The last, but not least important, ficlet I wrote for a reblog here and now decided to make its own post. Just young Killian this time, sadly saddening sads.
Inspired by this picture.
Word count: 455
AO3
~
He hears music coming from straight ahead. Something of a lute, and a viol, amongst the sounds of people talking.
He runs ahead. It’s been some time since he last heard music and let himself sit back and absorb it. There’s a tavern down the road, the sign hanging above the door says “The Hollow Twig”. He walks to the window - it’s too high, so he raises on his toes and tries to peek in. There are dew drops on the glass, so he grabs his sleeve and wipes at it, finally getting a view inside.
There’s a man sitting on a bench right in front of the glass, one woman on each of his sides. He’s got his arms draped on the women’s shoulders, and his face is red as a beet. The women lean on him and smile.
Killian looks away. Ah, quartermaster Jenkins is sitting on another table, a stein in his hand and a woman rubbing at his shoulder. He’s mouthing the words of the song sounding from the corner.
O you are me only treasure
Shallow, o shallow brown!
Killian’s breath forms more dew on the glass, so he wipes it again and keeps gazing inside.
And I love ye still full measure
Shallow, o shallow brown!
There are no kids inside, Killian notes with a frown. The waitress seems young, probably a little older than Liam, and Killian has to grab onto the windowsill to keep himself from running inside to just… talk to her. One of the things he would never have imagined about servitude is how lonely he’d feel, despite having Liam. There are times he wishes he had someone else, someone from the outside, someone… someone who wouldn’t feel sorry. Someone he wouldn’t be a burden to.
He lowers back to his heels and leans his head on the windowsill.
In me cradle lies me baby
Shallow, o shallow brown!
I don’t want no other lady
Shallow, o shallow brown!
They don’t sing together anymore. They used to, even after Mama died, but right now it hurts too much.
He sniffles, feeling tears in his eyes.
As much as it hurts, there’s been too many times he hasn’t admitted the truth to Liam, that he still remembers her song, that he still finds himself singing it, in his mind when Liam’s lying next to him, in whispers when he’s on duty.
And now all he wants is something new to sing to himself.
So he runs for the taverns and listens and tries to learn as many new songs as possible.
based on @pirateherokillian‘s awesomely silver foxy gif right there and this conversation between her and @sherlockianwhovian: What if something in an upcoming episode causes Killian to age faster than normal? (With Zelena along for the ride because why not and I love her and Green Hook in-laws is my jam).
un-beta’d. 1.8 k. rated S for SILVER FOX
Bloody magic. Hadn’t it caused enough strife in Killian’s life already? Despite its occasional use, he’d long grown tired of the many ways it was used for harm rather than good.
Yet, here he was on a quest for another magical object, hidden behind an enchanted door, on the journey with a former witch.
“At least this is all the magic we’ll need,” Zelena commented as he found the invisible knob of the magically hidden doorway. The notes on the map had made it incredibly specific: magic could not be used to retrieve this item. “I can barely remember what my powers felt like, and you haven’t had any since—oh wait, wrong you.”
He turned the knob and tugged the door open, revealing a dimly lit tunnel that seemed to appear from thin air, and turned back to Zelena, incredulous. “The other me had magic?” That seemed horrifically out of character, but then again, for the last few decades, he’d lived a vastly different life than the Hook she knew, even if he no longer looked it.
“Oh, I think you’ll quite like that tale. I’ll tell it when we get through this,” she teased, approaching the entrance to the dimly lit tunnel behind the door and gesturing down it. “Shall we, darling?”
“Lead the way.” Everyone else might trust her, but he wasn’t quite ready to have his back to the ex-sorceress just yet. Maybe it had something to do with Alice’s mother, or maybe it was just the fact that he was still unnerved to be around someone who acted like they knew him, but didn’t truly.
The air in the tunnel was heavy and dry, as if its jagged stone walls were trying to smother them with a blanket. There didn’t seem to be an end in sight, and the light of the clearing from whence they’d come grew smaller and dimmer as they traveled down it in companionable silence. Eventually, the only light was that of the torches placed periodically on the walls, and Killian found his eyes straining to see in the gloom.
“You know, I hadn’t noticed it before, but that silver makes you look quite distinguished.” Zelena’s voice broke the quiet, but left him baffled.
“Pardon?”
“I’m just saying, I understand the term ‘silver fox’ now.”
“I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, love.” He knew he far outpaced her in years but he’d only recently reclaimed the confidence he’d had as a younger man; even if her comments seemed to be in admiration, he wasn’t keen on the implication.
