. I’m taking you home.”

“You? You paid the ransom?” she asked incredulously. “Why?”

He tightened his jaw, making the muscles twitch, and contemplated how much to divulge to her. “Because I… I once served your parents, and between us there is a debt owed. It is my duty to see to your safe keeping.”

“You owe my parents a debt?” she said, taking a step forward.

He said nothing, letting her keep her wrong assumptions, and beckoned her forward with a quick gesture of his hand. “Come,” he said, taking her hand once she was clear of the opening within the glass. “We have a rather long journey ahead of us, and your parents must be worried sick.”

The princess followed along beside him, her little hand tucked tightly in his as they made their way to the cove where the Jolly Roger awaited them. The main sail was already darkened by the Shadow, and Hook wasted no time casting off once he and the princess were safe aboard. As soon as they were far enough away from the island Hook felt the ship begin to lift out of the waters and take flight. He curved his hook around a spoke of the wheel, bracing himself for the transition from sea to air as he held firm to Emma’s hand. The turbulent ascent and the way it made his belly fall was expected, but the arms frantically wrapping around his middle, attempting to squeeze the life out of him was not.

Looking down, he chuckled at the way the little princess buried her face in his leather coat, barely able to discern her muffled, “Tell me when it's over,” as she held on for dear life.

“You’ve nothing to fear, Princess,” he assured her, stroking his hand over her hair. “We can go below if it’ll make you feel better.”

Tilting her face upward, she stared at him with concern and apprehension swirling in her bright green gaze, and if there had been any doubt before, Hook knew in that moment there was not a thing in any and all the realms he would not do to ensure her safety and happiness.

“Don’t you have to man the helm?” she asked.

“No,” he told her, already leading the way towards his quarters. “The ship can manage without me.”

He hovered in the corner by the hatch steps as she perused the room, giving her space to grow comfortable with her surroundings..

“I’ve never been on a pirate ship before.”

“I should think not,” he responded to her off-handed comment, unable to keep the appalled tone from underpinning his words.

“Actually,” she said, studying the maps and charts that littered his desk. “I’ve never been on any ship. I’ve never even left the castle until yesterday.”

“Aye. Pan mentioned you’d been kept a secret all these years.”

“Mama and Papa said it was for my protection. They said King George could never know or else…”

She let the statement trail off and busied herself with inspecting his books, obviously uncomfortable with where the conversation was headed.

“Forgive my curiosity,” Hook began tentatively, the need for answers gnawing at him and waging war against the instinct to keep her from having to recount anything unpleasant. “I was under the impression that Queen Snow was barren. How is it… that is. How did you…”

“The waters of Lake Nostos,” she informed him, making her way to his bunk and plopping herself down to sit on its edge with a small bounce.

“The what?” He crossed his arms and ankles, reclining further into the corner, heartened by the way she seemed to be relaxing in his presence and unwilling to make any sudden movement that might put her on edge once more.

“Lake Nostos,” she repeated, fidgeting with something in her hands. A seashell, Hook realized. She must have plundered it from his desk without his notice. She’d make a hell of a pirate someday, he thought wryly.

“My father acquired a barrel of it, hoping its powers might restore what King George’s poison took from my mother,” she went on to explain. “That’s what the legend says it does, anyway.”

Hook’s brows furrowed as a long forgotten piece of knowledge made its way from the recesses of his mind. “Its waters were said to have magical properties that could return something that was once lost.” The princess nodded, but Hook’s skepticism deepend. “I thought those waters had dried up.”

“They had,” she continued, turning the seashell over in her hands, “But Papa found a merchant that had one remaining barrel of its waters, and was able to acquire it. Although, his search for a cure was almost for naught.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Papa’s ship was ambushed by King George, with the barrel still aboard, and it sank to the bottom of the sea during the battle. Papa himself almost perished.”

Flashes of that battle erupted within Hook's mind. The smell of the gunpowder, the coppery taste of blood in the air, the excruciating pain in his wrist, the frigid bite of the dark waters, and those last moments just beyond death’s cold grip before he…

“Fortunately, a sailor hooked himself to the barrel and used it to keep afloat. Otherwise… I wouldn’t be here.”

