âaverage person eats 3 spiders a yearâ factoid actualy just statistical error. average person eats 0 spiders per year. Spiders Georg, who lives in cave & eats over 10,000 each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
CS AU: Some Legends are Best Kept as Legends (1/?)
Summary: Years after ruthlessly humiliating the man known as Rumple von Stiltskin, Killian Jones faced him once again on the battlefield, though it was clear his foe was no longer an ordinary man. Before succumbing to the fatal injury the Dark Oneâs blade had inflicted, Killian managed to strike a blow of his own with the beingâs own ripple-edged dagger. Now, nearly two hundred and fifty years later, Killian finds himself alive and back in his hometown. However, whatever awoke him from his cursed sleep had also raised the Dark One. With all of Storybrooke at risk, can Killian find a way to stop the Dark One once and for all? Perhaps so. With a little help from Deputy Swan and her boy.
A/N: Based on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow short story by Washington Irving, and the Sleepy Hollow Fox tv show. This fic has been rattling around in my brain for over two years now, and I am so thankful to finally be able to share it! If the opening scene seems familiar, itâs because I posted it last year for @killian-whumpââs birthday.
Thank you to all of the mods and participants of the @cssnsâ! I have so enjoyed being a part of the event the past few years! Much love to @artistic-writerâ for her beta services (and for the amazing Killian manip in the art!), and to @kmomof4â for her cheerleading support.
Be advised that the opening sequence could be triggering or uncomfortable for those who suffer from claustrophobia, or simply do not do well in tight spaces.
Rated T / Available on ao3 and ff.net /Â buy me a coffee
Part One
Killianâs eyes flew open and a gasp filled his lungs. A dank, earthy note hit the back of his throat, forcing a cough to expel from his chest. He saw nothing but utter darkness and wondered if something might be covering his eyes. Reaching up to check, his hand hit a hard surface right above where he lay. Rough, brittle wood brushed against his palm and bits of debris fell in the wake of his inspection.
Where the devil was he?
A far off voice echoed in his ears. His name. Someone was saying his name. The compulsion to find this person overwhelmed him and he began to press against the barricade above him once more. With elbows bent out to his sides to try and leverage that which covered him, Killian met the edges of the structure and cold dread seeped into his chest. Raising his knees, they too hit the confines of his prison, and when he stretched his legs back out, only for his feet to find the same resistance, the awful truth came over him.
A coffin. He was lying in a coffin.
Memories of a duel flashed within his mindâs eye. Metal clanging against metal as he and the man heâd once known as Rumple von Stiltskin fought on the battlefield. Though, it had become clear rather quickly that his foe was no longer a mere man.
âYou once fooled me into thinking Iâd met the Dark One on the road over the toll bridge,â Rumple sneered. âYou humiliated me that night. Left me exposed in front of the woman I desired and stole her away from me.â He pushed off Killian, freeing himself from the blade heâd become impaled on and cast a simpering smirk upon his opponent. âI bet you never imagined Iâd actually find him. Find him, and become him.â
The rest of their bout played out in Killianâs head, until the moment of his demise pierced his consciousness. The Dark One had run him through. Killian fumbled over the buttons of his coat, feeling for the wound and trying to determine whether he ought to be relieved or alarmed at finding none.
He remembered the sharp pain then the numbness that had quickly followed. The glint of a dagger in the Dark Oneâs belt and the rush of blood over his hand after embedding it in the demonâs gut. He remembered collapsing to the ground and seeing a swirl of darkness envelop him. Had it been death?
No. It couldnât have been, for he was alive. He could feel the panicked rasps burning his lungs, could smell the petrichor of recent rainfall and the pine that made up his coffin. His pulse raced, heart hammering in his chest which was clothed by the heavy wool of his uniform. He could move his limbs, could cry out for help, and feel the sting of fresh terror pooling in his eyes. He was most assuredly alive, but for how much longer?
How long had it been since theyâd committed his body to the ground? Was the earth still loose enough to try and displace? Could he dig his way out, and make it to the surface before he suffocated?