“Surely a man as vain as you, Captain, would notice when he started going gray.”
His hand flew up to the hair at his temple. “What?”
They stopped walking. “You seriously hadn’t noticed? Hang on.” She fished through her pockets for a moment before exclaiming “Here we go!” and producing a small mirror, which she then held up to his face.
To his shock, the hair at the side of his face, and streaks across the top, were indeed significantly lighter than the rest, and white was now peppered through his beard. It followed the same pattern it had when he’d first started going gray, all those years ago. He remembered teasing Alice that it was all her fault, and smirked at the memory; but something about this didn’t sit right. “That wasn’t there this morning.”
“Well, age has to catch up with all of us at some point. No use in complaining about it,” Zelena shrugged, and turn to continue on. But he saw a flash of something in her own fiery locks, and grabbed her arm to stop her.
She tried to protest, but he just reached to her scalp and plucked. Of course, that drew even more whining, but it abruptly stopped when she saw what was in his hand: a curly silver hair of her own. “Seems you’ve got a streak of gray yourself, love.” And he could see another one woven through her updo.
“Psh, it was bound to happen at some point. Come on.” She trudged ahead, but he was now on alert—something strange was going on in this tunnel. He didn’t say anything, but he watched as more silver worked its way through her hair the deeper into the tunnel they went.
Though the path was even, they both gradually slowed down, despite having not traveling long enough for fatigue to really set in. The air temperature hadn’t changed, but he eventually had to concede defeat as he wiped the sweat off his brow and worked to undo buttons on his vest in an attempt to cool himself off. He sighed in relief upon loosening the last closure; the brocade had been constricting and stifling, and the cool air on his skin through his thin top felt divine.
His exhale caught Zelena’s attention, who glanced back at him, and then began to smirk and bit her lip as if holding back a laugh.
“What is it?” he groaned, surprised at how gravelly his voice sounded, though he wasn’t particularly thirsty.
“I think I see why Emma wanted your other self to give up the rum,” she quipped.
He wanted to be offended, but a glance down showed that there was a bit of a paunch on his belly that was also a recent acquisition—or, rather, reacquisition. But it had taken years for his stomach to go soft the first time; why was it doing so at such a rapid rate now?
“Let me see your mirror again.” She held it up for him, and it was just as he suspected: the fine lines on his face had grown deeper, and his hair and beard were now full gray, though thankfully more well-kept than they had been before his recent transformation.
As he pondered his reflection, the hand holding the looking glass changed color, taking on what he thought looked like a deep green hue, but the damned lighting made it hard to tell. She seemed to notice at the same moment, only with a far more violent reaction: she screamed and dropped the mirror, shattering it.
“What the hell is this place?” she shouted at no one in particular. “Why am I turning green again?”
“And old,” he added, pointing up at her hair that was nearly as silver as his. She grabbed for her ponytail and released an equally horrified sound at the discovery. “Now, when you say ‘again’...” he started, hoping she would fill in the blanks.
“I used to be literally green with envy. It was only Glinda’s magic that removed it. Oh god, is it anywhere else?” She knelt to look at herself in the broken mirror shards, but he was hung up on that word: magic. They’d both had it used on them to change their physical appearance. He was fairly certain he knew what was going on now, but he had one more question.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were also frozen under a curse for a lengthy period of time, yes?”
She stood up, albeit slowly. “Yeah, what of it?”
He nodded; it seemed to be as he suspected. “It appears to me that this cavern not only does not permit the use of magic, but...it erases it as well.”
She cocked her head to the side in confusion, giving him a glance at the green that was making its way up her neck. “So…”
“So my recent return to youth via a fairy’s wand is well on its way to reversal. And you, my dear, are finally looking the age you should be.”
She set her jaw and scowled at the news; he had to admit, he felt rather the same way. “I thought only magic had a price,” she complained. “Not no magic, too.”
“To be fair, we are still in search of magic,” he offered with a shrug.
“True,” she reluctantly agreed, crossing her arms and sulking.
“We may as well continue on; the damage is probably done.” It had been nice being a young man again, but he supposed he didn’t really need to be one anymore. He was still damn handsome, anyways.
Wordlessly, they set off once more. Killian’s belt eventually reached a point of tightness that told him the transformation was complete on his end, but he didn’t want to slow them down to loosen it—the general decay of their joints was doing a good enough job of that on its own. He did hazard a look over at his companion; the green now covered her skin, and though lines on her face made her look significantly older, she hadn’t lost her poise or glamor.