All the air whooshed from Hook’s lungs, but he barely had time to process that astonishing twist of fate before the ship lurched and a tell-tale shade of green began to colour the princess’ features.

“There, there, lass,” he cooed softly, managing to get the basin to her in time and rubbing soothing circles over her back as she retched. Leaving the basin in her lap, he crossed the cabin and mixed up a tonic that would help settle her stomach, as well as put her to sleep for the duration of their journey.

“Here,” he offered, giving her a soft, encouraging smile as she brought the cup to her lips. “This will help with the queasiness, but it’ll also make you drowsy.”

Hook was humbled by the trust she showed him, swallowing every last drop of the tonic before handing the empty cup back to him.

“How long will it take before we get back to Misthaven?”

“A few hours,” he replied, grabbing a soft blanket from the chest at the foot of his bunk and encouraging her to lay back.

She yawned as he covered her, seemingly unaware as he removed the seashell from her grasp and placed it in his pocket, then she turned onto her side and tucked her hand beneath her head, her eyes following him as he settled into the chair behind his desk.

“You know… Papa doesn’t care for pirates much.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm,” she uttered wearily, the tonic already taking effect. “Make sure to wake me when we get there, so I can ensure your safety when you bring me back to the castle.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Hook’s mouth, and he couldn’t deny the warm feeling seeping through his chest at her insistence that she would protect him. Him. The fearsome Captain Hook.

“Do you believe your father would have me in irons the moment I set foot within the castle walls?”

“Yes,” she yawned. “Unless Uncle Liam gets to you first.”

The warm feeling turned to ice at the mention of his brother’s name. Uncle Liam. She’d been raised to regard his brother as her kin. It should not have surprised him. Of course his brother would have filled the void and stepped into the gap his absence had left behind. The Law of Surprise was dictated by the fates - and if he’d ever held any doubts over just how destiny driven that ancient magic was, the princess had all but wiped them away with her confirmation that her very existence would not have been possible had he not tethered himself to that barrel with the very hook her mother had later gifted him. The one still affixed to the brace on his left arm - it stood to reason that providence would provide a surrogate until such a time that destiny could be fulfilled.

Hook wondered what the fates might have in store for her now that he’d bound himself once more to Pan, this time… indefinitely. Perhaps that was fate's design as well. Who else but his brother could best help prepare her for the path that lay ahead as heir and future queen of Misthaven. Liam was a much better candidate than he, even before they’d sailed to Neverland. Before he’d failed to protect his captain from harm. Before he’d made the deal. Before Pan made him a pirate. Before he’d succumbed to the persona of Hook and, at times, many more times than he’d care to admit, had reveled in it.

Aye. This must have been the fates plan all along. A way to correct the error of the Law of Surprise ever being bestowed upon him in the first place. A way to ensure Emma’s safety and protection, her happiness and contentment. A way to set her on the right course so she could reign and rule her people with love and patience, mercy and justice. Virtues he’d long buried until they’d suffocated under the weight of his vices.

The fates were right. What use was a filthy, murderous, villainous pirate to one such as her? She was better off being looked after by his brother. Better off without him tarnishing her life and legacy, corrupting whatever goodness the fates had in store for her.

Hook left the little princess sleeping contentedly in his bunk, making his way back to the helm with his flask unstoppered in his hand. With each long pull of rum he took his eyes scanned the stars until he saw the two familiar flickering lights that signaled their passage from one realm to the next. The ship steered towards the star on the left and new heavens opened above him, revealing constellations he’d spent many a night in recovery mapping from one of the castle’s towers.

The Jolly Roger set down in the Misthavian waters several leagues from port and Hook moored her in a small cove not far from the castle. Gathering the still slumbering princess in his arms, he secured her to his person then swung down from the deck with the aid of the rigging. The sleeping draught he’d added to the tonic was proving quite effective, and Hook pushed away the guilt he felt over drugging her, knowing it had not been only for her own comfort that he’d added the sedative.

It was an arduous trek to the castle with very little of the waning moon’s beams to help guide him. Its illumination proved enough to alert the tower guards of his approach, however, for no sooner had he stepped onto the path that led to the back gate than a voice cried out a commanding order.

“Halt! Unhand the princess!”

