Okay, so I missed posting a fic for #13spookycsdays yesterday, so I'm going to do two today - one for yesterday and the one I had planned for today. Neither of these are terribly "spooky/scary" but I think they are kinda cute and fun. I hope you may enjoy them too. I'll post the second one later today...
This little rerun is meant to be set in the time between the Season Six finale and Henry’s leaving to go seek his own story. I have had Killian and Emma have a child much sooner, (and she’s a creation of my own imagination that I used in several stories before we knew about Hope) but other than that, I don’t think things are too out of line with canon. Of course I don’t own them, or we would have gotten to see a lot more fluff like this onscreen! Please enjoy – I’d love to hear what you think!
“Morgan, come on!” Henry’s exasperated 17-year-old voice, deepened and lowered over the last couple of years in a way that sometimes surprises his stepfather still – to say nothing of the mother who can’t believe how fast the few years they’ve had together have flown and has to constantly remind herself not to hold on to tightly as Henry looks at colleges for the following fall – rumbles with impatience and fond consternation as he kneels next to his three-year-old sister to wrangle her into the black and white striped leggings she had been determined to wear not even an hour before.
Killian Jones is already on the way to rescue his poor, beleaguered stepson before even Henry’s almost-endless well of patience is exhausted, but he can’t help pausing to shake his head with a chuckle at the petulant response he hears from his stubborn daughter before he does so. His booted tread in the upstairs hallway stops just beyond the open door of Morgan Ruth Jones’ room, listening for a moment to the sounds he never dreamed he would get to hear – not after his life had spun so far off course for so long, longer than any mortal man should be allowed to get back on course – the voices of children of his own, his family.
The rise in pitch and volume, and the clear sound of little stamping feet – a definite sign that his bullheaded tyke’s determination is nowhere near abating, pulls the former pirate captain from his reverie and into the fray. Upon setting foot in the deeply purple-bedecked room, (it’s the color of royalty, Morgan had informed him archly when he’d asked her why everything must be purple), he sees his little girl’s lower lip jutting out and her face scrunching up in preparation for a full-on pout, while she shakes her head side-to-side in adamant refusal and yells once more, “No, Henwy! Nooo!” She points her chubby little finger at the offending article of costume clothing once more, as imperious as a half-dressed toddler can possibly be. “I’m a piwate queen! Those are for silly clowns!”
Henry heaves a long-suffering sigh. Killian can see his ever-broadening young man shoulders rise and fall with the action, and he again marvels at his stepson’s fortitude and good heartedness – most teenagers simply wouldn’t bother with a so much younger sibling, or their tempers would have long since sparked and led them to storm off in disgust. Though Killian cannot see the lad’s face, he can easily picture how Henry must be biting down on his lower lip in consternation, the way he does when either holding back a sharp retort or concentrating hard.
Making his presence known with a cleared throat and carefully arched brow, Killian swaggers into the room, turning on a mere fraction of the bluster and bravado he marshalled in his early days as Captain of the Jolly Roger, when he was still proving himself and making it known he was not to be crossed. Directing a steady eye at his daughter, he calls out, “What have we here? Dissent amongst me crew?”
Henry turns partially to look over a shoulder at him, smirking despite the honest gratitude in his eyes. Clearly the lad is about to reach the end of his rope in dealing with an obstinate three-year-old. Killian gives him a nod, and Henry stands quickly, sweeping out of the room with the dramatic help of the heavy red velvet cape draped over his shoulders – his whole outfit a loving parody of his grandfather in full kingly Enchanted Forest attire.
“Now, Lassie,” Killian intones, his voice sounding serious, but his eyebrows waggling playfully at the same time, not for anything wishing to genuinely scare her. “What seems to be the trouble? I’ll wager you have just cause for giving my trusty first mate such trouble?”
Morgan dips her head, a mixture of hiding her eyes as she often does when she knows she’s been willful, and in bashful response to the complete pirate act he is putting on. She almost giggles, but then, with a solemnity that surprises him and seems almost beyond her years, she looks back up to her papa – and he is glad that she still sees him beneath the façade, no matter what – eyes wide and sincere and answers, “He was trying to make me wear these!” She wrinkles her nose and holds up the striped leggings, which would really look quite striking with all the red and black in her outfit, if Killian did say so himself. However, his little marauder’s face is scrunched up in complete disgust. “They aren’t fit for a piwate queen!” she protests heatedly.
Now it is Killian who has to bite back laughter at her vehemence and the affront written all over her face. The tyke has been set on being a pirate this Hallow’s Eve since the odd double feature of the demented Mr. Disney’s Peter Pan and Pirates of the Caribbean which Henry had suggested slyly one Friday movie night back in May. He still shudders at the depiction of himself in the first film, but Morgan – whom they had not even thought was watching at the time – had become seemingly captivated by the sea, ships, and everything pirate, ever since.
Killian kneels at her level, forcing complete seriousness into his voice and managing to master the humor he feels at the whole episode. Reaching out with hook and hand, he snags the offending tights that he knows for a fact his beloved wife had chosen for how cute she had thought they’d be with Morgan’s pirate costume, as well as for how warm they would be while they were traipsing around town trick-or-treating in the chill Autumn air. With his hand at her back pulling her in close, Killian holds the tights up on his hook before his daughter’s eyes. “You believe these are not pirate garb?” he questions, preparing his story so as to make it utterly convincing.
Morgan shakes her head stoutly, clearly ready to argue if anyone thinks they are going to make her wear something she doesn’t want. However, a look of slight doubt appears on her brow, as if she is curious in spite of herself. Her papa is after all her favorite pirate.
“Well,” he tilts his head, giving his little lass one of his best rakish grins, “I’ll have you know that Mr. Smee, my right hand man on the ship for years, had long underwear he wore in the winter months which were striped just like these. Bill Jukes once nettled him within an inch of his life after Smee split his pant seams in back and all aboard saw his “fancy skivvies” as Jukes put it. Poor man never did live them down, but he refused to part with the things either. Said nothing else had ever kept him half as warm as those when the truly icy winds blew in off the water.”
“Really?” Morgan asks, still looking a bit dubious, but now studying the tights he holds out to her with renewed interest.
“Aye. Really,” he affirms with a nod.
“Alright then,” she concedes, reaching out to take the leggings and then plopping down on her rump to pull the stretchy material over her feet and up her chunky toddler legs beneath the gathered black skirt, red shirt, and black vest that all work to compliment the eye patch covering her right eye (and half her face) and the red bandana tied around her wild, dark hair so much like his.
“Now your pirate boots, me hearty,” Killian offers, sliding them over to speed the process now that he has her cooperation. He knew that Emma had intended them to already be at Granny’s by now, where they were meeting her parents with little Neal, Ashley and Sean Herman with Alexandra, as well as Philip and Aurora with their little boy to go trick-or-treating as a group. Their first stop was the library to pick up Belle and Gideon, now nearly five and curiously anxious for them all to see his costume Belle had told them the other day with cryptic mischief in her voice. Killian was somewhat dreading what the child of the Dark One might decide to dress as for Halloween, and had tried to prepare himself to take yet another highly unflattering portrayal of himself in good grace, and yet he couldn’t begrudge them letting mother and son join their party. He knew Gold would not deign to dress up and parade around town with such frivolous intent and mingle with those he deemed beneath him. Now that Gideon was once more a child the correct age and not out to hurt his Swan, Killian had no issue with him; in fact, the lad was quite good hearted – sweet and engaging – clearly taking after his mother. And he always enjoyed Belle’s company, more than almost any other except his lovely wife, and welcomes a chance to spend a couple of hours talking with her as they follow their children and friends around Storybrooke, catching up with her and seeing that she is indeed well, even if she is married to his Crocodile.
“Avast ye lubber!” Morgan calls out loudly and effectively shattering his thoughts. She rockets to her feet with a chortle of glee at the pirate insult she knows she has flung at him, and now bounces anxiously on the balls of her little booted feet, ready to go at last.
“That’s Captain to you, Matey!” Killian teasingly chastises, standing once again himself and passing the rather authentic-looking plastic cutlass to her at the door, finishing off her adorably fierce look, much to Morgan’s clear delight.
Clapping her tiny hands happily, Morgan grins and practically squeals with excitement, finally betraying the pirate persona she has clung to and looking like the ecstatic little girl she is. “Up, Papa!” she commands, lifting her arms and wildly brandishing the toy weapon he barely dodges while bending to swing her up into his arms.
“Is that an order, My Queen?” he asks, holding her slight weight with his good arm, while playfully poking her stomach with the dull curve of his hook, causing her to dissolve in laughter and throw her arms around his neck. Her breath is warm on his skin and her tiny button nose presses in close to his ear snugly.
“Yes, Daddy,” she says softly, stroking gentle, childish fingers over his neck and giggling once more, obviously both pleased with herself and his response. By now they are clattering down the stairs, and he can see both Emma and Henry waiting for them at the front door.
Emma gives Henry a shrug as if to say, ‘at least he’s finally got her ready to go’, ruffles her son’s hair in a way he doesn’t often allow anymore, and then steps forward, smiling at her husband wryly and reaching up to right Morgan’s eye patch where it has gone a bit askew. Now standing before them, she runs her thumb tenderly over the old scar on his cheek, as she speaks. “Is the Queen of the Pirates finally satisfied?” she asks with equal seriousness, having learned the hard way not to upset their daughter’s good moods when they have them, as Morgan is both as passionate and stubborn as her mother and her father combined and as likely to fly into a temper as to charm them.
Morgan nods, raising her plastic sword toward the front door, which Henry has opened and waits beside, clearly beyond ready to get going at last. “Onward!” she commands, bouncing in Killian’s arms as if to urge him forward.
Once they move off down the porch steps and up the sidewalk toward the center of town, Killian leans over to whisper in his wife’s ear, “Sorry it took us so long, Love. She needed a bit of convincing that the tights were proper buccaneering attire. I hope by the time this evening is finished you still feel all this was worth your trouble procuring costumes and clearing your schedule to set up.”
Emma merely smiles back at him, staring up into his eyes as she takes his hook in her hand, leaning into his side while they walk. “It already is, Killian. Look at this. We have a family, both of us. I never had this as a kid. I know you didn’t either, but now… for Henry a little while yet, and for Morgan…we can give them what we wished for. We can give them traditions all our own. Thank you for that.”
Killian bends to press a quick kiss to her brow, causing a “blech!” exclamation from a dismissive Morgan that they both completely ignore. “Thank you, Emma,” he returns, the smile on his face adoring and soft enough to stop her breath in her throat. “I love you – and this life we have – more than I can rightly say.”
As the night goes on, their whole motley crew gaily pillages and plunders the town of all its delicious goodies, earning delighted exclamations for their creative dress and festive spirit. Granny sends the adults who desire it on their way with rum-spiked hot chocolate, a wink to the former pirate as she bestows his on him giving away her rarely-won affection. Garnering the most laughter and applause of all is young Gideon Gold, dressed – to everyone’s surprise – in a head-to-toe green outfit that Belle has clearly sewn herself, as an actual toothy crocodile, complete with ticking alarm clock tucked under one arm. Killian has to tip his hat to the boy, and his gumption – though he wisely refrains from asking if Gideon’s father saw his outfit or what might have been Rumplestitltskin’s response.