Scooting along on his back, he positioned himself towards the middle of the box and raised his knees, slamming them into the roof with as much force as he could muster. He supposed he could thank the war for his regimentâs limited resources and the shoddily constructed coffin that was splintering apart with greater ease than he could have hoped for.
Dampened earth began to spill into the cavity, choking the air. Killian pulled at the fabric around his neck, maneuvering it up to his face to cover his mouth and nose as he kicked the dirt down towards the foot of the coffin. Once heâd packed as much of the earth as he could into the corners he shimmied his way towards the opening with his hands over head. With one final deep breath, Killian forced his arms and head clear of the opening. He tucked his legs beneath him and attempted to stand, pressing through the sodden soil until his fingers could feel the brisk air of freedom. Hoping to gain greater purchase, he lifted his leg to stand on the coffin lid. The jagged edges of the splintered wood scraped painfully along his calf, and Killian had to bite back his cry for fear of expelling the precious air in his lungs too soon.
With a new elevation by which to leverage himself, Killian raised up onto his tip toes braced against the outside of the pine box and scrambled for the surface, clawing his way upward until the night air ruffled his hair and mist clung to his face. He couldnât stop the watery laugh of relieved madness that erupted from his chest as it heaved against the pressure of collapsing earth while he wormed his way further out of the hole, finally crumpling to the ground once heâd wriggled free.
Puffs of air billowed from his lips as he gazed up into the night sky. The moon and stars had never shone more beautifully in his eyes which hazed over before hot tears streaked down his muddy face. With a deep groan, Killian raised himself up into a sitting position to survey the graveyard around him, wiping away the grime and tear streaks with the sleeve of his coat. Not that it did much good. Getting to his knees so he might try and stand, Killian was stopped by the sight of the headstone. His headstone.
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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â " 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 justâŠ" 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 â as a wraith, a shade â 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 momentâŠyou were so pale, almost unreal⊠for a moment it seemed as if you were already goneâŠ"
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 â 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
Summary: Emma shivered at the biting wind whipping through the street as she crossed from one alley to the next, the tight, thin dress beneath her jacket doing little to help keep her warm. Sheâd chosen it earlier that night hoping to impress a certain teaching assistant from one of the classes she and Neal shared. Killian Jones. A doctoral candidate several years her senior, and super hot to boot, Emma couldnât deny sheâd initially started flirting with him just to get under Nealâs skin, but as the semester went on and her overtures were met with equally witty and flirtatious banter, Emma had to admit there was something about Killian Jones that drew her to him.
Emma rolled her eyes, and not some mystical, mumbo jumbo, supernatural bullshit. A scoff left her lungs, hanging before her in a mist of cold sarcasm as she recalled her exâs words warning that Jones wasnât human. Shaking her head, Emma thought to herself, âWell, what the hell is he then, Neal?â
Emma was about to find out.
A/N: This fic is inspired by a scene I read in The Vampire Diaries books over 20 years ago. Youâll see it reimagined later in the fic. I am also borrowing elements of the lore TVD uses, but this is NOT a Vampire Diaries AU.
I had originally considered posting this as a two shot, but couldnât find a place to separate it that I was happy with, so you get to read the thing in its entirety. Much love to @kmomof4ââ and @artistic-writerââ for their beta services. Also, I cannot flail enough over @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713ââ art! Please go give Kayla some love, she absolutely deserves it! Finally, thank you to the @cssnsââ mods for holding this event again. I have loved being a part of it over the last few years!
Rated M / ~17,500 words / Available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee
~/~
The bar was its usual self, brimming with wall to wall co-eds blowing off steam at the end of a long week that had them hurtling towards winter finals. Emma Swan sat perched on a barstool, on display in a red dress that highlighted all of her assets. A few of her male classmates had attempted to garner her attention, but she was too preoccupied to pay them much heed.
It didnât stop them from continuing their efforts though.
âHe isnât here,â Emmaâs ex, Neal, told her after she spent more time looking around the bar in search of a certain pair of vivid blue eyes, auburn scruffed jawline, and artfully mussed dark hair than paying any attention to whatever he was saying to her.
âWho?â Emma asked with an air of innocence, sipping her drink then snapping her attention to the door as it opened, revealing⊠not him.