“I have come in peace,” Hook told them, adjusting the princess’ weight in his arms.

“Not likely,” the guard scoffed. “You were spotted the moment your ship, with its unnatural black sail, descended. Since when does Captain Hook ever do anything in the name of peace?”

Hook sighed and leveled his gaze at the young knight, all the while clocking the other guards that were beginning to surround him. “Since he is here, not as Hook, but as the man he once was before becoming a pirate.” Swallowing heavily, he announced himself by the name he’d abandoned long ago. A name that felt more like a moniker than the one he’d earned wielding the weapon that had become his namesake. “Killian Jones.”

A few of the guards balked. “Jones? As in Admiral Liam--”

“I demand an audience with Their Majesties and my brother,” Hook barked. “I will only turn the princess over to their care. No one else.”

“Now see here, pirate! Who do you think you are to make dem-”

“Let him pass!” a familiar voice called out from behind the line of knights and guards. Pushing her way through the assembly, Tink emerged, a stunned and elated expression beaming from her features.

“Lady Bell,” Hook murmured in greeting, a wash of something like shame cascading over him as her eyes took him in and her expression soured into something more like shocked horror than pleasant surprise.

Whatever her final estimations of him, she shook off her stupefaction and rounded on the guards once more. “Did you not hear me? I said let him pass. Captain Jones is a faithful servant to the crown, evident by the fact that he has returned the princess to us. Escort him to the throne room and awaken Their Majesties at once!”

Hook had no idea what power Tink had carved out for herself within the Misthaven court this past decade, but that did not keep him from enjoying the spectacle of knights and guards tripping over themselves to carry out her orders as he was ushered to the throne room.

“Wait here,” his escort instructed, securing the doors behind him as he exited to stand guard until Their Majesties’ arrival. Hook was astonished that the man had left him alone with the princess, though he was grateful for the solitude, knowing he’d need these few moments to collect his thoughts and figure out how he would tell them about the new deal he’d struck… and because he knew these were the final moments he’d have with the princess - his princess - before he’d have to say goodbye to her.

Potentially forever.

He did not wish to linger on that thought.

Hook lowered himself onto the edge of the dais and cradled the princess in his lap while he waited for the king and queen to arrive. It felt strange to be back in this room. Not much had changed, based on the cursory perusal he gave the space upon entering. He wondered how much he would find King David and Queen Snow changed, to say nothing of his brother. They would be older, no doubt. Bits of gray peppering their temples, a few wrinkles beginning to etch themselves around the eyes and across their foreheads, but despite their outward appearance, Hook doubted very much that the years would have altered them as they had him.

No. If anyone was different, if anyone had undergone a drastic change to the point they might find themselves unrecognizable to those who had once known them best, it was him. Glancing down at himself, bedecked in his typical black leather and adorned with all manner of accessories unbecoming an officer, Hook wondered very much if any of them would recognize him at all.

The throne room doors banged open, causing Hook’s head to shoot up. The king and queen rushed in, hand-in-hand, followed closely by his brother. The three of them, darned in their nightclothes with their chests heaving from the exertion of sprinting from their respective bedchambers, stopped short at the sight of him sitting there with the princess wrapped in his arms. Gently, Hook laid Emma down beside him, then moved away, averting his eyes so as to not see their shocked expressions.

“She is well,” he assured them. “I gave her a sleeping draught to help calm her nerves on the journey home. It will wear off in due course.”

Stepping further back when he heard the stampede of footfalls coming towards him, Hook watched with a pained sort of contentment as the king and queen dashed to their daughter’s side. His meticulously honed skills, developed from years of having to navigate past dangers lurking within the Neverland jungle, alerted him to the soft pads making their way, not to the princess, but to him, and Hook braced himself to face his brother.

“Killian?” Liam's tone of pure exhilaration tore right through Hook. “Little brother, is it really you?”

“Aye,” Hook replied, his gaze, growing misty from the emotion welling beneath his lashes, still cast downward as he felt the weight of his brother’s hand upon his shoulder.

“After all this time,” Liam began, a sob choking his words. His hands cupped Hook’s face and he tilted his head upwards so he could look fully at his brother’s features. “You look just the same and yet, I hardly recognize you. Whatever are you wearing?”

