Summary: Into every generation a slayer is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number. She is the Slayer
As ever, you can find all of my work on both AO3 and FFN too.
This is my contribution to the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer (@cssns, @kmomof4)
Artwork credit for this piece goes to my fellow Angel fan, @hollyethecurious
I’m gonna switch things up with this one and try and update it every other Wednesday from now on. Fridays are just too busy for us right now.
Emma was grateful for Zelena’s extensive knowledge of the town, as she made her way over to the large mansion on the outskirts of it. She’d never been to that part of Storybrooke before, but she assumed once she took on the full responsibilities of her new title, it wouldn’t take her long to get to know it all.
The mansion Killian had asked her to meet him at was unmissable. Its stately form loomed large in the distance, overlooking the only lake in town. It was clearly a beautiful home, at one point in time, but it was obvious the building was now abandoned. The hedges and lawns were overgrown; most of the windows had been smashed, with some boarded up and others left open to the elements; and there were large cracks in some of the exterior walls.
Emma assumed that Killian had picked it for its remote location and space, rather than its visual appeal.
“Hello?” she called out, as she made her way through one of the rotten doors into what was left of the interior. The ceiling had caved-in at some point in time, but it looked like someone had cleared away the debris from incident. “Killian?”
“To your left,” he called out calmly, startling Emma a little.
She turned through the first opening in the direction his voice had originated from, and emerge into a large room that appeared to have survived whatever ills had befallen the rest of the house. There was some furniture inside of the room that was covered in large dust sheets, and pushed against the walls. But the main space was completely free, and in the middle of it all stood Killian, wearing a pair of dark jeans and a black vest.
“Nice place,” she teased. “Not terribly romantic though.”
Holy Trinity messing around during rehearsals ( @a-faekindagirl 😘)
This popped back up in my notifications LMAO I love how you can see Josh wrestling Jen into his arms, and then his little plop of her into Colin’s before he waves like, “HERE IS YOUR TV WIFE, BYYYYYEEEE!”
Hope has had him wrapped around her tiny, perfect finger from the moment she came screeching into the world, but the first time he hears her laugh — so unbridled and full of glee — Killian is overcome by the swell of emotion in his chest, and he swears he would move heaven and earth just to hear the sweet sound again. He damn near does, between playing peek-a-boo and making some of the most absurd noises a three hundred plus year-old man can make. He wears things on his head and puts food on his face and blows raspberry kisses to her rounded belly and the bottoms of her chubby feet, all to Hope’s endless delight.
“She adores you, you know,” Emma comments one day, watching them play while she finishes folding their laundry.
He’s sprawled out on his belly on the floor of the living room, Hope giggling and grabbing at his nose.
“Well, the feeling is quite mutual,” he smiles, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his eyes before releasing the air trapped in his mouth and making their daughter squeal at the noise it creates.
Emma places the last bib on the top of the pile and hefts the basket against her hip. She crouches down low when she passes by them to kiss at the top of his head. “I adore you too.”
Killian tilts his face up to hers. “That feeling is also mutual.”
That earns him a soft peck against his lips and a grin as pretty as Hope’s. Eager for another kiss, he catches her ankle with his hook before she can fully stand, and all it takes is one sharp tug to send her off balance and tumbling into his arms. The basket tips in the process and, to Emma’s dismay, all of their clean laundry winds up on the floor.
“Killian!” It’s part cry, part annoyance but mostly laughter as she lands in his lap with a solid ‘oof.’
Hope bursts into another fit of giggles and Killian glances over at her curiously, his brow arched high. He digs his fingers into Emma’s ribs, at the precise spot he knows she’s ticklish, and she jerks against him, her laugh even louder this time while she attempts to scramble away, and as he suspected it might, Hope loves the sound and responds in kind, her own grin gummy and wide, and her chortling boisterous enough to rival Emma’s.
The slow smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth is dangerous with the newfound knowledge he’s aquired. It takes Emma a beat to catch on, her gaze flitting back and forth between he and Hope, but by the time she does, it’s too late, and before she can even protest, he’s tickling her again and blowing raspberries against the curve of her neck.
Their home, already filled with love and messy, perfect bits of life — newly washed clothes on the floor, Hope’s toys in every nook and cranny, leather jackets strewn over the backs of chairs and couches, boots mismatched and misaligned by the front door, keys in the fruit bowl in the kitchen, stacks of unopened mail on the counter and unwashed dishes in the sink — fills with wild, exuberant laughter, too, and Killian wouldn’t have it any other way.