âJones,â Neal grit out. âThatâs who youâre all dressed up for, right? You, and every other pathetically simple-minded girl at this university.â
âExcuse you?â Emmaâs eyes swung back to his, her hand clenching around her glass while she decided whether or not to hurl its contents into his face.
His expression gave her pause. It wasnât exactly remorse, more like he was steeling his resolve to say something.
âLook, Emma. It isnât your fault,â he said, leaning in so he wouldnât be overheard by those around him. âJones has this⊠ability. He can make people feel things, do things, they wouldnât otherwise do.â
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â
âHeâs not⊠heâs not what you think he is.â
âA teaching assistant?â
âNo,â Neal whispered harshly, flicking his eyes around them quickly before coming even closer to whisper into her ear. âHuman. Jones isnât human.â
Emma couldnât help the snorted laugh escaping her.
âIâm serious!â Neal hissed, grabbing her wrist in a tight grip. âMy father told me all about him. Emma, the man is dangerous. Iâve seen you flirting with him, and Iâm telling you to be careful. Donât go drawing his attention.â
Emma yanked her arm away from him, every bit of humor gone from her mood. âWeâve been over and done with for over a year, Neal. You donât get to tell me who I can or canât flirt with.â She stood and grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair, forcing her arms into the sleeves with irritated force. âAnd Iâm not the only one whoâs been flirting,â she stated smugly. âIâve already got the manâs attention, and thatâs made you jealous. Youâre the pathetic one, Neal. Not me.â
Enraged, Emma exited the bar, pulling her jacket tightly around her to ward off the brisk night air. Knowing Neal would be in hot pursuit, she darted around the corner that led back to the off-campus home she shared with three other housemates, planning to take a shortcut down the alleyways.
Her heels clipped along the pavement, snapping a terse rhythm as Emmaâs mood continued to sour. Stupid Neal and his stupid jealousy. She hadnât been the one to end their relationship at the end of sophomore year. Finding him in bed with another girl had done that quite effectively. He was lucky she was willing to let him back into her good graces at all, so they could at least be civil with one another as they finished out their courses while pursuing the same degree.
She wasnât feeling too gracious towards him right now, though.
Emma shivered at the biting wind whipping through the street as she crossed from one alley to the next, the tight, thin dress beneath her jacket doing little to help keep her warm. Sheâd chosen it earlier that night hoping to impress a certain teaching assistant from one of the classes she and Neal shared. Killian Jones. A doctoral candidate several years her senior, and super hot to boot, Emma couldnât deny sheâd initially started flirting with him just to get under Nealâs skin, but as the semester went on and her overtures were met with equally witty and flirtatious banter, Emma had to admit there was something about Killian Jones that drew her to him.
Emma rolled her eyes, and not some mystical, mumbo jumbo, supernatural bullshit. Another scoff left her lungs, hanging before her in a mist of cold sarcasm. Not human. She shook her head. Well, what the hell is he then, Neal? She was almost curious to know what her ex thought Jones was. Almost.
Maybe the night wasnât a total loss. Emma knew Killian lived close to campus, something her stalker-esque housemate, Ruby, had discovered earlier in the year. If he wasnât at the bar sheâd been staking out in the hopes of running into him, then he might be working late with one of the professors he assisted. She could always head that way on the off chance of running into him on the quad.
Wow, Emma. Desperate much?
Another huff puffed past her lips. Yeah, she wasnât going to wander around campus in the freezing cold just to catch a glimpse of him. She was not one of the pathetic, simple-minded girls Neal accused her of being. In fact, she was going to head home and not think about Killian Jones for the rest of the evening.
I think if your friends donât like your S/O, itâs important to have a candid and vulnerable conversation with them as to why. Not saying theyâre always right (they often are) but if you have a nondefensive, private no judgement conversation with them about why then you can usually tell if it is a friend problem or a significant other problem or perhaps a bit of both. âMy friend doesnât like my boyfriend because she misses the amount of time we used to feel together and has felt lonely since I got with him.â and âAll of my friends hate my boyfriend because he is heinously disrespectful to them and creepy when Iâm not in the room.â are too totally different ballgames and you canât just decide which way the situation leans without asking pointed questions.
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