Hook could not help the amused huff that left his lungs, matching his brother’s cheeky smile before allowing Liam to pull him into a tight embrace. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he desperately clung to his brother, wishing with all his might this didn’t have to be another good-bye.

“Oh, Killian!” Snow wailed, launching herself into his arms after Liam had released him, and he soon found himself in the bear-like grip of the king as his arms wound around both he and the queen.

“You found her? You brought her home? But how?” King David inquired, prompting their assembly back towards the dais so he and Snow could sit with Emma as they waited for answers. “She went missing only yesterday, when her maids found her bed empty. We hadn’t even sent word to other kingdoms yet, so how did you--”

“Charming,” Snow interjected, her eyes scrutinizing Hook with the practiced eye of a caring mother. “The tale can wait until Killian has had a chance to rest.” A warm smile graced her lips as she lovingly admonished, “You look dead on your feet. Allow us to have a room made up for you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, but I am afraid I must decline,” Hook responded heavily. “I only have until dawn before I must return.”

“Return?” Liam exclaimed. “No! Your years of service to Pan expired yesterday! I thought… I thought that’s why you were here. Because you are now free.”

“It’s true, my original agreement with Pan ended yesterday,” Hook said, his eyes cast back down towards the floor once more. “But… I made a new deal with the demon boy, and I must get back before dawn or else it becomes void.”

“Let it!” Liam shouted. “Whatever reason you made this deal, surely it is not worth another decade of suffering under that vile imp’s rule.”

Hook flicked his gaze up to Liam’s, then over to the still slumbering princess and imparted, “It is, actually.”

Snow gasped and David balked when they both realized the meaning and gravity of Hook’s words, and three sets of horrified and anguish filled eyes turned upon him.

“You mean--”

“It was Pan,” Hook confirmed with a somber nod. “Somehow, he discovered the boon I earned in saving your life all those years ago. The Law of Surprise I was not even aware I had received until it sat caged in Pan’s lair. The price of Princess Emma’s freedom was for me to agree to stay, and it is a deal I would make a thousand times over.”

“For how long?” David demanded. “How long is this new deal for?”

Hook’s jaw tightened and once again he found himself unable to look any of them in the eye as he confessed, “Indefinitely. Likely, until one of our deaths sets me free.”

Shouts of outrage erupted around him, both the king and his brother insisting he stay, assuring him they would be willing to go to war with Pan if need be.

“No!” Hook hollered back, a flash of fury burning in his eyes as he drew himself up to full captain’s height and stepped into the persona he’d fashioned for himself over these many years. “You don’t know Pan as I do. He is a formidable foe, one you can not hope to defeat with conventional means. You’ve only just found peace for your kingdom now the war with George is at an end. I will not see you enter into another. I will not risk any of your lives just to try and save mine.” Each of them flinched under his hardened gaze as it snapped from one to the other until it landed with a softened hint of affection upon the princess. “I will not risk hers,” he murmured gruffly. “She is too important, and I… I am nothing more than a filthy pirate.”

“That’s not true, little broth--”

“It is true!” Hook growled menacingly, raising his namesake. “I am none other than Captain Hook, who you yourself have issued countless bounties for, dead or alive,” he told them as the full realization of his identity hit them. “And that is only for the crimes you know I have committed. You cannot even fathom the atrocities of which I am truly guilty.”

“Killian, none of that mat--”

“That is no longer my name!” Hook roared. His eyes flashed again and David instinctually pulled his wife behind him. The protective action cut Hook to the quick, and he quickly deflated as he swept his hand through his hair while filling his lungs with a calming breath. Running his tongue over his lips, he swallowed past the shame gurgling up from his belly, and set contrite eyes upon his sovereigns. “My apologies,” he said in earnest. “Killian Jones may have been a man worthy of such sacrifice, but I assure you, Captain Hook is not. Regardless,” he paused and set his eyes upon Emma once more. “For better or worse, the fates entrusted her to my keeping, and I would see that duty met. But that won’t be possible once I leave here, which means…” he cast his eyes upon his brother and began to decree, “Into your keeping, brother, I bestow the rights and duty of the Law of-”

“Stop!” Liam commanded, placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Don’t. Don’t you do that. Don't you give up.” Gesturing towards the princess, Liam vowed, “I will look after her in your stead, but she will remain your Child of Surprise. If only to give you some reason to keep on fighting. You said you would do your duty towards her, and we will hold you to that, brother. None of us can know why the fates chose you, all we can do is trust in some greater plan that has yet to come to fruition.”