~~~
Long past midnight, when the revelry is through and all are tucked in bed, Killian and Emma have a bit of adult dress-up and plundering of their own, introducing yet another tradition that neither of them would object to upholding for years to come. The following Halloween, they have a three-month-old to outfit and take with them on their yearly trick-or-treating venture, but if anyone else questions them, neither Savior nor Captain admit to that being anything more than a happy coincidence.
Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi
Summary: “If it’s aid of a magical sort ye seek, then you’ll be wanting to find the witch in the woods.”
A/N: Yes. I know. It's been 84 years. Sorry??
This update marks off the enchanted object square on my Bingo Card, and is my contribution for Day 6 of 13 Spooky CS Days. This fic is going to be my focus, in the hopes I can have it finished for Neverland New Year (even though the event has not officially been held in the past few years, I still like ringing in the new year with Neverland).
All my love to @kmomof4 for giving this a once over!
Rated T (for now?) / Also available on ao3 / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me! / Part One / Part Two / Part Three
Part Four
Dread.
Oppressive, stifling, suffocating dread.
Emma was mired in it from simply watching the island grow closer from the bow of the ship. The darkness surrounding them was not merely from the absence of the sun. She could feel it. Sense it.
Corrupted magic.
Twisted and defiled until it had become an unnatural blend of sorceries. An unholy amalgamation that made Emma sick to her stomach.
The wounds were deep, the fissures fetid and festering like a putrid sore. Her magic longed to reach out and soothe the suffering. It cried out against the injustice done to the island, and winced at the damage revealed by each bend of the river they silently traversed.
Arriving at the heart of the island, Emma shook herself and wiped away the tear that had escaped her lashes. There was nothing she could do for the island. Not until her son was back in her arms. Not until the source of its abuse and mistreatment had been dealt with.
Turning back toward the helm she marched a purposeful path to her bag then knelt down and began rifling through its contents.
“What are you searching for, love?” Hook asked after giving a quiet command to the ship which seemed to begin anchoring procedures.
“Henry’s scarf,” she told him, pulling the item from the bag’s depths and standing once more. “I can enchant it with a locator spell which will lead us to where Pan is keeping my son.”
Without awaiting further comment or question, she murmured the incantation and focused all of her energy into finding Henry. The scarf, infused with the spell, lifted from her hands and began to glide through the air like a woolen serpent. The two of them followed it to the side of the ship. While Emma kept a trained eye on the scarf, Hook tossed a rope ladder over the side so they could climb down to the shore. However, before either of them could descend, the scarf seemed to become confused as to which direction to go. Spinning in circles it backtracked and collided with the hull of the ship, falling limp once more and sinking into the water.
“I don’t understand.” Emma called forth the scarf with her magic, staring down at the dripping garment with furrowed brows and a slackened jaw. “Why didn’t it w--”
“Because magic works differently here,” a voice declared from behind, causing the two to spin around.
Lounging against the mast with arms and ankles crossed was a boy not much older than her son. Although there did not appear to be anything remarkable about the adolescent youth, his mere presence had prompted the man beside her to draw his sword and ready his stance; his expression wary as the muscle in his jaw pulsed over clenched teeth.
“Surely you must have felt it,” the boy continued. “I would be disappointed if you hadn’t. I spent so much time curating it thus.”
Emma took a tentative step forward, but was stopped by Hook’s sharp tone.
“Swan, don’t.”
“Why?” she asked, though her senses were on high alert as well. “Who is he?”
“Oh, did I forget to introduce myself?” The boy straightened his posture. His stance was wide and his hands were braced on his hips as he proudly declared, “I'm Peter. Peter Pan.”
Fury erupted within her and out of some primal instinct she flung her hands out towards the smug-faced boy and shot a bolt of magic square at his chest.
“No!” Hook cried as Pan deflected the burst, sending it straight back at her. He was too late to take the jolt himself, but bodily put himself between her and Pan as she recovered from the blast of her own making.
“You've got fire. I like fire,” Pan crowed. “Well done, Captain.”
An icy flow of foreboding flooded Emma’s veins, freezing her to the marrow. “What… What does he mean by that?”
“Nothing,” Hook snapped, his attention focused on the boy whose gloating radiated across the deck. “Don’t listen to him, Swan.”
“Come, come, Captain,” Pan tutted. “We both know she is no fool. Do you really expect her to believe it was a coincidence that you, a pirate in my employ, tethered to do my bidding, would just happen to seek out the one witch whose child my shadow took flight with?”
“So, that’s your game,” Hook shot back. “Well, joke’s on you, mate. Emma is more than capable of sussing out the truth from lies.” Relaxing his stance, he sheathed his sword and tucked his thumb in his belt before casting a bored expression Pan’s way. “Neither of us are in a playing mood, so let’s save time shall we? Where’s the boy? Why the hell did you take him if it was your son she was indebted to?”
“He's a very special boy,” Pan replied with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Of that I have no doubt,” Hook remarked sincerely, then hardened his tone once more. “That doesn't answer my question. What do you want with him?”
“That’s for me to know,” Pan taunted in a grating sing-song voice.
“Then why come here?” Emma demanded. “What do you want from me?”
“I came here to see who I was up against. The Witch of the Wood. Gotta say,” he drawled, looking her up and down and making her skin crawl. “I'm not disappointed.” His attention snapped back to Hook whose shoulders had remained tight, and his demeanor, though appearing to be at ease, held an anticipatory guard. “I’ll go for now. Leave the two of you to clear up a few things.” His eyes shifted back to Emma, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth - his very punchable mouth. “I imagine she has questions regarding your true intentions, Captain. I do hope they don’t get in the way of any… budding romance between you.”
Emma balked. How did he…
She blinked and he was gone, startling her once more. Her eyes darted about the ship, ensuring Pan had indeed left, then settled on the pirate who was turning towards her with a sigh on his lips as he rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“He does so enjoy his games,” Hook grumbled.
Trepidation shook its way through her body as she recalled Pan’s words and insinuations.
“You… Why did you seek me out? Of all the practitioners of magic… Why me?”
Hook’s eyes snapped to hers, a surprised expression blanching through his features. “I… I assure you, love,” he began, his voice soft and earnest though she could detect a distressed sort of anxiousness in the delivery. “Finding my way to your doorstep was a coincidence. I had no prior knowledge of who you were, nor your connection to Pan or any of his kin.”
Emma swallowed hard. She wanted to believe him. Was desperate to believe him, but…
“Use your magic,” he urged, gesturing towards her bodice and the enchanted pendant that lay beneath. “See that I am telling you the truth.”
She didn’t need to. “I know there is truth in what you say, but…”
“But… what?”
“But what if…” Running her tongue over her lips, she swallowed again in an attempt to combat the choked feeling in her throat. “Why were you in the village? What brought you to that specific shore?”
“I was sent there on orders from--” His words fell away as realization dawned. “Pan sent me there to deliver something to one of the merchants. As is my custom, I made inquiries about any purveyors of magic who might be able to help me with my binding.”
“And those inquiries led you to me.”
“Aye,” he replied on a grieved exhale. His eyes slipped shut and his jaw clenched, the deep bob of his Adam’s apple preceded the solemnness that shone from his forget-me-not gaze. “I suppose it is possible that Pan orchestrated our meeting, but if so, I had no knowledge of it. You must believe me.”
“I do,” she assured him, causing a premature rush of relief to escape his lungs. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I am here because Pan wants me to be, and you…” She paused, glancing past the confines of the ship and honing in on the high peak that was barely visible over the jungle canopy. “You work for Pan, and I… I can’t take the chance that I am wrong about you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, raising her hand and hoping her magic would be able to navigate her. With a flick of her wrist white mist began to swirl and the corrupted power of the island gave way, allowing her to leave the deck of the ship with Hook’s final plea ringing in her ears.
Spooky CS Fics: Day 2 "Put a Spell on You (Because You're Mine)"
My second entry for the #13spookycsdays is this mini-MC. I've always been pleased with how this late season 4 canon divergent fic turned out, and I'm trying to gain it a little more love and a few more eyes to see it. It was written right after the 4b episode "Sympathy for the De Vil" and picks up pretty much where that episode left off. My idea for how the Darkness would lure Emma, and even how it would manifest, was way different than the way the show took it, so this is now definitely canon divergent from that point. If you read this again, or if you're seeing it for the first time, I hope you'll enjoy!
Summary: He's been watching the changes for weeks now, worrying about her well-being and the demons she's fighting... When it all goes crazy, will he be able to help her step back from the brink? (A 4B chaptered story, taking off somewhere near 4x18, and carrying on from there. CS, obviously and all the way)
***Also available from the beginning on AO3 or ff.net, if either of those are your preference...***
by: @snowbellewells
i. darkness creeps in
The deepening purplish circles under her eyes have been growing ever more pronounced, worrying him for weeks now. She is both anxious and jittery, yet bone-weary and weighed down by the cares upon her shoulders. Emma Swan surely thinks that she has hidden her stress and fatigue well, but to one who knows her (and he does know her – as well as she will allow anyone to) the strain is beginning to show.
When they part ways at night now, she tilts her face up to his, grinning a warm, secretive smile and awaiting his gentle kiss, and he tucks her hair behind her ear, cradles her cheek in his hand, profoundly happy to steal a few moments alone with her. Yet, he also finds himself near to biting a hole in his tongue to keep back his words of caution for her, his fear that she is pushing herself too hard, too far, too soon. He cannot risk driving a wedge between them or making her run – not now. She is already keeping her distance from her parents, no longer staying with them in the loft. He has gone back to his ship since the Jolly’s return to him, and so has offered her the use of his room at Granny’s – paid for the month in doubloons that the old woman bit to check for authenticity, then grinned conspiratorially, accepted, and ferretted away in some hidden pocket of her skirts. However, he wonders if Emma paces the floor all night, or haunts the library seeking answers with an equally sleepless Belle, or simply drives aimlessly for hours; whatever it is she does, he can plainly see that she is not resting.
Killian Jones is not a man afraid of much on this wide earth’s surface, but Emma turning her back on him now and walking away is a haunting phantasm that never truly leaves his mind. And it is no longer simply the pain he knows he will feel, but the fact that she needs his support more than ever. He is more afraid for her safety and her sanity than he has ever been, and he does not know what method to try.
Those worries and fears all come to a head as he skids to the edge of the cliff face, behind a stunned, crushed-looking Mary Margaret and David, where he can clearly see Emma and Henry clinging tightly to one another frantically; panting, near tears, and much too close to the drop-off, but at first glance seeming whole and unharmed. He does not know where the rotten banshee who tried taking Henry has gotten to, has missed the entire showdown due to what he knows must have been Gold’s trickery and machination with the shell and Henry’s voice. He wanted to be there and have his Swan’s back, but he feels intense relief to see that she seems to have done just fine on her own.