She wasn’t in the bedroom when he entered – he could hear her talking in a low voice in the kitchen, likely a phone call – and so he made do with falling into bed, burrowing under their blankets and pressing his face against her pillow, inhaling deeply. Any lingering unease faded as her scent surrounded him, undertones of their previous couplings seeped into every fiber of the sheets and even the mattress underneath.
Home. Den. Safe.
Not even the scent of food could rouse him from his cocoon, though his stomach begged to differ. The bed dipped slightly as Emma sat on it, her fingers gently combing through his still-damp hair. “Hey,” she said quietly. “I have some food and more salve. You should eat before you go back to sleep.”
He grumbled, burrowing under the blankets, and he heard her sigh with exasperation. He moved, reaching out from the sides to wrap his arms around her waist and this time she chuckled as he pulled her towards him. “Mine,” he mumbled against her thigh.
She isn’t aware of how close she’s gotten to Killian until she turns and can feel the heat emanating from him. Her breath catches and she hates herself a little bit for being unable to control it.
(Hates herself a little more when it becomes evident on his face that he’d noticed and can’t be bothered to hide it.)
“I, ah…suppose I should get to bed as well,” he says, smile verging on something akin to shyness as he reaches up to scratch behind his ear again.
“Me too,” she murmurs.
“Thank you for the ointment.”
“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Killian.” She steps back into the safety of her room and away from the uncertainty that resides beyond it.
He hesitates only a moment before following after her, reaching for her but not quite touching her. “Swan?”
“Yeah?”
Killian stares at her a second more, but instead of replying, he glances down and slips his hand into the pocket of his coat to produce something for her. Something that makes her stomach somersault thrice over – a sprig of bright blue Forget-Me-Nots.
“Goodnight, Emma,” he says, holding them out to her.
She takes them gingerly from his grasp, fingertips lightly brushing against his as her cheeks warm to the same rosey hue staining the tips of his ears. He turns then, casting a final glance in her direction before he rounds the corner at the end of the hall and leaves her standing there, flabbergasted, holding flowers she’s not quite sure what to do with. A dull, aching warmth pulls at her side, a feeling only overshadowed by the confused and conflicted feelings circling in her chest. He’s long gone by the time she gathers her bearings enough to close her door, and yet, somehow, he lingers.
“You should start believing in ghost stories, Miss Swan – because you’re in one.”
When young Princess Emma found a pirate necklace on the baby rescued from the sea, she never expected years later to be swept into an adventure worthy of her favorite novels.
And she certainly never expected someone like the legendary Captain Hook.
A “Pirates of the Carribean” AU
Notes: Here is my offering for the CSSNS! Thanks to @amorecolorfulmoniker, whose pic set inspired this fic. Thanks to my betas, @gingerchangeling and @shireness-says who acted as a sounding board, a crying shoulder and grammar enforcers where needed. Thanks also to @slow-smiles, who created amazing art for this fic! (Go and see it after you finish reading, as numbers 7 and 8 are taken from this chapter) And thank you to @wingedlioness for making the amazing header!
Starting next chapter, I will update on Sundays instead of Wednesday as school is starting again. See you on the 2nd!
Emma looked out the porthole at the sun setting. McCullough had taken her to a cabin at the stern of the ship where she had been locked up since. She had exhausted herself screaming and hitting the door, begging to be freed, to leave, but to no avail. She had fallen into a fitful sleep soon after, just as dawn had shone bright and pink between the horizon and the clouds, bathed in warm and deep hues of pinks and reds.
Waking up hours later, Emma’s throat was parched and her stomach rumbling with hunger. Trying to distract herself from both sensations, she started exploring the cabin, discovering almost immediately that a jug of water had been left out for her. She eagerly slaked her thirst before resuming her inspection of her prison.She could see that while it was very spartan, it was also very clean, which was something, she guessed. The cabin was quite small, occupied only by a small bunk and an empty desk bolted to the floor. The drawers under the bed were empty except for an old ribbon that had been forgotten at the bottom, which Emma had used to tie her hair back.
The only personal effects in the room were a handful of books left on the ledge under the window. They were mostly old treatises, with the exception of one book of poetry, the initials K.J. written inside on the cover page in flowing letters.
Under the light of day, Emma had thought about the previous night’s events. She had been foolish to think that she was on the mythical Black Roger. After all, that’s all it was – a myth. It only existed in books and the fanciful minds of superstitious sailors, nowhere else. As she tried to convince herself, Emma ignored the little voice in her mind that added
And in the minds of gullible princesses, too
It All Starts With a Dance 