“Liam is right,” the king added in agreement. “The honor, privilege, and responsibility of my child’s life rests with you, Killian. It always has. Will you continue to safeguard it?”

Eyes once more fixed on the sleeping child resting in her mother’s lap, Hook took in a deep and shuddering breath. “Aye,” he exhaled. “Even to my last breath.”

The force of the king’s slap to his back nearly knocked him over. “Good. Then come and sit with us. You said we only had until dawn, and we have much to catch up on.”

The next few hours were spent in camaraderie and merriment, with only the occasional melancholy or remorse. Hook had forgotten what it felt like: fellowship, the use of his given name, the occasion to laugh, to tease, to bond. All too soon the roosters began to crow from the yard outside the castle walls, announcing the coming of the dawn that would begin creeping over the horizon within the hour.

Hook would never know where he found the fortitude to not break down when the time came to bid a final farewell to Their Majesties - his friends - and brother. David gave him his word that he would have pardon within Misthaven, that the kingdom would be a refuge and sanctuary to him whenever he might have need of it. Liam made his little brother promise to keep fighting, to keep searching for a way to defeat Pan so he could come home once and for all. When the time came to say good-bye to Snow, Hook’s words got caught in his throat. Not because this was a more difficult farewell, but because it meant the one he was truly dreading would be next.

“Would you…” Snow began, hesitantly. Perhaps sensing his turmoil in that intuitive way she had about her. “Would you mind helping me get Emma back to her room?” she asked, glancing over at the cushioned bench where the princess had continued to sleep throughout their reunion. “I had hoped she might wake up so you could tell her good-bye, but perhaps tucking her in and knowing she is safe and sound would be the next best thing?”

“Aye, thank you, Your Majes… I mean. Thank you, Snow,” Hook corrected when she raised her brows at him, reminding him they had agreed to dispense with the honorifics, as good friends were wont to do.

Gathering the princess in his arms, Hook gave David and Liam one last look and resolved nod before following Snow out of the throne room and through the corridors until they reached Emma’s chambers. Snow opened the doors and gestured Hook inside, hovering just beyond the threshold as Hook deposited the princess in bed.

The child groaned and stretched, momentarily opening her eyes and fighting the effects of the draught as she wearily gazed up at the pirate kneeling beside the bed.

“Shhh, princess,” he soothed. “Everything is well now. You’re home.”

“I told you to wake me,” she mumbled. “Papa didn’t arrest you, did he?”

Hook chuckled. “No, lass. Your Papa has been most hospitable, but I have worn out my welcome and must go now.”

“Must you?”

“Aye, princess. I’m afraid so.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

Hook threaded his fingers through her hair, stroking the long, silken strands with a gentle touch before tucking them behind her ear. “I hope so, princess. Most assuredly.”

“Me, too.”

Her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing began to even back out. Hoping she had not fully succumbed to the abyss of sleep once more, Hook pulled the seashell she’d taken from his desk and placed it back in her palm. “Here,” he murmured softly, “A little something to remember me by, and… a promise.” Stroking her hair once more, Hook leaned in and pressed his lips against her forehead, sending up a silent prayer to all the gods and fates that she be kept safe and only know happiness in her life before vowing, “Not a day will go by I won’t think of you.”

He knelt there for a moment more before making his way back towards the door, pausing at the threshold when he heard a quiet, “good” murmured from her bed. Tears stung his eyes, a halting breath escaping from his chest as he tried to maintain his composure in Snow’s presence.

Wrapping her arms around him, Snow gave him sanctuary to pour out his anguish. The despair and injustice. Everything he’d been suppressing since he’d discovered the truth and learned of Emma’s existence. Everything that was boiling over within him now, having to leave behind all he held dear, all that was precious to him.

It wasn’t fair.