A rush of air brushes along his skin as Regina charges up behind him, nearly bowling them all over as she calls out her son’s name in a voice harsh with desperation, clearly having been slowed by a similar deception to the one which fooled him. Killian merely steps back so that she can see her boy has been saved and reach him.
It is only as Regina falls to her knees on Henry’s other side, pulls him into her arms, and Emma shifts back slightly, that he is hit by a jolt of fear upon getting a good first look at her face. The reddened irritation beneath her lovely eyes has taken on an even more pronounced hue, making her look angry and more than a bit unhinged. He takes a weak step forward, wishing to soothe, to comfort…but then she leans to peer over the edge. Killian realizes in a flash that Cruella must have gone off the precipice, that the villainess is truly finished, no longer a threat. However, he is frozen in place, a chill of foreboding running down his spine, when Emma turns in his direction once more.
Her gaze is unfocused, not resting on any of them, but turned inward as if contemplating what she thinks of Cruella’s demise. Killian’s heart does not truly splinter until he sees a small, ill-suited little grin of satisfaction sneak over Emma’s lips…almost as if she is pleased with what she has done.
And he knows. Knows with the sinking certainty of one who has crawled back out of the pit and still clearly remembers the darkness’ pull, that something inside of his beautiful Emma has turned. A bit of his Savior’s shining, bright light has gone out.
Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @hollyethecurious
Spooky CS Fics: Day 9 "The Case of the Heart in Armor"
This short MC was originally written for a fandom event called @csrolereversal where authors created stories to go along with a piece of fanart. I have always been pretty proud of it, that's why I saved it for so close to Halloween! It's a sort of My Fair Lady/Sherlock Holmes/witch mashup AU, set in Victorian Era London. Liam and Graham are both alive and well (because it's my story and I wanted them to be! ;p) I hope you'll read and enjoy this if you haven't seen it before - or even if you have!
** The cover art was made for me by @apiratewhopines after they read it which just made me super happy!! The art that inspired it can be found at the end of the story as well. It was created by @courtorderedcake and is really lovely - it is even animated (if I have reposted it correctly!)**
Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog…
Can also be found from the beginning on AO3
Part One
Almost instantaneously, Killian “Holmes” Jones knew something had happened. There was very little that escaped his notice - ever - and the fact that someone had just nicked the gold pocketwatch he always wore was immediately evident, despite their having one of the lightest touches he had experienced in his time walking the seedier London streets. An expectant hush lingered in the air, as if his very surroundings waited to see how he would proceed, and if he could pinpoint just who had divested him of his valuable.
At first glance, the dingey, fog-shrouded and mostly deserted street looked the same as it ever did. There were distant sounds of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves clopping along the cobblestones a street over, the echo of vendors crying their wares, and the distant puff of trains pulling in and out of the station at Marylebone, but in the street where Jones stood, not far from his favored pub, where he was to meet Graham Watson and his older brother, once Liam had left his cushy government office for the night, to share some dinner, things were comparatively calm and still.
That was, until a flash of golden brightness caught his eye, winking from the drab surroundings of brown and grey. The flower cart girl just behind and to his left had not caught his attention when he passed, had not seemed of any particular interest. Even now that the arresting color of her blonde tresses were peeking out of the rather flat, bedraggled hat atop them, she seemed to be busy at her own work, not noticing him at all. And yet, there was something almost too casual about her stance - a marked avoidance of his gaze, as if she were carefully watching him without wishing to seem so. Perhaps some movement had tipped him off unconsciously, but whatever the reason, Killian sensed she was his culprit. Or, if not, she had at least seen something she would rather not share.
Striding purposefully toward her cart of flowers for sale, Killian’s mouth formed a stern line as he prepared to confront the slip of a woman for her thievery. She was still concertedly paying him no mind, though he was certain that she tracked his path warily from the corner of her sparkling jade eyes.
Opening her mouth, she called out the flowers she had on offer along with their prices, pointedly turning away as he came to stand before her. Her voice rang out across the cobblestones clearly, if somewhat tangled by the thick Cockney accent that lay heavy on her tongue. Even if he normally cringed at the harsh sounds of the street vendors and ruffians of the area, he found himself somewhat charmed by the unabashed and almost proud bit of rough he sensed in this one.
Reaching out, he snatched the handful of carnations from her grip, and turned abruptly as if to leave, knowing it would get a rise from the intriguing guttersnipe.
“Oi! Get yer bloomin’ ‘ands off me merchandise if ya don’ mean ta pay!” she cried, her temper riled like a hellcat on the turn of a dime, much as Jones had expected it would be.
Swinging back to face her, which brought them practically nose-to-nose , as she had begun to charge after him, Killian waggled his brows insolently, making the challenge plain, even before he spoke. “Perhaps I might return them… in exchange for my watch, eh Lass?”
Jerking backwards, the impudent young woman eyed him warily for a second as if trying to gauge the true meaning of his words, to discern if he were just fishing for information, or if he really knew what she had done, and then she narrowed her pretty eyes at him, slamming a wall down over the openness he had glimpsed for a moment, allowing him to see past the scruffy interior to something more vulnearable, something (if he were even a bit more gullible) which might have seemed sweet. “Lookit Mister, don’t think that fine hat and pipe and your sharp suit gives you leave to muck about with foolish accusations. I ain’t about ta take none o’ your guff, an’ I don’ ‘ave your filthy watch, so just move on along why don’cha?”
Whether she realized she was doing it or not, the blonde had stepped right back into his space, nearly as soon as she had pulled away. The ridiculous chit actually had the pluck to act like an offended innocent, when Killian became all the more certain with each passing second that she had his pilfered watch hidden on her person even as they spoke. Her pointer finger jabbed into his chest next to the top button of his waistcoat for emphasis, and she wasn’t backing down an inch. She had fire, he would give her that; he was almost as impressed as he had initially been irked.
However, now that his challenge had been taken up, Jones felt his competitive nature roar to life within, and he intended to prove her wrong, to show her just whom she had trifled with and that he was not her average fool. He leaned forward as well, his lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “Perhaps you’d allow me to search you and verify your statement?” Allowing his eyes to rove down from her face slowly before trailing back up again, his tongue poking into the inside of his cheek suggesting the sort of shameless liberties he would never actually take with a lady, no matter what her situation or social status. He might play at a bit of dashing roguishness, but he still considered himself a man of honor at his core.
Those green eyes flashed the same sort of warning color the sky out over the Thames took on when a storm was rolling in and the wise knew to run for cover; the sickening chartreuse of a deep, bruised wound and every bit as risky to provoke or fail to heed. Snatching back the finger that had been pressed against his breastbone, his beguiling nemesis raised her hand, clearly intending to strike him for his cheek - which, admittedly, he quite probably deserved - if he had not caught her wrist in a firm grasp that stalled the motion.
“Easy now, Love,” he murmured, enjoying her gumption too much to leave well enough alone. “Let’s not have you doing something we’ll both regret.”
“I am NOT your love!” she spat back, wriggling in his hold and looking livid enough to claw his eyes out if he let her free to do so. “And if you don’t unhand me…” she hissed, the threat clear now, even as a glimmer of fear also surfaced beneath the fire in her gaze. Killian had no doubt that she would follow through on whatever threat she was about to make, but that flicker and the slight quaver it allowed him to hear in her sharp voice told him she also didn’t know what might happen to her in the meantime, before she could make good on her words. And that hint of trepidation, that she didn’t know his true intentions and felt in herself in danger, quickly doused the fire he’d felt rising in his blood and his own fun in their back and forth.
Quickly, he retreated a step and released her arm, though his boxing reflexes were at the ready, knowing he might well be ducking a slap or punch in the very next moment.
To Killian’s surprise, however, the infuriating lass pulled herself up to her full height, smoothed her rather bedraggled skirts, and eyed him disdainfully as was possible under the circumstances. “Right wise choice you made there,” she snarked, huffing her annoyance as if she hadn’t been the one to start the whole debacle by picking his pocket in the first place. The very real worry he had sensed in her only seconds ago had vanished as if it were never there. “You’d be sorry had I gotten me brother on the case. He’s Chief Inspector, and he don’ take kindly to blighters like you harassing me.”
“Wait a minute now,” Killian interrupted, holding up a hand as he considered her rant, for the first time in their entire interaction feeling a bit out of the loop. “You don’t mean Chief Inspector Nolan? Of Scotland Yard?”
“The very same,” she snapped, arms crossed in front of herself. “What of it?”
Killian’s mind - rarely ever puzzled or caught by surprise, and so all the more intrigued by the seeming anomaly before him - struggled to catch up with and match this saucy baggage before him with the straight-laced knight-in-armor type he sometimes counseled in particularly complex criminal investigations. Inspector David Nolan was as by-the-book, simple and solid as they came, not by any means dense, but certainly not possessed with as cracklingly sharp wit or tongue as the angry sprite squared off before him. The Inspector had also never mentioned any family whatsoever beyond his sweet, fresh-faced wife and newborn son, but then again, it wasn’t as if they were ‘mates’ either. Jones couldn’t exactly see himself kicking back for a pint of rum with the man, even if they did tolerate each other in the name of justice from time to time.
He was about to tell the feisty harridan before him that he didn’t bloody care who her brother was, he would be having his watch back, when she stunned him once more, her chin jutting up imperiously as she added, “What? Din’ think a street rat like me ‘ad friends in higher places, eh?”
“On the contrary, Love,” Killian countered, purposefully emphasizing the endearment he had simply used out of habit before but now meant to annoy her, as he tapped the brim of his hat in the semblance of a bow. “I think you must have some remarkable friends indeed, or someone would have taught you a lesson in manners by now.” Her mouth opened and closed, floundering for a sharp retort no doubt, but he wasn’t yet finished. “Like it or not, I know you have something of mine, and I will see it returned.”
Nearly growling in frustration, she whirled away from him, turning her back and quickly moving away with the rest of her wares.
Jones watched her go troubled, curious, and stirred all at once; a curious cocktail he hardly recognized it had been so long since last he felt it. Though he didn’t have time to stand there long before he hurried off to meet Graham and Liam, sure that he would now be the one late instead of his elder sibling.
He didn’t notice - yet one more uncharacteristic slip in his usual near-omniscient awareness - the strange rosy glow in the twilight darkness of the now deserted street where he and the flower cart thief had argued. From around the corner of a packed nearby alley, narrowed dark eyes had watched the entire encounter, tracking either Holmes or the girl with avaricious interest. The reddish light glowed brighter for an instant as the excitement of its possessor swelled, so bright that for a moment if anyone had still been present it could not have been missed. Then, the red beacon was shuttered, going out like an extinguished flame. Once more there was only a nondescript London street, and the unseen watcher off on their sinister mission, having seen what was needed, unbeknownst to those who were observed.