“You know...green and silver is an awfully fetching combination,” he observed out loud. She didn’t say anything in response, but he did see a small smile replace her frown, and the apples of her cheeks turned a darker green.
It wasn’t long before they reached the end of the tunnel, which opened into a wide room. The amulet they sought was prominently displayed in the middle, with a healthy supply of traps and tripwires around it. It took some time to navigate, given their less-than-spry bodies, but they successfully reached the center and claimed the tool.
As soon as Killian’s hand wrapped around the charm, it was as if the entire journey hadn’t happened: they were immediately back in the clearing, youthful glow intact, though still with the amulet in their possession.
Both quickly took stock of their forms and each other’s; his gut was gone and his hair felt smooth again, while Zelena’s bright red locks and fair skin tone had returned. It was almost as jarring as the first change.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, unsure of what the hell had just happened, but at least it appeared to be over.
They stood silent for a few more moments, processing, before both seemed to shake themselves out of it. Their mission wasn’t done yet. With a wordless nod, they both headed off in the direction of the camp.
Knowing what he’d look and feel like some time in the future truthfully had been more of an annoyance to Killian than anything, given that it was his past as much as his future. But he could tell it was still nagging at Zelena in the way she worried her bottom lip.
“I wasn’t lying back there: verdigris or not, you’ll be a rather attractive older lady, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
She chuckled, but shook her head. “No, it’s not that; I had no worries there,” she said emphatically. “Just being reminded of my own mortality is all.”
“Ah, yes. Well, we’ve made it this far. No need to fear what lies ahead in that regard.”
“Very true,” she conceded. “And you’ll be quite the looker yourself, Captain.”
“Oh, I’m well aware. Now I believe you owe me a story about my other self and magic?”
She cackled in glee. “Oh, where do I begin?”
i’m not even sure who to tag, but y’all might like this (my apologies if not; feel free to ignore): @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @flipperbrain @laschatzi @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich @killian-whump @lenfaz @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells
So I have been picking away at my JS&MN/OUAT crossover fic, which is really a young Childermass meets the Jones Brothers fic. I thought I would put a little taste of it out there just for the hell of it. Haven’t posted anything fic-like in quite some time (because I haven’t written any fic in quite some time). So here you go... a tiny smidge of first draft ChilderJones fic.
[Takes place on a merchant ship when the Jones boys are newly under Captain Silver. It’s a meet cute without the cute.]
“Oy, Childermass, got a live one for ye!” the bosun shouted.
“Aye!” a deep voice responded, followed by a slim figure peeling away from a cluster of crewmen Killian was not familiar with. The man wore a faded gray blouse with a black kerchief, slate gray trousers, and his long black hair was pulled back in an untidy queue. The expression on his narrow face was blank as he got closer, which only unsettled Killian. Distain and hatred he could give back with equal measure, anything else left him unmoored.
The bosun grabbed Killian by the shoulder and shook him roughly. Killian squirmed out from under his grasp, but not before he was snagged again at the back of his jacket.
Killian grunted as he was lifted off his feet for just a moment. He’d learned to make himself dead weight rather than flail, which seemed to take the fun out of it for whoever held him aloft.
The bosun dropped him, sneering.
“Childermass, this here tadpole needs some direction. Keep him busy and out from under foot, understand?”
“Aye.”
Shoving Killian in Childermass’ direction, the boy did the best he could not to slam into his new keeper. Killian looked up into the impassive face as he regained his balance while the bosun laughed at him.
Without a backward glance, Childermass turned on his heel and said, “This way, lad,” and strode off toward the bow of the ship, weaving effortlessly between the hustling crew as they went about their own chores. Killian stared after the man—young man upon closer inspection. He didn’t seem much older than Liam. But unlike bright and open Liam, Childermass had practically black eyes to match his hair, and kept his thoughts to himself.
When Killian finally caught up to Childermass, he was leaning against the rail, ankles crossed and pipe in hand. He tipped his head toward a pile of canvas.
“Can you sew, lad?”
Killian nodded. He’d learned to mend just about anything during his servitude. Under other circumstances, he was sure his mother would have been pleased to see him take up the needle with such skill, but as it was, neither of them would ever really know.
“Then get to it. I’ll check back on you in half an hour.” He straightened up as if to leave, but Killian stopped him with a question.
“Aren’t you going to stay and make sure I do it?”
Childermass lit his pipe, sheltering the flickering flame with his long fingers from the light breeze trying to blow it out. “Do I need to?” He sized up Killian with his sharp eyes, and inhaled deeply, the tobacco in his pipe glowing red.