Not because he felt he deserved better, he knew he didn’t. No. It wasn’t fair to Emma. Surely she must have felt it? The bond that had been created between them through the Law of Surprise. The feeling of being incomplete, as though he were leaving parts of himself behind, would she feel that loss as well? Would she ache for something she sensed missing as the deep recesses within him were now beginning to ache for her? Would she endeavor to fill the void his absence would create? Would she come looking for him?

“She can’t ever know,” Hook declared desperately.

“What?”

“Emma,” Hook clarified. “She can’t ever know about me. About the Law of Surprise. Please, Snow. Promise me you won’t burden her with that knowledge. Have the fairies help her forget me, if necessary.”

“Killian, what are you saying?” Snow inquired, her brow frightfully furrowed at his frantic demeanor.

“I’m saying, if she doesn’t know about me, then she won’t… she won’t be tempted to come find me. She’ll stay here. She’ll stay safe. Promise me.”

“I… I promise,” Snow agreed, though Hook could tell it was begrudgingly. “I promise that if she is ever to know the truth, it will only come from your lips.”

“Thank you,” he exhaled on a relieved breath, before pulling her into a final embrace. “For everything. I…”

“I know,” she assured him. “You must go,” she insisted, releasing him and taking a step back while wiping away her tears. “Dawn approaches.”

“Aye,” Killian replied, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze. “Take care of yourself, Your Majesty.”

“Take care of yourself… Captain.”

With only minutes to spare, Hook made it back to the Jolly Roger and set sail back to Neverland. He was halfway back to the island of horrors when a sound from the hold sparked his curiosity. A quick search revealed… a stowaway.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing here, Tink?!”

“Shhh,” she admonished. “Keep your voice down or that spectre will hear you.”

“How do you know that spectre doesn’t already know you’re on board?”

“Because it was asleep when I snuck on.”

Hook balked. “It sleeps?”

“Yup,” she replied with a dramatic pop of the p. “Ten years and you never realized Pan’s shadow sleeps? I was right. You do need my help.”

“Your help?” Hook questioned, his head cocked to one side as he looked upon the fairy with confusion. “Help with what?”

“Why… killing Pan, of course. You and I both know that’s the only way out of your new deal with him.”

“How did you-”

“I was eavesdropping from the second floor gallery.”

“You what?!”

Tink held up her hand to stay his indignation. “Do you want to admonish me, or do you want to hear my plan?”

“You have a plan?” he repeated, with a heavy dose of skepticism. “To kill Pan?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Tink rocked back on her heels. “Mhmm. Wanna hear it or not?”

She was serious. She actually had a plan, and from the resolve he could see set within her shoulders and the way her eyes gleamed, Hook could tell it was a good one.

“I’m listening.”

Hook had to give it to the fairy, she was brilliant. Her plan had merit. Real merit. But it would take time, and cunning, and a fair amount of luck, and they’d be putting themselves at great risk if they failed.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this? Risking everything. Your very life. Just to help me go free?”

“For one,” she said, taking his hand. “You deserve it.”

He wasn’t too sure about that. “And the other?”

Tink wet her lips and swallowed. “I’m doing it for her. For Emma. She needs you. Her life will never be… complete, never be fulfilled, never be what it's meant to be. Not without you in it.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, pulling his hand away. “She’s far better off without me in her life.”

A smirk lifted the corner of her lips, and they were both jolted by the jarring impact of the ship’s return to the waters of Neverland.

“We’ll see about that.”

Part Three - Coming Soon!

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[snowbellewells]

@spartanguard This fic of yours, and it’s entire concept really, just continues to be so entertaining! Such a fun and unique read that I can’t help getting caught up in and trying to unravel the mystery with each new chapter you post.

There were so many little fun touches in this one that made me snicker or warmed my heart. Killian (the real Killian) just melted my heart at how he came rushing into the station, his only concern getting Emma into his arms and making sure she was alright. And the lovely father and son-in-law conversation Killian and David share later at the Nolan farmhouse. That was such a wonderful moment; I could absolutely see it in my mind’s eye, and I was thrilled they had each other to lean on, even in such an unusual situation.