Tagging a few who may enjoy: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jrob64 @hollyethecurious
When I saw @hollyethecurious and some others do this review of previous spooky works we've written leading up to Halloween, I thought "Ooh, that looks like fun, but I don't know that I've written enough spooky ones to play." I do think I might have 10 though, so I'll start today with the #13spookycsdays and give it a try. (If they aren't appropriately spooky/eerie enough for everyone, well then, at least they may suit the autumnal season.)
Today's offering was the first one that came to mind when I saw this idea going around, so I'm going to start my entries with it. This was a modern au one-shot I originally wrote for the @cssns event in 2020. It features a ghost version of Emma, and, therefore, also, I suppose, a haunted house of sorts. The cover art picset was done by @hollyethecurious, and I have always loved just looking at it! If you've never seen this fic before, I hope you'll enjoy!! Or maybe if it's been a while, you might enjoy it all over again... ;p
Summary: In some ways, Emma Swan has always been a ghost - alone and floating through life without much to tie her to anyone or any place. However, when she wakes up in an unfamiliar old house and realizes she is stuck haunting the last place she went while alive, it takes a while to reconcile the fact that she is an actual ghost and that there must be something keeping her in the world after all. Then she learns she isn’t the only lost soul in the house. And that changes everything.
Also available on AO3, if that's your preference...
"For Once, Don't Let Go"
by: @snowbellewells
In some ways, she has always been a ghost. Never fitting in, never belonging anywhere. Abandoned, and so closing her heart on the need to be accepted before she could be denied. It was for that reason, on the first morning of her afterlife, as she blinked awake in a chilled grey dawn that seemed just like any other, Emma Swan did not at first realize she was no longer part of the living world.
There was a strange quiet surrounding her, as she sat up from the bed, which strangely felt much softer, plusher than hers usually did at the end of an exhausting day or the morning after when her bones still ached and her mind never felt quite rested. It was those two things combined - the unaccustomed silence and depth and comfort of the sleep she’d emerged from - that put Emma off balance. It was never that still in the heart of the city, no matter how early in the morning. There was a constant humming undercurrent, a long-accepted background noise accompanying her life in Boston: sirens, horns, the grating and beeping of constant construction, the hubbub of voices, sounds unending. If she were deeply honest with herself (which she didn’t often allow) it was part of what she loved most about the large city on the eastern seaboard; there was so much noise that she could ignore her own thoughts. She didn’t like to dwell on or analyze her motivations for choosing a job where she tracked and found deadbeats who skipped out on those they should have stayed to support. She didn’t acknowledge - not even to herself - that each skip she hauled into the nearest precinct and collected her reward for gave her a sense of satisfaction that almost dulled her unanswered questions about the runners she hadn’t ever found - the parents who left her just after she was born.
So, she was already on edge as she found her feet and moved through the room she was increasingly aware did not look at all like the one in the loft apartment she currently rented, nor were any of her things scattered around as she usually left them. Moving from the room into the hall beyond, and then down a staircase into an entry hall that she knew her small apartment didn’t possess, Emma’s mind struggled to fully wake and understand where she was and how she came to be there.
It wasn’t until she reached the front door - tall, solid wood, but nondescript and standard, nothing too out-of-the-ordinary - that two more revelations struck her almost at once. Reaching out her hand to turn the doorknob, step outside and see if the outside of the house or its surroundings jogged her memory, Emma was shocked to find that her hand wouldn’t grip the metal knob at all, instead passing straight through both doorknob and door itself, sending her sprawling forward with a yelp of startled disbelief. No matter how impossible it seemed, the rest of her followed her outstretched hand, passing through the wooden door as if it simply didn’t exist.
Blinking and stunned from where she had landed on the top step up to the porch outside the strange house she’d woken up in, it was more than a bit hard for Emma to put together what had just happened. She knew her mouth was hanging open, “catching flies” as one of her more affectionate foster moms along the way had playfully called it, but somehow her surprise only increased when she took in the place’s exterior. She did know where she was, despite being at a loss for why she would have woken up there. This was the place where she had tracked her most recent skip last night.
Furrowing her brow in concentration - and admittedly trying not to consider how she had just slipped past a solid barrier and what that might mean - Emma attempted to pull up more from her memory than that. This newest skip had proven pretty slippery; both Ruby and her seductive honey trap skills which Emma didn’t even try to match, and Mulan with her fighting ability and clever moves worthy of her Disney namesake, had failed in previous attempts to bring the guy in and moved on to more productive marks before Emma took on the case. However, she was just stubborn and competitive enough to have wanted to bring in the skip who had become a thorn in the agency’s side; plus, as he kept evading them and the court date grew closer, the price for bringing him in kept climbing. Emma had been thinking just how she might enjoy the whole week off she could afford to take once she caught this scumbag as she’d sidled up next to him at the seedy bar’s pool table and batted her eyes. She’d still been thinking it even as the jerk brushed her off and left soon after, and so she’d followed him - quite stealthily, she believed - to this place later that night. Fine, if he wanted to play hard to get, she wouldn’t play gently either. She welcomed a challenge, and this avoided the awkwardness she had to extricate herself from once honey traps were sprung anyway.
Emma was realizing now, however, that maybe she had been a little too obvious, a little too preoccupied to see that her skip might have been onto her. Had he been suspicious of her from the start, and that was why he didn’t take the bait? Or, had he known what she was truly after the whole time?
The evening dark had been falling in that strange hour where one could still see outside but surroundings were obscured, shadows lengthened and a person sometimes had to squint to find her goal. She had almost hung back, after watching her mark slip in through the unmarked door of the abandoned house at the end of a rather quiet and rundown street in an outskirt suburb. But she’d spent too long tracking the loser - and she wasn’t about to admit any hesitance or unease. Clearly the guy now had either breaking and entering or squatting in his extensive repertoire, and he needed bringing in before he expanded to something more dangerous.
That was what she was telling herself after waiting an interminable twenty minutes and then climbing the rickety steps as she’d watched her perp do. She wasn’t trespassing anymore than he was, the house wasn’t in his name, and if anyone asked… here she tried the door to find it unlocked and opening as she quietly tried it - yep, she could say it was open.
Emma had just taken a steadying breath and inched the door open enough to enter, when she caught movement in her periphery. She tried to duck, wondering wildly if the culprit had been lurking behind the door, when something long and solid swung towards her head too fast for her to avoid. It felt as though the air cracked, then crumbled around her, and everything went black…
That was all she could bring up, no matter how doggedly she tried to remember what came next. After that shattering impact was simply… nothing. And with that sickening fact, Emma knew. She was dead. Some lowlife bail jumper killed her to keep himself from getting caught. Whatever she was hit with, it was done viciously enough to mean her end.
Feeling a tremble begin throughout her legs and arms, up into all her extremities, Emma tried to fight back the swell of emotion - anger, injustice, hurt, loss that clamored to the surface. If there were any justice at all, she ought to at least be free of feeling all the painful emotion she had spent her entire adult life roughly tamping down. But really, she shouldn’t even be surprised. This wasn’t the first time she’d paid the price for someone else’s wrongs - though apparently it would be the last. The blank unfairness of it was what truly got under her skin. Was she always doomed to end up this way? Sprawled out with a cracked skull in the entryway of some old, empty house, punished just for trying to make a living and her own way in the world while exacting a little much-needed justice? No one would even miss her or know she was gone until she didn’t show up to work Monday morning, ready to gloat and collect congratulatory muffins for bringing in the mark her colleagues lost.
As she passed back through the door (and no, that weird sensation of sliding without feeling past a solid barrier did not become any less upsetting or disconcerting) Emma saw the rough wooden board on the floor where her killer must have tossed it afterward and the dried blood - her own, she recognized with a shiver - that she had missed before. She didn’t want to stay there, but she felt pulled back to the upper floor where she had awakened. As if she was not meant to leave yet. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she just had nowhere else to go…
Head bowed in resignation, she mounted the stairs, but instead of going back into what had seemed a nondescript bedroom on her first glance, she moved on to the end of the hall. She seemed to have all the time in the world to rattle around this place, reflect on her loneliness and why she was still there. It couldn’t hurt to put off that depressing train of thought and find out what else was there.
Bypassing the room she’d exited earlier that morning, Emma moved toward the end of the second floor hall. Clearly the place had been empty awhile, dust tickled her nose more the more she moved throughout the house, but the color of the rich, deep wood floors, the tall ceilings and eye-catching nautical knick-knacks and framed pictures on the walls showed her the place was once well-loved and lived in with care and pride. By the time she reached the furthest door on the left, almost tucked into a corner of the house, Emma was curious in sprite of her strange situation and uncertainty.
Upon stepping in the room, Emma felt her mouth drop open once again, immediately captured by the sight of four walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, interrupted only by the large, cushioned windowseat under a huge picture window in the wall facing the door. There were books piled on the floor near the windowseat as well, as if to be in easy reach of whomever had sat there to read. Heavy, larger leatherbound tomes that appeared to be atlases or maps also rested on the impressive cherry wood desk in the room’s center. While all of this was stunning, with an air of warm invitation that had Emma blindly inching forward, none of the furnishings were what truly stunned her one more time in a past hour full of riveting surprises. Standing behind the desk, with back turned to the door and studying the wall of books with concentration was a tall, quite formally dressed, man.
At Emma’s rather stunned noise, the figure turned to look over his shoulder, looking at her with dark arched brow. The gasp that had just escaped her was sucked rather inelegantly back up her throat. The man - well, fellow ghost apparently, as she could hazily see the spines of books lined up through his broad-shouldered form - was the most handsome specimen she had ever seen. His stunning bright blue eyes threatened to again steal the breath the she supposed she shouldn’t possess to begin with.
Wow, that changed things.
~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~
Surprised in the large library that had stood silent and empty for so many long, uncounted days, Killian Jones couldn’t help scrutinizing the fair haired lass standing on his carpet. The strange haze around her let him know she was a spirit, much as he had been forced to accept he was himself. Still, some nearly forgotten and rusty echo of his former flirtatious nature rose to the surface and her surprised gaze clearly studied him up and down.
“Well, hello there, beautiful,” he murmured, a crooked smile crossing his face as he drank in her blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and generous curves in equal measure. “You aren’t some marvelous hallucination are you?”
Those sharp eyes rolled in exasperation, the stunned look finally leaving them as she shook her head and shrugged off the compliment. “Hardly,” she snorted, taking a few steps closer to him. “Apparently, I’m a ghost.”
Her words startled a huff of laughter from him with their droll humor. Reaching up to scratch behind his ear, he managed, “Not quite what you’d pictured, I wager?”
“That’s putting it mildly,” she allowed, seeming to understand her welcome and meandering over to sit facing him on the cluttered windowseat’s edge.
Killian allowed a wry grin of his own and nod of agreement. There wasn’t much else to say, but he did understand where she was coming from. It had been rightfully upsetting, earth-shattering, and confusing when he realized he was no longer living and breathing but still wandering the rooms of his house. He was sure there had been a lot of ranting, questioning, and items thrown against the walls before he had accepted his new reality. By that measure, this lovely woman before him was handling her sudden entrance to the afterlife quite well in comparison.