“No, sir,” Killian said with a vigorous shake of his head. He’d never been left alone before out in the open. He’d tried to run too many times.
“I’m not ‘sir,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that barely concealed a quick roll of his eyes. “Name’s John Childermass. What’s your name, boy?”
“Killian Jones.”
Childermass nodded. “Kit’s on top the sails there, Killian Jones. As I said, I’ll be back in half an hour.” Leaning down, he looked Killian square in the eyes and pointed with the stem of his pipe toward the boy’s chest, “I’m going to trust you. But you don’t wanna disappoint me. Nothing good’ll come from it.”
Taking a step backward and bumping into his task, Killian reached blindly for the sewing kit as he watched Childermass walk away, the sweet smoke from his pipe hovering like secrets not meant to be shared.
Bedtime in the Swan-Jones house was rarely a quiet affair. The daughter of the Savior and Captain Hook had an abundance of both charm and stubbornness that often made Emma want to use a sleeping spell. Tonight she had been in fine form and Emma had given up and left Killian to deal with it. It was a half-hour later when she checked on them and though her daughter was snuggled into her father’s arms she was still very much awake.
“Daddy tell me the selkie story,” she said without a hint of a yawn.
Killian chuckled. “Again? Haven’t you heard it enough?”
But Emma knew that she could never get enough of that story and Killian knew it too because he gave a sigh and began to speak. Emma leaned against the doorframe and let the soft, deep voice of her husband wash over her.
Once upon a time in a rich kingdom there was a humble shack on the shores of the sea and in that shack there lived two boys and the mother they loved dearly. Their father was a sailor and though his wages paid for their home he was so rarely there that the boys thought of him as almost a visitor. A man who appeared bearing gifts and stories only to disappear a few days later before the sun had risen.
Despite their father’s absence the boys were happy, they loved their mother, their home, and the sea. They lived a golden childhood and their happiness was only marred by those days when their mother would become melancholy. Her eyes would stay fixed on the sea and she would sigh as tears dropped from her eyes. On those days the oldest son, would tame his curly hair and put on his best clothing and go into town to buy food and sweetmeats, while the younger son would go out in search of some treasure that would make her smile.....
See I am doing the thing! That’s a rough start at least. Hopefully I will get time tomorrow to finish and polish it up.
So I wrote a Season 7 spec fic because I wanted to play around with where Hook, Regina, and Rumple might be. Heavy references to CS, minor references to Rumbelle and strangely enough, Golden Hook...BroTP.
[AO3]
Alcoholics Anonymous
“I’m James, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, James.”
That’s how they introduce themselves at these meetings. James thinks it’s somewhat silly, but it works. Or maybe it doesn’t. It’s supposed to remind you who you are. A person. An alcoholic.
As if anyone can forget.
It’s why they’re all here, after all. Alcoholism – a terrible darkness that feeds upon people’s weaknesses, consuming them until they’ve destroyed their lives and those of the ones around him.
He used to not be an alcoholic, but instead a stand-up guy, they type you’d see on the Army recruitment posters – only for him, the Navy. James didn’t drink, didn’t gamble, didn’t give in to any of his vices. He had wanted to be a hero, just like his brother, serving Queen and country. Then there was the war, and he lost his brother and half the crew.
And in his grief, James drank.
He drank and he fucked and he gambled and then he drank some more. Met a woman as wild as he, loved her, and lost her in a car accident that took his hand. He tried his best to drown himself in the bottle, only to be rescued by the beautiful savior who would become his wife. He stopped drinking for her, for the babe that came later, and because of his own stupidity, lost them. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear his daughter cry during their last moments together.
That’s his story. That’s why he’s here, because he once promised his wife he would never relapse, and he intends to keep that promise even if she isn’t here to see it.
They all have stories similar to his. Some worse than others, all damning in their own way.
His sponsor is a man named Adam. Adam’s story is also of love and loss. His own alcoholism drove away his first wife and son. Later, he found another woman who he thought accepted both sides of him, dark and light. But he had been proud, he said, arrogant in thinking that he could have both. His wife, the second one, ended up kicking them out of his home, demanding he never return. He hasn’t seen her or their child since. Doesn’t even know where they are now.
Adam is supportive. He lets James talk about missing his wife and daughter, and shares his own stories about missing his sons. They’re kindred spirits, two old souls who’ve experienced far too much in their lives. Sure, much of it has been their own fault, but it’s still all fucked up.