But you also had me cracking up and nodding in agreement with Emma’s “What? I read!” response when they were surprised she knew the name Dorian Gray (and also the well-deserved nod to Ben Barnes for being the other reason she knew, because well, as you say Ben Barnes) 😏

I also really loved the flashback at the end, where we learned more of Dorian’s (and Killian’s) past and how they did come to be separated identical twins. I thought it was even more poignant how it did echo what had happened to David and James, and also how I finally got to see Killian’s mother, or at least a really believable version of her. That was one thing I really wanted that the show never did, but yours was very heartfelt and believable. Despite it being such a sad moment, I still loved seeing it, and it even brought about my favorite lines in this update: “She laid him against her chest and leaned back in the rocking chair. “Sleep tight, sweet Killian,” Alice murmured and kissed the top of his head. She’d read his name in a book as a child, the name of the hero, and held onto it until she was able to give it to a son of her own. “I promise to stay with you as long as I can, and love and protect you with all my heart.”  (You even worked in the little bit about his mother that Wish!Killian told baby Alice!! )💕💕💕

But that weird feeling and electricity Killian felt when he got back home? And how Dorian felt it too and recognized it as the Dark One’s magic? That does not bode well…. 🫣🫣🫣

sons of love and death, 3/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]

A/N: Back again with the next chapter of this year’s @cssns​​ story! Some revelations in this update…hope you like it! (Forever thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​​!)

rated M | 4.7k words | AO3 | 1 | 2

The man—not-Killian, Emma was calling him until they found out his real name—had fallen silent during the quick drive to the station, not even affected by the siren screaming (both in warning and from disuse). He made no complaints as they ushered him into the other cell—the one that didn’t have half-melted bars. He only slumped listlessly to the cot and tilted his head back, eyes closed, in a defeated manner. She almost felt bad for him, to see him so distressed, until she shook her head to remind herself that it wasn’t really Killian. 

“So, gonna tell us your name yet?” David asked casually. 

The man didn’t open his eyes. “Dorian. Dorian Gray.”

“Like the picture?” It slipped out of Emma’s mouth without thinking, and suddenly two sets of eyes were on her in varying degrees of surprise. “What? I read.” (And she’d seen the movie with Ben Barnes because, well, Ben Barnes, but that wasn’t as relevant at present.)

Dorian sighed. “Yes, just like the picture. Although Mr. Wilde’s version of my tale is far from the truth.“ 

"Aren’t they all?” David scoffed. 

“So what is your story, buddy?” she asked, crossing her arms and stepping closer. “I thought you wished on a painting for eternal youth so you could go on a lifelong bender.”

“Parts of that. I can attest to the desire for youth and debauchery; but my reasons were far different, and I had a hand in casting the spell myself.”

A chill went down Emma’s spine, but she didn’t let it show. “Sounds like some pretty dark magic.”

“Well, I learned from the best,” he sneered, with a grin that was far from genuine.

“Who?” she demanded.

“Why, the Dark One, of course.”

“Rumpelstiltskin?” That didn’t seem in-character, but she always seemed to forget the man’s paternal leanings, even if he was kind of her ex-father-in-law.

Dorian shook his head. “Zoso, his predecessor. He raised me.”

“You were adopted?” David asked, probably not as nonchalantly as he’d intended—but it needed to be asked so they could figure out just where this guy came from.

“I certainly didn’t get my good looks from him,” Dorian scoffed. 

“So then—”

“Emma!”

She jumped at the sound of Killian’s panicked voice—actually him this time—and his insistent footsteps on the station’s linoleum. She only just turned around before he was slamming into her in a bruising hug.

“Hey, is everything alright?” she asked, trying to make sure he couldn’t see over her shoulder just yet.

“If you’re fine, then yes,” he sighed, burying his face in her hair (good). “Gold told me to come here; I was worried.”

She returned the embrace, but knew she only had so long before either Killian or the prisoner noticed the other; probably better to rip off the bandaid.

When she pulled back, he immediately began to study her face, and his brow furrowed a bit. “Swan, what is it?” he said, worried, no doubt seeing her own trepidation.

Before she had a chance to reply, Dorian interrupted. “What the actual fuck?”