She looked up to capture his eyes with her own and he found he couldn’t look away again. Her face was open, searching, almost as though she were trying to take his measure and decide if he were trustworthy. When she seemed to make a decision and smile warmly at him, Killian found himself swaying closer to her almost unconsciously, rounding the desk to stand before her as though pulled by a magnet. Dipping his head in a sort of playful bow, he offered, “Forgive me, where are my manners? I’m Killian Jones. And you are?”
She reached out her hand to shake, unaccountably grateful that she was able to feel his larger fingers clasp hers without passing through, that she somehow still felt warmth and a zing of awareness at the contact, even if none of it made any sense. “Emma…” she replied, her voice going lighter and more thready than she’d like, “Emma Swan.”
“Hmm…” he murmured lowly, a rumbling hum that she felt along her arm as he brought her hand up to place a kiss on the back of it. “And just who are you, Swan?” he mused.
Swallowing hard, she dove in with the plain truth. “Just a stubborn bail bondswoman who went after the wrong skip this time,” she sighed.
His eyes registered the sadness, the disappointment and melancholy, the resignation to this fate slowly settling over her. He wanted to say it would get better with time, but time was now a funny, nonexistent sort of thing that was impossible to measure and not much help. Instead, he took in her features with understanding and tried to offer what comfort or cheer was possible against the self-doubt, blame, and ‘what-ifs’ beginning to hover. Not only that, they zeroed in on the broken skin, dried red and the purpled bruising at her temple, clearly the killing blow that had been dealt her. His hand reached up of its own volition to touch the soft hair above the wound, a tender brush of fingertips that Emma closed her eyes and leaned into with a relieved sigh. Almost as if he knew how very rare such concern had been in her life - maybe because it had been the same for him. Whatever the reason, they lingered there, two ghosts in the golden morning light through the picture window, drinking in the first real contact either had felt in far too long.
Something linked within them in that very moment - and everything changed again.
~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~
It would have been funny; in fact, Emma would have laughed in the face of anyone who suggested - even a week before - that she would be killed on an assignment, end up a ghost, and then meet another ghost who would soon know her better than anyone had in life. And yet, within days she and Killian had shared more than she had ever allowed with co-workers, her handful of casual friends, even foster siblings when she’d still been a kid. Granted, she didn’t have much to lose, but it was more than that. She came to learn that Killian was more like her than she could have thought possible; orphaned as a child except for an adored older brother, that brother then killed in service of the British Navy just as Killian had been preparing to finish secondary school and join his elder sibling in service. Apparently the death had been some sort of accident during a routine exercise, and Killian had been awarded a healthy settlement as his brother’s only living relative, but naturally he hadn’t wanted the payout, just his only family back. Since that wasn’t the choice before him, he had taken the money, gotten out of England, and vowed to do something with it that would honor Liam and help someone else - even if it could do nothing for his own shattered heart.
That was how he’d come to befriend a frightened young mother and her infant son not long after he reached Boston. He’d been renting a motel room on a weekly basis until he figured out what he planned to do in the long run. He took a lot of long, aimless walks in the sharp, chill wind off the Atlantic, and one late afternoon he had stumbled into the public library, hoping to warm up, maybe distract himself a bit, and instead had found Belle sniffling as she attempted to read to a fussy Gideon where they were huddled in the children’s section. It hadn’t taken long for them to become friends; easily one of the best friendships he’d ever had. And in short order, Killian had known this was how he could use Liam’s money for good. He’d found a house, invited, then wheedled and cajoled, her to move them into one of the unoccupied wings and stay with him there. It was much too big for him alone he’d argued, and he needed the company, noise and bustle of even the smallest bit of family in his life. Belle had been hesitant, feeling it was too much, too good to be true, but trying to find a living and make a good, safe home for herself and her boy, while also staying unnoticed and under the radar of her wealthy and well-connected ex-husband was becoming more and more impossible. She’d assured Killian that the man had never been physically abusive, but emotionally and mentally he had left his mark. He had been a master of manipulation, had known the law and its loopholes, could afford the best attorneys money could buy and Kilian had not needed psychic abilities to see the woman was terrified he would come to haul her back - or at the very least take her little lad away from her.
That last admission had been uttered some weeks on in their acquaintance - or at least Emma thought it had been weeks, time was hard to measure when one was no longer on a clock and the days flowed from one to another in a similar stream - one night as they sat by a crackling fire in the hearth of the long unused den. Emma had shared a fair amount of her own scars by then. She had been curled up on the opposite end of the sofa, thinking that this would be the perfect occasion for a hot cocoa with whipped cream and cinnamon, what had been her favorite way to unwind in the evening, and marveling at the good heart this man before her possessed, be it beating still or no. Not just anyone would have done so much, given so much of himself, to help a person he barely knew. Nor kindly helped a complete stranger like her adjust to her new reality beyond the pale either.
Suddenly it seemed like there was nothing else to do but to scoot across the sofa to the other end where Killian Jones sat still as a statue. The pain in his eyes, and blame she could see that he carried, broadcast over every line and shifting shadow of his face. Emma couldn’t help but bring her hand up to touch his cheek, to trace along his tightly clenched jaw as his eyes slowly dropped to follow the path of her fingertips, watching her intently as they continued to brush softly over his skin. Emma had wondered numerous times why she couldn’t physically make contact or grasp other objects but she could touch him. Why could they feel each other so strongly? Was it because they were both ghosts? On some other plane together? Or was it something else, something a less jaded person might call Fate or magic?
Whatever the reason, she was grateful for it as she held her breath, catching her lower lip between her teeth awaiting Killian’s reaction. She found every nerve alive and anxious as she watched him, caring more than she ever had about what someone else thought. Was that the key? For so many years in group homes, with foster families, even for a time homeless on the city streets, Emma had shut the world out. She had been born and grown up without the unconditional love and care all people should know, and the natural childish illusions about people’s selfishness or the world’s indifference had been stripped away far too early. Life had turned its back on her, and she had done the same in return. She had closed herself off from emotion and learned all too well that putting her trust in others made it easy to get hurt.
But now, in this old house, with this wonderful, vulnerable spirit before her - all the feelings she had shut off for so long were breaking free. She couldn’t hold them back, and she didn’t want to. She couldn’t really be harmed, wasn’t hustling to get by, and maybe that allowed the fear to recede enough to peak over the top of her walls. Maybe it was just that - despite only knowing him for a short time - she had never met anyone like Killian Jones when she was living. If only she had, she wouldn’t have been lost for so long.
He was blinking away a tear when her focus turned back to his face in that moment. Smiling back with a tiny, empathetic quirk to her lips, Emma brushed the escaped droplet from his skin, whispering, “He found them, didn’t he? Her ex? Even though you tried to keep them hidden…”
Killian’s head of thick, dark hair bowed, his eyes falling to their laps instead of holding hers. Running her fingers through the coarse strands, Emma ached to comfort him, to somehow lessen the weight he had lost hope of lightening. Whatever had occurred, it couldn’t have been his fault. He had only tried to give them shelter.
His voice was muffled when his forehead had come to rest on her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around him, cradling him closer in an embrace more binding and intimate than any she had ever experienced. “I don’t know for certain, Swan,” he sighed, his words rough and coming forth in choppy fragments. “It has always seemed so… Both being expats, Belle and I came to enjoy tea… in the afternoons… I had come home early that day...had a new toy for her Gideon...and I - I couldn’t wait to show it to him. ...When I walked through the front door… I knew immediately….something was wrong… too quiet.. I walked into the kitchen… and the table was all set for tea. But the plate of biscuits was… strewn across the table… broken crumbs everywhere… and her - her favorite teacup was shattered on the floor…”
Emma tried to take in the devastation he must have felt, the panic and helplessness, all while making soothing noises, almost sorry she’d asked him as the story was wrung from his lips bit by bit. She kept holding him, hoping that her hand stroking over his back and her fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck could give some solace. She had never longed to fix someone else’s hurt more than her own. It was frightening in the desire’s intensity, but all she could do was hang on.
“I failed them both…” Killian husked, his voice even more soft and ragged than before. “Of course… I reported them missing… but the case came to nothing… no leads turned up. He got to them… just as she feared... “
She wished she could tell him otherwise. Her own unshed tears stung in her throat - both for the poor woman and little boy she felt as if she knew through Killian’s stories, and for his pain. Her chest ached with the anguish he had harbored for so long, feeling it as if it were her own. If she could take his pain onto herself and give him peace at last, she would do it without hesitation.
As if in response to her thought and the desire to lend her strength, Emma saw a starling light, nearly blinding her as it appeared over Killian’s shoulder. She didn’t pull away, but she squinted trying to understand what had materialized from thin air right in front of her. It looked like...yes, it was a door. There, where an archway normally lead from the den to the kitchen, was a simple grey door, but for the brilliant white light emanating from around its edges. It couldn’t be ignored for all its radiance, and it almost seemed to beckon her near, drawing her in.
Her eyes widening, Emma forced herself to turn away, breathing in Killian’s scent from against his neck, hoping that the masculine, spicy aroma he somehow still carried, even in his ethereal state, would reel her in as it had before. She knew what must be making itself known before her, and she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge what it meant.
Up until that very second, she would have sworn she wanted that door to appear, to pass through it and leave the cold bitterness of Earth behind. She wanted that door opening up for her to move on, but she just as surely wouldn’t leave Killian as she had been left so many times. She couldn’t abandon him.
For the first time Emma could remember, she didn’t want to change the way things were.
~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~
She shouldn’t have thought the open door would escape Killian’s attention. The man was ridiculously intuitive and seemed to read her like the pages of a favorite book. She had not said a word, had turned back to him, focused on the muscle in his jaw working as he brought his emotions back under control, and managed to ignore the blatant signal beckoning to her until the glow dimmed and the door faded back out of existence. The archway between kitchen and den was just a curve of plaster and paint once more.
But as days passed, Emma coudn’t help worrying occasionally in unguarded moments if a person only got one door. Had she missed her only chance to move on? It wasn’t that she never wanted her peace and rest, or to know what was waiting on the other side. Yet, she couldn’t truly regret her decision either if the alternative had been leaving Killian alone, even if the consequences did trouble her mind.
So she wasn’t sure how Killian had figured it out the morning she came down the stairs to find him already in the kitchen gazing out the window over the sink and bathed in the rising sunshine. Maybe the man was genuinely able to read her mind. He was always able to tell when she entered a room, she conceded as he turned to face her, even before she stepped from the last stair. She felt him the moment he drew near her as well: an awareness, a prickling along her skin, the buzzing sensation of need and desire she had always resisted in life electrified by his presence. Maybe there was no hiding when someone was that close.
With the window and the sunrise at his back, Killian seemed almost outlined by a halo of gold. He came to stand at the counter facing her, and Emma moved to meet him, smiling easily. “Morning,” she offered in greeting, still fighting years’ worth of habitual impulses to start brewing coffee and digging throught he cupboards for cereal - sustenance that she no longer needed.