James wonders where they’d all be if it wasn’t for their vices. Would he still have a hand? Would Adam be with his family? There’s this woman who also comes to the meetings named Queenie. She always wanted to adopt kids, but too many DUIs on her record kept her from ever being approved. No one wants to give a kid to a drunk. Would she be a mother if not for her darkness?
Adam tells him that there’s no use dwelling on the “what might have beens.” It would only ruin him in the end, make him unable to move on. There’s no changing what happened. His wife and daughter are gone. He can’t get them back. Life isn’t some fairytale with a “happily ever after.”
Sometimes, he dreams he’s an old-timey Naval officer sailing alongside Liam. Other times, the dreams change and he’s in full pirate regalia. Once, he even dreamed of climbing the beanstalk with his wife. Those are the good kind of dreams, but there are nightmares, as well. He has nightmares of Adam crushing his first loves’s heart, his wife driving a sword through his gut, and a cloud of darkness engulfing both her and their child.
He chalks those dreams up to some form of PTSD, his own guilt clawing away at him. He doesn’t understand how they can be both better and worse than his own reality.
His own reality is a studio apartment downtown. He lives there alone. He has no pets. His walls are sparsely decorated. He rarely cooks. He doesn’t date, despite the gentle urging of friends. His still wears his wedding band. So does Adam. This too is something his sponsor understands.
The meeting goes on for what feels like forever. Sometimes, he even wonders why he comes. He tells himself it’s for Emma, for their daughter. For Milah and Liam and everything that was lost. But every now and then he wonders if it is worth it, if drinking just wouldn’t be easier. Then again, that’s why he’s here.
Later that night, he goes back to his apartment. He doesn’t even grant Adam a proper goodbye, just smiles and nods. There’s a man and a little girl in the elevator when he enters. He’s seen the man before, Henry something or another, but the girl is new. The elevator stops one floor below his.
“Come on, Lucy,” Henry says. The girl spares one last glance at him before she goes.
She gives him a wide smile that he returns just before the elevator doors close. His own daughter would have been about the same age, give or take a year. He tries to ignore the pain in his chest at the thought.
When James arrives home, he wants to do nothing more than drink.
After all, he is James Hook, and he is an alcoholic.
Idek what this is, but I felt like writing something Killian-based, and with that last episode I found myself with, at least, something to work with that came out alright. *shrugs*
Though there were many different kinds of knives that Killian had encountered throughout his life, he found that all of them had one thing similar regardless of the shape, size, or purpose of the blade.
It always burned.
The moment it sliced through his flesh, whether it be his back, belly, or neck, it always had felt as though a fire had taken up residence at the point of entry. Like his insides were a village during a drought that's only future was to be turned ashy - like the skin of a dead man, with embers fading slowly - the color of spilt blood.
He supposed that his lengthy list of experience with the feeling of being impaled, stabbed, or cut open made it easier to recognize what type of weapon heartbreak was.
It burned just the same.
He couldn't be sure if it was long and jagged like Excalibur, or short, sleek, and unexpected like the dagger Not-So-Charming had used (perhaps it varied from person to person), but the all encompassing sting was there, along with the pinch of tears in his eyes, and the fading consciousness brought on by the rapid thump of his heart.
Gods, it hurt.
Of course he had faced heartbreak before, what with Milah and Liam having both died in his arms (one of which was to be mutilated seconds after the death of the former), but those heartbreaks were not like this. Theirs were deaths that gave him hope that, even though they were dead, and even though he was filled with a dreadful ache, they could be happy. And theirs were deaths that left him with a purpose moving forward (as unfulfilling as both of those purposes had ended up being).
With this, though, neither of them had died, nor had the pain he felt tearing him to shreds as he stumbled out of the house, needing to fix himself, been something against both of their will. She had handed him the ring, and she had walked away from him.
He was not the man she had agreed to marry.
He had failed her.
Were they separated?
Did she even want him in her house any longer?
The thoughts had caused his head to throb and a groan to escape his lips.
And it burned.
It was as though the fire he'd kept deep within his heart for her, raging ever onwards with every kiss and glance and whisper, had escaped the fireplace with the addition of the wrong fuel.
His memory of that night, of a man pleading to go home stowed away in a dream-catcher made a fire for warmth and survival turn into that of destruction.
Now the love that he felt for Emma caused his muscles to be seared with the need to be better, with the desperate want he felt when he thought of Charming's nobility, Snow's optimism, and Emma's constant desire to help even as her death loomed on the horizon.