Killian’s eyes darted over, then went wide as he studied the man behind the bars. He opened his mouth a couple times to say something, but the only thing that came out was “Bloody hell.”

Keep reading

[snowbellewells]

@spartanguard oh my goodness, another stellar chapter, building onto my curiosity and suspense about what is going on and just how dangerous this other Killian truly is. I apologize for falling behind, but that doesn’t mean I love this story you’re crafting any less. It was worth the wait to get to it - and then some!!! 😍❤️😍

I loved how you made Emma so certain of Killian and the subtle differences she could see and feel between her pirate and this stranger. She didn’t hesitate I’d doubt for even a second, and I just loved that. She also took him as the serious threat he proved to be, and prepared herself accordingly when they went to Gold’s after him. He meanwhile majorly underestimated her and got a nasty surprise and second trip to the jail cells. (Served him right!)

Is it weird that I almost felt badly for him though, when he learned the Dark One was no more and his purpose was lost? He seemed so adrift and confused. Maybe it just reminded me of how our real Killian might have felt if he hadn’t chosen to give up his own revenge…?

Loved how you characterized his interaction with Gold, how they both interacted with Emma, the conversation, their magic use, all of it! It was so well done and so clear in my mind as I read. Writing Gold well and describing magic use are both things that really challenge me, and I guess I was doubly impressed by that!

I know it’s only chapter two and there’s so much more to learn ahead, but you had me tearing through this, excited for more and trying to piece together what we do know. Thanks SO MUCH for sharing this!

sons of love and death, 2/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon]

A/N: Time for the next chapter of this year’s @cssns​ story! (I plan to update every Wednesday :D ) Thank you for the warm reception to the first part; hope you enjoy this next one as well! Also: A shout-out to my writing crew on Discord; thank you for all your support as I’ve worked on this!!!! (And eternal thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​!)

rated M | 2.6k words | AO3 | 1

“That’s not Killian.”

“Are you sure?” David sounded skeptical of Emma’s statement, but she had no clue why.

“Of course I’m sure; he’s my freaking husband. That’s not him,” she insisted, pointing to the (admittedly handsome) stranger in the cell.

For starters, Emma had literally just left Killian at the library; there was no way he’d have had the time to start a fight with Leroy at Granny’s AND get arrested in the span of 5 minutes. (At least, not anymore.)

Second, she would know him anywhere, any time, in any world. Even the haggard version of Killian she’d met in the Wish Realm was undeniably him.

So while this clearly hungover man looked and sounded like Killian, she knew it wasn’t. There was nothing but anger deep in this man’s eyes—a look Killian hadn’t had in ages. She briefly entertained the possibility he was cursed, or that this was some kind of glamour spell or time travel, but then she took a closer look at his face: the scar was all wrong—it was deeper and cut a jagged line into his left cheek; Killian’s was light and curved down the right side. And to top it all off, he had two hands.

But that only raised another question.

“Who are you?”

“Finally, one of you idiots doesn’t pretend to know me.” A chill went down her spine; it was Killian’s voice, alright, but with more venom and spite than his ever had in the time she’d known him. And the accent was ever so slightly different—less of a lilt and more of an edge.

“I’ll ask again: who are you?” She’d gotten pretty good at reading Killian, but it was proving near impossible with this guy (further proof that it was not her favorite pirate).

“How about you tell me who everyone thinks I am?” There was a challenge in his tone.

“Nope.” No way was she letting him find out about Killian if he didn’t already know. “Why are you here, then?”

“That’s my business.” His face suddenly turned dark—well, darker—and she grew fearful. Because even though she knew he was a different person, he was starting to remind her an awful lot of the man she found hiding under some bodies in the Enchanted Forest, who was willing to burn heaven and hell to get his revenge.

“You made it our business when you came into this town,” David supplied. “Either tell us why you’re here, and maybe we can help you, or let us escort you out of town.”

A sudden rage came over the man, and he jumped up and grabbed at the cell’s bars. “I’m not leaving until I’ve taken what’s mine!” A fire burned in his eyes as he shouted.

No, wait—that was actual fire. His hands began to glow a hot red-orange and she heard a distinct hissing sound. Two jaws dropped as the man melted the metal in his hands and then some, giving him an easy exit.

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