“Swan,” he’d spoken gently, calmly, but in a way that drew her up and demanded her focus. Reaching out his own larger hand to cover hers where it rested on the countertop, he went right to the heart of the matter. “Emma… what were you thinking?”
She shrugged, trying not to meet his eyes fully as she pretended she didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. “What do you mean?” she asked blankly.
He sighed, that apologetic depth of sorrow in his eyes making her swallow hard when he spoke again. “You saw the light at the end of the tunnel, didn’t you? Your door appeared… The evening we spoke of Belle and Gideon’s disappearance…” He paused, spearing her with the intense blue of his gaze and not allowing her to look away. He cupped her chin between his thumbe and forefinger, stroking along her cheek as he did so, the expression on his face begging her to help him understand. “Why didn’t you step through, Love… and go on to your reward?”
The worry and fear on his unfairly beautiful face showed that he already new exactly why she hadn’t, but he deserved the truth. Emma couldn’t give him anything less. Placing her hands over his, squeezing tightly with feeling, she leaned forward until their noses almost touched. “Killian, don’t ask question you already know the answers to,” she breathed shakily, trying to keep the tremble from her voice long enough to speak. “You must know, surely… it was you.”
His head back as he heaved a deep, rattling breath - breaking away from her as he did so. “I hoped I was wrong,” he admitted. “I don’t want to the reason. You shouldn’t be held back from your paradise because of me.”
For a moment his eyes wouldn’t meet hers as he struggled to regain control of himself. Then, he reached out to wipe the pad of his thumb over her cheek and brush the solitary tear she’d shed away. Not letting him have an out, Emma caught his eye once more. “Paradise, huh?” she tried to tease weakly, desperate to make him smile. He was breaking her heart. “You think an awful lot of me, Buddy. We both know I was no saint.”
A huff of air escaped him that might have been a disgruntled laugh in spite of himself, but he pulled her into him, almost clinging to her for several long minutes before finally breathing in her ear, “Nonsense, Emma. You were meant to be an angel. Don’t give up your peace on account of me.”
She hugged him back, but made no such promise. They would have to disagree on that, and he knew it too. They were both too stubborn to change their minds, so days went on and they went back to almost-normal without speaking of it again. Emma simply had to hope he understood. She didn’t want to argue with Killian, or to ignore his wishes. And she did want to go through her door as well, but when the time was right. She realized now that would have to be when they could both go throught it together.
~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~
It had been March when she’d met her fate in the quiet old house, and she and Killian had drifted through the spring and summer and early autumn, growing ever closer to each other. They had sat on the porch for long hours talking without getting too hot or worrying about bug bites or sunburn; spent evenings curled together under one quilt in the large windowseat of the library watching lightning flash across the sky and thunder roll on August nights. As September came, they snuggled under the comforter on the bed, her head resting on his chest, her ear over his heart as though she could still heart its beat. If she had thought before that she couldn’t leave him, there was no way she could even imagine it again.
There was a chill in the air the September afternoon a thick, cream-colored envelope landed on the front porch, addressed with Killian’s name and a Ms. Belle French scrawled in top left corner. Emma heard the soft sound of the thick paper landing on the proch slats, and didn stop to question how it had gotten there, why the ghost resident of an supposed abandoned house was receiving mail again, but had hurried to where Killian reading in the library, letter in hand.
A more lovely autumn day had never been than when a slant of later afternoon sun lit Killian’s face as he scanned the letter’s contents, a smile dawning over his countenance as if he coudn’t believe the words before him on the page. “They’re alright,” he murmured, half to himself and half to her. “They got away… thought I should know.” His eyes continued to skim over the handwritten lines quickly, but his beckoned her close, and stunned smile on his face and light in his eyes that did Emma’s heart good. She could see the guilt and the hurt he had carried lifting from his shoulders with each passing second as she came to perch on the corner of the desk at his elbow. “They didn’t want me to have to harbor a secret… just missed the people who trashed the house that day, and didn’t want to continue putting me in danger…”
He shook his head in disbelief and then stood to sweep her up in his arms, spinning her around as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Maybe, finally, he didn’t.
It was only as Killian set her back on her feet again, as he picked up her hand to kiss the back of it tenderly, and she hummed in contentment, swaying closer to him that a warm inviting light touched the side of both their faces. Turning as one, Emma recognized the sight that had graced her vision once before, but Kiliian’s eyes widened before turning to hers. “Is that…?” he breathed, hope and uncertainty and awe blending in the question as it trailed off on his lips.
She nodded, no words coming to her that she could speak past the lump in her throat.
“Well, then, Swan,” he smiled with the beauty and joy of a man whose heart was free at last. “What do you say we embark on a new adventure?”
“I’d follow you anywhere,” she said with a certainty she felt to the bottom of her soul. Clutching his fingers in her own tightly, she walked with him toward the door wreathed in light that had appeared in middle of the bookshelf. As long as she didn’t have to let go of Killian’s hand.
Tagging a few who might enjoy: @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi
For today's #13spookycsdays offering, I have a little one shot with some Halloween-tinged feels. There are a few small mentions from 6a episodes of the show, but nothing major as far as spoilers. Henry continued to date Violet from Camelot, and Belle gets to be more involved in the hero fun instead of just miserably wrapped up in Rumple, but I think that's really all you need to know. I hope you all enjoy! :)
Summary: The Storybrooke crew has enough time and peace to plan a little Autumn revelry aboard the Jolly Roger for the kids of the town. The young Author, the librarian, and Emma and Killian, work together to provide some Halloween thrills and chills as well as a haunting story...
Can also be read on AO3 or ff.net if you would prefer...
by: @snowbellewells
Moonlight trickled down a lovely, filtering illusion of brightness amidst the night's shadows, illuminating the surface of the water and glancing off the copper sides of the lanterns Belle had hung around the deck, burning low for effect. Grinning widely in spite of herself – a twinkle in her eye and a mischievous quirk to her smile, Emma Swan waited in the hall below decks, just past the stairs up from the crew and captain's quarters on the Jolly Roger, where their special guests couldn't see her. The elegant old girl bobbed gently with the rise and fall of the waves where she lay at anchor a mile or so out of Storybrooke harbor.
The children circled on the floor around Belle's seat at the stern were wide-eyed, rapt, and silent at the story she wove for them, the lights flickering intriguingly over their faces. Not a single one fidgeted or spoke, their eyes focused on the petite librarian – familiar to them in her pretty skirts and high heels from everyday life in their little town, but transfixing to them tonight in the dark, flowing garb of a gypsy, the moon and pale glow of the wavering lantern flames glancing off the golden hoops in her ears and the rings on her fingers and bracelets clanking together on her arms while she gestured in telling her story. Shadows played over the upturned little faces as well. It said something about just how immersed in the little nighttime cruise Belle and Henry had dreamed up as a fall community event, and Killian had all too enthusiastically agreed to, that even as the story of a horrible cursed monster who chose exile and his strength over love concluded and Belle paused, the sadness in her eyes only visible to those who would know to look, that they didn't recognize her story was in truth woven more from fact than fiction. Belle paused and gestured for a bashful Henry waiting in the wings to join her. Emma couldn't help but smirk even more, adoring the young man her little boy had long since become, as he flushed and looked to Violet seated at his side on an old barrel and she urged him forward with an enthusiastic grin.
Belle's natural storytelling gift had been so evident that no one else would notice she clearly needed a moment to compose herself once more and a pause to gather her still raw emotions. But she looked up at her grandson from where she sat as Henry came to stand at her side, Emma could see her mouth a "thank you" to him, which he responded to with a quick squeeze of assurance at Belle's shoulder. Soon he was beginning to read his own story, voice just a bit shaky at the start. Emma knew that Henry was more than a bit anxious, as he had not read any of his works aloud for an intended audience before, and she smiled fondly at her lanky, dark-haired son, bespectacled, and wearing his school uniform with a maroon and gold striped scarf in an effort to look like Harry Potter for his costume. He cleared his throat and his ever-deepening voice had soon wrapped them all up in his own tale, just as Belle had done before him. He will never have a more captive audience, and her maternal pride in his gift wants this moment, this recognition of his talents, for him.
Her eyes flitted over to find Killian at the helm, one arm propped on the ship's wheel, looking at ease and happy with the scene set before him. He wasn't actually steering them anywhere while they sat at anchor, but he still looked the very picture of dark, dashing pirate captain in the red vest and black leather duster he had brought back out for the occasion, appearing more dangerous Captain Hook than he had for some time. It had been all she could do not to snicker and pat him on the cheek when a few of the little girls had been too meek to talk to him upon boarding the Jolly and their wide, guileless eyes had lingered uncertainly on his curved metal appendage. Unable to bear the hurt puppy look on his face for long, however, Emma had plied him with caramel apples on sticks to hand out as snacks, and felt herself fall for him even more to watch her pirate charm and befriend every last child, even the most shy and uncertain – those ones most of all, if the truth were told.
Startled out of her reverie and the loving perusal of his face, her eyes tracing its strong, handsome lines beneath the stars, Emma's attention was pulled abruptly back to her son, focusing in on the words he was reading to make sure she didn't miss her cue. Henry's writing had set the mood perfectly; an atmospheric tale of an abandoned navy cutlass much like the one they were all on at that very moment, drifting on the open sea, empty and alone except on quiet nights when a bright full moon shone down on the ghost of the mad captain's sweetheart, a pale, white shadow haunting the deck where her faithless love and mutinous crew had all died, doomed to walk the site of her heartbreak forever.
Drawing a deep breath into her lungs and calling on every bit of poise and composure she could muster, Emma topped the steps and with measured gait began to glide across the rough wooden planks to the bow, hoping to convey the solemn, otherworldly, floating quality of a restless ghost. They had powdered her hair white earlier that afternoon, and her mother had applied thick, pale stage makeup – something that had been used in a production of The Christmas Carol at the school at some point and had then wound up with Snow – to Emma's face, neck, and hands, getting into the bonding moment of a mother helping her daughter put together a Halloween costume, even if it was a decade or so late. Those spots were all that really showed beneath the high-necked, long, bell-sleeved diaphanous gown Emma wore, which Snow had tearfully drug from some trunk in the loft when Emma had first mentioned the whole idea.
Now as she progressed the length of Killian's ship slowly and she heard him call out lowly, "Avast, me hearties, look there!" to their youthful audience and gasps of shock and surprise at the appearance began to repeat, she knew the effect was working.
She almost broke character to shoot a concerned look over her shoulder as Killian's voice sounded oddly strangled, stumbling halfway through his well-rehearsed and overly cheesy line, but he continued more softly yet. "Yonder at the bowsprit, it's the ghost of the ship's lady!" as Emma stayed her course, pausing like an eerie statue to look out over the moonlit waters.
Henry's story continued to its end, everyone playing their parts, and though she badly wanted to turn and see the children's final reactions and Henry's face at the choruses of "Again! Tell it again!" and the hearty clapping, she didn't want to break the illusion.