He wondered if he would ever even need to experience being burned alive in order to tell you exactly how it felt.
He wanted to go home, and he wanted to spill every last secret he had to her to show just how much he trusted her. He did trust her. However, with the reminder of who she was and what she dealt with running on a loop in his mind, he shoved the idea away.
Of course he could calm the fire in his mind and lungs and heart with the freedom of forgiveness and her strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, but rum was more readily available, and far less likely to be weighed down by the secrets it'd never asked to hear.
It was a quiet and magical companion that would neither listen, nor judge, nor hurt. It merely stood by and provided a numbness needed to endure the tongues of fire biting at his conscience.
All the same, though, he wanted to go home.
It was next that he wandered to the ocean, wondering if the water that was salty like tears would loan him several to calm the frantic beating of his heart. To help him think reasonably amongst the numbness and fire raging within him.
(All his fault.)
However, with a glance at Nemo, who knew who he was, and helped others find exactly what they needed, he felt less like he wanted to find comfort in the waves lapping at the shore, and more like he wanted to drown in them (or at least be very, very far underneath them).
So rather than finding himself at home that night, wrapped up in the woman who both lit him on fire and put ice on his burns, he found himself with a sack filled with things (feeling much more hopeless than the last time he packed, less than a month ago), and a weight in his chest that quietly quarreled with the fire looking to get past it into the water.
Snow fell into his eyes, and he shivered, his larger coat still doing very little to block out the cold. He felt like he had stood out in the sun for too long. Burning up but shivering and numb all at the same time. Miserable.
His heart beat an unsteady rhythm in his chest for every thought of Emma, and the sea in front of him, and the plans he had in order to be ready to love Emma the way she wanted and deserved to be loved.
It thrummed louder in his ears as he thought of that love. As he envisioned her in the morning with her hair covering her face and her head facing a funny direction, sure to have a crick in her neck once she woke (which he would happily help her with). He saw her smiling and nearly bounding with excitement at her mere survival, and he saw the sadness formed by him that he desperately wanted to chase away (but would also happily help her deal with if that was what she needed).
He thought of her - angry, happy, sad, confused - he thought of her. He ached to see her though he'd only been gone for several hours.
How would he survive longer than this?
He even let memories of them in the Underworld wander freely in his mind.
He thought of the pain that they'd endured, and thought of how he almost never saw her again. He thought of how he almost chose that. How she held him after he changed his mind. How she forgave.
He'd hurt, but he was safe. He'd let himself feel safe.
His heart jolted at the thought of that security, at being held and trusting as much as he begged she would him.
And just like that, it was like he'd jumped into the ocean and found himself shocked at how cold it truly was.
He shouldn't be standing at the docks, or even considering a tomorrow without Emma and her uncomfortable sleeping positions, or without his family.
He shouldn't be considering running. How on earth could he run from her. (How could he be so selfish?)
His heart twisted in his chest as the fire that had been filling up, burning him and causing agony to spread throughout his soul, returned to its rightful place. It beat a steady, purposeful rhythm in his chest as his mind cleared and the numbness turned to fierce and severe feeling.
He needed that.
He raced to the belly of Nemo's ship, a smile on his face as hope overtook him.
He spilled his thanks and excitement to the man before preparing to depart. Before rushing home to the woman he loved and spilling himself to her, promising that he was ready to trust with just a bit of help (which he trusted she would be willing to provide).
He was so glad to not be on fire any longer.
However, with the appearance of a cloaked figure, and the sounding of the ship's alarms, as they went down, down, down without warning, he found that his plans of love and safety and forgiveness were put on hold.
"excessive reading of bawdy literature..." omg! Hilarious! Thank you for sharing this! And I totally agree:)
Truly you can learn anything by reading…
I imagine their first time in a distant land, Milah picked up a book in a marketplace filled with drawings of people enjoying each other’s pleasurable company.
Of course, being the gentleman that he is, Killian offered to translate it for her. They spent hours together with that book; Killian recopying the text in English, Milah redrawing all of the images, until finally they had a finished book, the contents of which they were both quite familiar.
Now, naturally, they’d been curious about the logistics of some of the more athletic positions. But they quickly discovered that, while they could recreate the poses while fully clothed for drawing references, any time they actually attempted to have intercourse, there would be some interruption or emergency that required their attention.
Milah caught onto this quite a bit before Killian; early enough to deduce that she could enjoy herself quite readily, so long as Killian kept his trousers on. It was all she could do to keep herself from laughing… Killian did not see the humor.