It was only when she heard Belle announce it was time for popcorn and hot apple cider below in a real pirate's galley, where both her parents waited to serve the refreshments dressed as a ship's cook and first mate, and Emma heard the excited hoots and hollers of excitement and all the pairs of little feet moving to follow Belle's lead, herded at the rear by Henry and Violet, both blushing and Violet clearly impressed, moving to the stairs below deck, that she ventured a glance behind her and relaxed her stance to lean against the ship's railing.
She was startled when she did so to find Killian right at her back, a tormented look of pain emblazoned across his face. "Killian, wha – " she began to ask, concern creasing her brow, fingers reaching up to brush soothingly across the scar on his cheek. The movement was aborted and her words knocked from her by the fierce way he lurched forward and clutched her to himself tightly. His grip was almost desperate, and Emma's confusion and concern only grew as he held on, the trembling in his wiry frame plainly felt throughout her own and his heart pounding as though he had run for miles to reach her. Though she couldn't really think what it was, she knew now that the distressed note she had heard in his voice during the story, that catch which had made her think something was wrong, had been all too real.
Finally, he released his grip a bit, took a step back and tilted his head to stare into her eyes. "Emma, love, I just…" he sucked in a ragged breath, eyes wide and almost wild, as he pulled her in again, whispering against her hair "I just need to hold you for a moment. Seeing you that way – as a wraith, a shade – it ran my blood cold. I was not prepared for that."
It nearly stole the breath from Emma's lungs to see the raw anguish on her True Love's face. For a second, it genuinely did look as though Killian had seen a ghost, and Emma's heart ached for him at the fear she knew had been awakened once more, that he would again lose the one person he loved most in the world. There wasn't a thing she could do to take the awful, sinking sensation away, but she tried all the same. Running her fingers through the gentle curls at the nape of his neck, she aimed to soothe, squeezing his back and whispering, "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. It's just a costume. You saw it earlier."
He shook his head, the strangled little noise in his throat twisting her gut in sympathy. "I know that, Swan. But that for a moment…you were so pale, almost unreal… for a moment it seemed as if you were already gone…"
She merely nodded, running her hands up and down his spine and out over his shoulder blades; anxious to provide even a bit of calm. Slowly, she felt the tremors between them begin to subside. Killian blew out a deep breath, and Emma could sense him steadying himself and bringing himself back under control.
Resting his forehead against her, Killian placed his hook under her chin, fingers smoothing her windswept hair back off her face in a gentle caress. "I cannot lose you, Emma," he whispered hoarsely, voice controlled once more but still fervently sincere, wobbling the slightest bit as he added, "I won't survive it, not this time."
Shaking her head, Emma reached across to press her hand over his heart, eyes drinking in his beloved face and swearing with all she had, willing both her love and herself to believe. "You won't have to, Killian. We'll find that third way."
He nodded, rubbing her upper arms to chafe warmth back into them in the chilly night air off the open water. For several long minutes, neither of them spoke, merely stared into each other's eyes – not wanting to lose the soft moment together, however it had come about, and turning to look out over the waves back to the lights of Storybrooke in the distance. Then, laughter and the rush of exuberant voices began to drift toward them again as their young charges began to climb back above deck for the short voyage home.
Reminded that they weren't alone and their passengers needed returned from their Halloween excursion, Emma gave one last squeeze of the hand to her pirate, whispering quickly before moving to help get them underway. "It's because of you that I finally know we deserve this future together," she vowed, "and I intend to have it."
Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi
Well, today's offering is not supernatural nor scary either, but it does move from fluffy sweetness to spicy near-smuff. I will get back to my more eerie/spooky offerings tomorrow for the final lead-up to the holiday, but I thought this one shot might be fun to include - Emma and Killian have a bit more grown-up Halloween, just the two of them....
Post-season six canon divergent fic, imagining all the lovely domestic stuff we might have gotten had we seen everyone stay in Storybrooke. Hope you enjoy!! :)
Also can be found on AO3, if you prefer…
Summary: After Storybrooke’s first Harvest Day Festival winds down, Emma has a sweet and sultry surpise in store for her pirate husband.
by: @snowbellewells
The cider had been drunk, the campfire had burned down, and the last hayride had finished. All of the town’s children and adults who had packed Anton’s field where the First Annual Harvest Day Festival was held had dispersed, moving toward their homes in the October night air. Emma Swan-Jones is not far behind the rest of the satisfied revellers, pausing only briefly to make sure that her mother doesn’t need any more help securing things for the night. Even at that, her hand doesn’t leave her husband’s, their fingers linked together warmly as he gladly follows her to speak with her mom - the newly re-elected mayor of Storybrooke.
David gives his daughter and son-in-law a warm smile as well as he hefts one more hay bale over the tailgate and into the bed of his truck, then comes to join their huddle just as Snow answers, “No, don’t worry about the rest of it. Final clean up will keep until tomorrow when it’s light out. Are we still meeting for brunch at Granny’s?”
Killian glances quickly over at his wife, affirming without need of words that their earlier plans are still agreeable to his lovely Swan, before answering his mother-in-law jovially. “At present, I cannot imagine my gut being able to hold anything more, Milady, but aye, we will be there.”
The intended ruler of the Enchanted Forest, now three-time mayor of their vibrant hamlet, laughs aloud at his words, her nose crinkling as adorably as her daughter’s with the happy action - even as she swats at him in jest, shooing them both off toward home with a parting shot of, “Please! Spare me! You never look as though you gain an ounce, Sailor - despite the mass quantities of sugar I’ve watched you put away.”
His wife disloyally guffaws so loudly at that, Killian looks down at her surprise, her cheeks flush merrily from the recent heat of the bonfires, the mulled cider spiked with rum they’ve both imbibed, and a bit of embarrassment and humor both from her outburst.
Waggling an eyebrow at her salaciously, Killian and Emma both bid her parents goodnight and turn to meander home happily. Emma leans into his side with lazily relaxed ease, and Killian wraps his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer still. He whispers as they gain enough distance from David and Mary Margaret, “You seem in awfully good spirits tonight, Love,” his voice reverberating low and and tickling against her neck. “Perhaps I should get you home quickly and use it to my advantage.”
Emma merely tilts her head up to meet his seductive gaze, biting her lower lip temptingly and batting her eyes, “Mmm,” she hums in the back of her throat, “perhaps you should.”
There is a decided increase of speed in their steps as they follow the streets toward their house by the water. Even as they move further from the center of town, they can hear voices calling out in the night as folks bid each other good evening before parting ways and excited children begin to recount for their parents the things they’ve seen and games they’ve played. They see Marco dutifully helping Granny gather up the luminaries which had lined the walk to the diner, Frederick taking his wife Kathryn’s hand as he cradles their little boy in his other arm where he had fallen asleep against his father’s shoulder, and with a smirking nod, Killian makes sure Emma catches a glimpse of Leroy escorting Astrid back toward the small cottage she and Tink now rent together near the school. Together the awkward, but sweet, pair disappear around the corner and out of sight. All in all, the night has been a rousing success; all that Snow had hoped as she hatched the idea months ago and planned and prepared for the last several weeks.
They soon reach their own front walk, and Emma’s seemingly languid and sleepy haze dissipates as they pause on the porch and Killian fishes for his key. A mischievous grin quirks her lips and trouble sparks in her eye as she leans forward to grasp the lapels of the red-orange-and-brown-checked flannel she’d bought him for the Festival and pulls him down to her anxious lips. The kiss tastes of apple and butterscotch, tinged with rum and the hint of salt from the fire-popped corn, and Killian sighs at the deliciousness of it - right in every possible way.
When they part, panting, foreheads still pressed together, Emma winks at him before prodding huskily, “Let’s get inside already before we give some stranger a show.” Pressed up against their front door as he is by her warm, delicious body, Killian is loathe to move, but his lovely wife is right. The sparks flying back and forth between them would rival the huge bonfire that had lit up the whole town square not an hour ago, and if they don’t get indoors soon, he hardly feels he should be held responsible for his actions.
“Emma love,” he purrs against the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder, nose brushing over her skin until he feels her shiver in his arms. “Do you have some mischief in mind?”
She quirks a brow in playful challenge, skirting around him quickly to pull open the door and slip inside first with a squeal of glee as he whirls trying to catch her.
It isn’t long before he has her pinned against the wall in the entryway; kissing, mouthing, nipping along her collarbone, his tongue tracing, “Going to answer my question, yet, hmm?”
Breathlessly, Emma pants, half in a daze, green eyes glazed over, “Nothing a sweet tooth like yours won’t enjoy,” she finally manages cryptically.
Tilting his head curiously, Emma can see that her husband is puzzled by her words - as she meant him to be - even though he waggles his dark brows at her, smirking, “And just what is that to mean, wife?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she purrs, trailing a finger up his sternum to chuck him under the chin, then tugging at the top button of his shirt, adds, “Lose this, and wait for me in the dining room...maybe you’ll find out.”
Grinning devilishly, pleased with herself even as the black pupils widening with arousal to overtake the blue in his eyes makes her own pulse begin to speed up and thrum unsteadily, Emma saunters away from him with intentional extra sway in her hips and a teasing glance back over her shoulder before she vanishes into the kitchen. The way her husband visibly swallows hard, seeming completely gobsmacked, makes her plan (which is making her palms sweat with its daring) seem already worth it.
Once in the kitchen, Emma reaches into the refrigerator for the bottle she needs, hidden behind several other items so that neither her husband or son would find it first and use it up, then setting it on the table, begins to shimmy out of her jacket, jeans and top, mouth dry with both nerves and anticipation. Once she stands in the playful lingerie she’d picked for this very occasion - black boy shorts and a push-up bra, both with tiny candy corns and candy apples printed all over them - she blows out a tense breath, self-consciousness almost getting the better of her despite the fact that Killian has never made her feel anything less than beautiful. Smoothing a hand over her hair, Emma focuses on the adoring look her husband only gets in his eyes for her, and biting her lip, she picks up the container and goes to find him.
Stepping into the entryway from kitchen to dining room clutching the bottle of caramel sauce for dear life, Emma tries to strike a seductive pose, clearing her throat to gain Killian’s attention from where he stands leaning against the table, shirtless as she had instructed, but staring at his own feet, lost in thought.
At her entrance, his face snaps up to look at her, and his mouth drops open. The sight of him bare chested with his weather-browned skin covered in dark hair that accentuates his toned pecs and abs before trailing down into his jeans makes her previously dry mouth practically water. ‘ This will be fun,’ her mind cheers, even if she feels ridiculous at the moment.
“E-Emma...wh-what are you…?” Killian stutters as he struggles to ask her what she has in mind, but she shakes her head, stalking slowly toward him, and his words trail off in stunned awe.
Once she reaches him, Emma presses her fingers to his lips for a moment, smiling wickedly, “Just hold still, and you’ll see,” she directs, raising the bottle of sticky sweet topping to wave before his eyes, then upending it to squeeze a bit of the caramel onto her fingers before returning them to his mouth. “Here, taste.”
Killian’s eyes are blown wide as he opens and then sucks her fingers between his lips, his tongue caressing them as well, and making her breath heave despite her attempt to hold the upper hand. “Mhmm,” he hums, hands coming to rest on her nearly bare hips and pulling her closer, until she stands between his legs and his long, calloused fingers trace around to lightly clutch at the supple cheeks of her behind.
Seeing that she has him where she wants him, Emma holds the dispenser over his chest, squeezing more liberally to line caramel across her husband’s collarbones, and back to center, trailing it down his stomach to the waistband of his pants. She licks her tongue along his skin after savoring the taste of the sweet sauce and a hint of the salt from the sweat that has broken out over Killian’s body. His head is flung back and his chest is already heaving by the time she brings her tongue to swirl around his nipple and adds her teeth with a playful bite.
Letting out a guttural noise that Emma honestly isn’t sure she’s ever heard him make, Killian suddenly lunges forward and wraps her tightly in his grasp, and in the blink of an eye turns the tables on her. She got a bit engrossed in feasting off of his decadent body and forgot just how stealthy her husband can be. Before she knows what has happened, she’s lying with her back pressed against the table, her pirate leaning over her and encasing her there between his arms. Eyes alight, he leers down at her devilishly and works the bottle of caramel from her suddenly nerveless hand.
“Let’s see now, Swan,” he murmurs, adeptly drizzling caramel over her ribs and into her belly button before surveying her like some half-finished piece of living art. He slides his hook ever-so-carefully into the waistband of her festive panties before deftly slicing them and tossing the scrap away with a single flick of his wrist. “That’s much better,” he muses happily, tracing the curve of his metal appendage along the edge of her bra cup next. “Though these articles are quite humorously arousing, I believe I was the one promised a reward for my sweet tooth and yet you were having all the fun.”
By this point, Emma is trembling all over, every hair on her body standing at attention. Killian always manages to make her quake with desire using his hook to disrobe her, and the thrill of this different, wholly abandoned encounter is almost more than she can stand. Almost whining in eager appeal, she reaches for his waist, getting his jeans unbuttoned before he pushes her hands away. Though the jeans fall open to yield a heartstopping view, Killian doesn’t pounce on her immediately as Emma aches for him to. Instead, he shakes his head at her in mock chiding, “Ah ah ah, not so fast, wife. Not until I’ve had my taste.”
So saying, he trails caramel onto her inner thigh, along the joint where her leg meets her torso and then flings the bottle somewhere behind them, swooping in to devour her with his mouth. His tongue swirls around her nipples, laving and teasing as she had done to him, leaving her gasping for breath and vibrating like a live wire waiting for the final spark to set her off. His whiskered face tickles the skin of her stomach before his tongue dips into her belly button, making her hips desperately lift off of the table toward him until he pins them back down with hook and hand.
Luckily, before she can combust into a pile of ash, he finally moves in earnest, lapping along the crease at the top of her leg where he’d traced the sweet confection. He chuckles maddeningly against her quivering skin as she tries to buck in impatience, “Yes, Swan, you were right... delectable .” Then, without anymore hesitation, his tongue slides home, pillaging and plundering in earnest and setting her off like a bottle rocket.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They are a heaving, sticky mess of boneless limbs and sweaty skin by the time all is said and done. Cleaning the remnants of sticky caramel from each other in a steamy shower leads to more delicious mingling, and by the time Killian emerges, about five minutes after his insatiable wife, still toweling his hair dry, he is completely, pleasantly wrung out and utterly spent. Tossing the towel haphazardly toward the hamper, in a distinctly less neat than usual gesture, he pads across the carpet toward the bed, waiting only for Emma to return with the water she had insisted they both needed to drink to replenish themselves.
A few moments later, his wife appears in the doorway, two cold bottles of water in hand, and she steals his breath all over again. Clad in the flannel he discarded when they had first begun, and nothing else, her bare, shapely legs entice him all the way up to where the hem of his shirt stops, and her sated smile lights her whole face as she moves toward him across the room. The sight of his Emma wrapped in his shirt as she crawls into bed beside him is the sweetest treat he could ever receive.
Today's #13spookycdsdays fic is just a bit of a missing moment/divergence from early season five. It isn't terribly spooky, but it definitely has an autumn vibe, and Dark Swan Emma was certainly supernatural at least. Back when I originally wrote it. I was feeling a bit of angst at the end of 5x02 when Emma was left outside the diner watching the rest of her family together, and I think this was mostly born out of that feeling. I've always had a bit of a soft spot for this little one shot, and here's hoping you may enjoy it too... I even made it some new cover art for the occasion! ;p
Summary: Though Emma cannot be with him as he wonders just what wrong makes his love keep her distance, Killian and all her family and friends still keep the Savior close to their hearts...
Can also be read on AO3 or ff.net if that is your preference...
by: @snowbellewells
Chuckling good naturedly in spite of himself from where he leans casually against the staircase railing in Regina Mills' spacious foyer, Killian Jones watches the festive bustling and last minute preparations before the Hood-Mills-Charming families can head out on the streets of Storybrooke trick or treating. He had truly held no interest in the odd modern day custom of dressing up in unusual garb and wandering the streets begging others for sweets. Of the many strange and ridiculous-seeming practices he has been introduced to in this realm, this so-called "Halloween" seems to be one of the most ludicrous.
However, when Henry had looked at him hopefully, urging his mother's boyfriend to join them on this nighttime excursion, Killian found he could not deny the lad. There is a certain expression Swan's boy possesses – fervent, wide-eyed and engaging – that reminds him so much of Emma that day Storybrooke had been on the brink of destruction and she had looked straight into his soul and urged him to be a part of something, that he is hard-pressed to deny Henry anything, despite what his original inclinations might be. Though his weary soul had balked at laughing with light heart and playfully making merry when his love was out there somewhere, alone, cloaked in darkness and lost in her bitterness at wrongs the rest of them cannot remember committing, watching the group straightening each other's outfits, gathering Roland and little Neal's baskets for candy, and warmly trying to enjoy what they can of this moment of relative calm – even if one of their number is missing – makes him smile through the twinges of pain.
Reaching out affectionately to straighten Henry's green woolen cape and then the quiver slung over his shoulder, Killian feels the corners of his mouth pull up in a reluctant but sincere smile at the picture the boy paints in his get-up with his assorted motley band of outfitted family. There had been heated debate whether Henry should dress as knight like his Gramps or a pirate like his adopted stepfather until the boy had eventually settled the dispute by dressing like Robin as a bandit of the forest. His other surrogate parent had tried to appear casual about it, but the glimmer in his eyes as he loaned his old cape and quiver had given away how flattered he was, not to mention the Queen's grin of joyful satisfaction and the couple rogue tears she had brushed away. It warmed Killian's ancient pirate heart as well, even though he had lost out on having a miniature double for the night's festivities.
The boy gives him a nod of thanks, and pirate and young prince's eyes meet for a charged moment of bittersweet understanding, both knowing Emma should be there with them and yet not wanting to voice how much her absence hurts. Not wanting to speak sadness into an evening that is trying to enjoy the good moments.
Then, with a steadying hand on the lad's shoulder, Killian vows to follow him and make sure this "Outlaw of Storybrooke Forest" rapidly becoming a young man enjoys himself tonight. Emma would wish it, and someday – he swears to himself – he will tell her about tonight's hijinks, and her parents dressed as Bonnie and Clyde (whoever they might be) with Regina and Robin as Romeo and Juliet in tow. Little Roland looks a bit out of place in their group dressed as a "minion" – which Henry had explained was in some moving picture the little lad had just seen – and bouncing around the rest of them as if he simply cannot wait another moment from them to be off.
The night progresses beautifully, with laughter and smiles that Killian knows he will hold in his memory for years to come. Being drawn into and accepted as part of a family, and necessary for its happy celebrations, was a gift he had long since forgotten and never expected to be a part of again. Yet, he cannot help wishing Emma could be here with them, looking on proudly as Henry takes care to see that Roland doesn't get too far ahead and become lost, that his little uncle is given his fair share of their sugary haul, and constantly glancing back at the group of adults who love him as if making sure that they too are happy and content. His Swan would be so proud of the good heart and concern for others her son continues to show, despite moving into those sometimes troublesome teenage years. He wishes so fervently that she was there beside him, her small, strong hand slipped into his, her head laid gently on his shoulder, just barely leaning into his side as they walk, that his hand clenches into a tight fist at the absence. Those easy, safe, and comfortable times together seem so far removed now from the cold distance that the Darkness has formed between them.
Still, there are many good moments too: Granny and Ruby offering wolf-shaped cookies and hot chocolate to all those who come to their door, with Ruby smirking and shooting a playful wink to he, Snow and Charming from beneath the painted wolf face and ears she wears atop her dark curls and asking, "Well, what else would I be for Halloween?" with a playful giggle; Belle meeting every child at the door to the library all lit up with carved pumpkins in each window, eager to give them a handpicked book of their very own, and taking a moment to slip a gilt-edged paperback into his hand as well. "It's The Princess Bride," she whispers surreptitiously to him with a sympathetic smile. "Emma mentioned how much she liked it once, and when I re-read it, I knew that you would appreciate it too, Killian."
By the time the group reaches the mines where the dwarves and fairies are giving lighted tours of the caves and sending their guests off for home with hot apple cider to warm their hands and stomachs, Killian is truly feeling cheered – if only at the happiness of those around him and the comfort of being welcomed wholeheartedly into their midst. When he parts ways with Henry and the rest of Emma's loved ones at the loft, savoring the hug Henry gives him before bounding after Regina, Robin, and Roland to get back to their house and go through all his candy, and possibly holding on a bit too tightly to the lad for just a moment, he pauses in the street lights' glow, peering into the night and mulling his next course of action.
Eventually he turns back toward the Jolly Roger and the docks, walking slowly and trying to keep himself from whispering Emma's name into the quiet evening. He knows that bringing her to him when she is not herself will only bring him more pain; their last encounter in his private quarters had taught him that lesson all too well. However, as he boards his beloved ship, strides across the deck and comes to stand by the wheel, gazing up at the clear night's multitude of stars, he does leave her a small remembrance. "I know you're out there somewhere, Love," he whispers to the breeze. "I cannot hold you tonight as I desire, but you were never far from all of our minds. Enjoy your Halloween treat."
He slips below quickly, knowing that tangling wits and words with her now will only make things worse. Head bowed, he can only hope she will sense how much he misses her in the gesture and that she – the real Emma - will feel a moment of his care. The captain has entered his cabin, leaning against the closed door and praying desperately that she is not lost in torment somewhere with no one beside her, when on the deck above him, a swirl of magical smoke clears, and Emma appears by the ship's wheel, a tentative, tiny smile upon her lips. Picking up the still-hot cup of cider he has left for her there, she takes a sip and imagines that the warmth spreading through her at first swallow is from him being able to hold her close once more. For now, it is the only treat they can allow themselves… so she closes her eyes, thinks of him, and tries to let it be enough.
Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose
