#haven't posted any fic in like 2+ years hellooo

[mockiery]

Abstract Reflections - Ch 1

He'd dealt with Pan for two centuries, played his games, took his demonic thrills in stride. But Killian feels the difference here and now. Those were men, boys, mindless monsters. This is a god. After his sacrifice, Killian Jones awakes in the Underworld and is faced with the torments of a sadistic god, his own body and mind turned against him. Memories of Killian's long life and lost loved ones weigh heavily on his soul, some sending him into spirals of guilt and despair, others grounding him and giving him hope. All he can do is try to resist the pull of darkness and oblivion until Hades bores of him; or better yet, someone he loves deems him worthy of saving.

Tags: Captain Swan, Jones Family, Underworld Arc, Character Study, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Guilt, Flashbacks, Memories, etc. (more listed on ao3)

[AO3] | Rated M | 4.1k words

Next Chapter | Masterlist

thanks to the wonderful @brucethegirl for beta reading for me!

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Chapter 1. An Underworld Welcome

First, is the cold. The feeling of frigid stone beneath him, rough against the exposed skin of his hand and cheek — a cold that settles into his bones. Then, it's the heat. Burning, intense heat from above, like standing too close to a bonfire or forge, radiating through his flesh. Neither extreme offers any respite from the other, just further discomfort.

His eyes blink open, slow. There’s no light at first. He rolls from his side onto his back, body aching, but as his left arm finds ground, something sharp and burning presses through the fabric of his jacket and into his skin. He flinches away, grabbing at the spot, feeling the new wound. Only an inch wide, it doesn't seem too deep, but gods it stings. He's had severe wounds that felt better than this one does, and it leaves him wondering if the burning was the heat or something more insidious: a poison or an acid. His eyes are as adjusted as it seems they’re capable of in this darkness, finding no firelight to account for the oppressive heat.

He breathes stale air and gives whatever space he’s in a proper and thorough scan of his senses. There's a crick in his neck that goes taut as he stretches, limiting his movements. He'd not slept on the floor in a long while, and he always had the sense to put his arm under his damned head when he did. His mind is hazy, and while his joints and muscles ache, there's no pounding in his head that signifies he's been knocked out.

It's hard to push his senses beyond the cold and heat overwhelming his focus, but he manages. The room smells of dust, stone, rust, and metal, with an undercurrent of human stench. Something acrid is muddying the metallic taste on the heavy, still air, making it harder to determine if it's blood or not. Killian had been in a number of dungeons in his time, and this felt like an amalgamation of the worst each brig had to offer.

Every breath and movement he makes echoes through the space, proving his instincts right- he's in a small room, big enough for a person. The perfect size for a cell.

Where, then? He can't hear anything beyond the sound of himself in this damn room. Maybe the flicker of a torch somewhere far away? So much metal and rust to breathe in, but no clinking of anything but his own necklace on the floor below. It's maddeningly quiet, eerie and lifeless. For a moment he fears it's his own bloody hearing at fault, failing him, his ears damaged, but his breathing sounds just as loud as it should, as does his sigh of relief that follows that assuring thought.

He closes his eyes tightly, trying to make them adjust to the darkness, taking inventory of his own body in the meantime. His hook is sharp as ever, and the weight of his rings grace his fingers. Good. Wherever he is, he hasn't been robbed and disarmed. His hand continues inventory, he's dressed fully: jacket, belt, vest all from the magic-free realm of Emma's, and-

Emma. His hand freezes at the center of his abdomen. He thumbs through the buttons of his shirt, finding only an old scar at the base of his ribs that he's had for ages. Nothing new. No... no sign of Excalibur's cursed blade. He reaches for his neck — no cut there either. Did...? That all happened, didn't it? How...?

He reaches out with his hook tenderly, slowly sweeping it back and forth, surveying for any hazards to avoid as his mind races. What happened? How did he get here? The last thing he remembered...

Emma. Her eyes fill with tears, a pleading in her eyes that Killian has never seen before. Killian holds the sword out for Emma to take.

Her voice wavers, "I don't want to lose you."

"And I don't want to lose you." Killian is struggling, the sword pulsing in his hand. It’s taking everything he has to keep the darkness in it. He looks to Emma and knows she's his whole world. He'd do anything to save just her, and this sacrifice will save so much more than just her. "But you have to let me go. Let me die a hero! That's the man I want you to remember, please!"

Emma takes the sword, and the release of tension is short lived as he sees her arm shake with the power she is now containing. He knows she can hold it. Far better than he ever could.

"I love you." She kisses him. She's so warm and good and he doesn't let his hand find her because he knows he wouldn't be able to let go. The time feels slow but is gone so quickly.

"I love you, too." He returns as soon as the kiss breaks. Emma steps back.

He gives a small, reassuring smile. "It's okay."

Emma lets out a sob, readying the blade, shaking. He steals one last look to her family, seeing the pain and the fear in them. Henry looks scared and confused, the lad wrapped in his adoptive mother's arms. Regina's look is knowing, as is David's. David holds his wife, Snow's shock juxtaposed to David's pained acceptance, the glisten in his eyes squeezes his heart in his chest more than he'd admit to the man. He wishes he could say how sorry he is for everything, but they know already. It's in their eyes. He almost wishes Belle were here, so she could see the regret and apology in his face now, but she's better off not seeing this. He squeezes his jaw tighter and hopes that his own eyes say everything he needs them to.

With a shuddering breath, he looks back to Emma and the glimmering blade she raises. He steels himself and nods.

His body tightens to brace for the pain as Emma moves, the sob escaping her as the sword pushes through his center, and he can't hold in the cry of pain that comes out. He wanted to stay strong, wanted to make it easier for her and her family, but he couldn't. He's always been the weakest.

Excalibur, pulsing with darkness, tears into his body with a viciousness, and it's all he can feel for a moment, the overwhelming pain, his head is light and his balance teeters. Emma's head is on his shoulder, his chin on hers as he falters against the heaviness weighing on his consciousness. But he pushes it back, his vision is fogging, and he can only reach his hand up to ground himself, his forehead to Emma's, his hand finding her cheek.

He forces his eyes open as much as he can and sees the darkness leave her, the red of that jacket of hers in his peripheral. He'd smile if he had the power to. She pulls back, drawing the sword out of him and he hears his own whimper like it's coming from somewhere else.

He barely catches himself as his knees start to buckle, and Excalibur disintegrates in Emma's hold. The sword gone, Killian feels that horrible burning gash open on his neck, like it never left. Emma surges to him as he fails to hold his own weight up any longer, and he feels her ease him to the ground. His eyelids are too heavy, he's so exhausted. He doesn't have to see her to know she's with him.

It's familiar, the way he's fallen. How he's been caught. Held. Once again, his body rests on the grass, hand cradling his head as she lays him down. This time she doesn't try to stop the bleeding at his neck with magic, instead pushing sweat-matted hair away from his forehead. She holds his hand, her tears coloring his skin as she sobs into his chest. There's a tremble in Emma's hands long after Killian's own hand has stilled. He hears her crying, soft and shuddering, incomplete shapes of words in shuddered sobbing breaths. He thinks he hears "sorry" and "love" and he exhales shakily when her lips touch his forehead. Emma's hold on his hand is tight and close to her chest. He feels the heave of her breath, the throb of her heart in her chest, and he knows he's breaking it.

He wishes he could hold her, thank her, say he's sorry, say he loves her. As the end finds him, Killian is glad he could die in her arms a second time.

Killian shudders, frozen in place. Did... did she bring him back somehow, heal Excalibur's wounds? Did she find a way? Did she... did she take it back, did Emma try to-

"You have to help me, Swan. Take it."

"I can't. It should be me."

No, no she couldn't, even if she wanted, that cursed sword was gone. It'd been destroyed with him.

"Your family needs you." Killian couldn't understand how Emma could offer such a thing, her life was worth more than his ever would be. "If anyone deserves to go to the underworld, it's me."

His eyes widen. He swipes his hook imprecisely ahead of him in the darkness and shoots up to a sitting position.

The smell... Brimstone. Sulfur. Blood. Ash.

Another frantic sweep of his hook above him nearly throws out his shoulder, the hook unexpectedly catching on a chain above. He yelps and thrashes until the hook is free, rising to a crouch, not yet daring to stand. He slows, trying to steady his breathing. If he's where he thinks he is... Why is he breathing? Why does he hear his heartbeat in his ears, why does he have a heartbeat at all?

He reaches his hook higher, testing for anything above him other than the chain. Finding the chain alone, he rises steadily, the stiffness in his limbs slowing him more than his caution.

"Oh please, don't stand on my account," a voice echoes through the small space. Killian flinches, his hook raising and his hand instinctively going for his cutlass, finding nothing on his belt.

He stares hard in the direction the voice came from in the blackness and speaks as forcefully as he can, "Show yourself. Who are you?" It comes out hoarse at first but is satisfactorily strong by the end.

"Is that any way to treat your host?" The snide response comes from behind him, and Killian quickly turns to face their new position. He hadn't heard them move.

"Who are you?" He demands again, a growl in his words.

The voice laughs, deep and condescending, once again from a new location. Whoever it is, they're toying with him. And enjoying it.

"Come on, now, Hook. You knew where you were going."

"Show yourself now or-"

 "Or what? You'll hook me to death?"

"I've done it a hundred times before." Killian's delivered better threats, but he's not exactly in his realm of comfort.

"A hundred? Oh, don't sell yourself short, I'm sure it was more than that. You've killed more than that, I'd wager. But never something like me."

Something. Not someone. Something.

The space alights, blue in hue and flickering from a source behind him. The room he’s in is worse than he'd imagined: dried blood on the floor, on the wall, mixed into the dust. A small dagger caked with dried blood lays on the ground — the blade that had nicked his arm.

Somehow the air is even hotter now and Killian turns to the source.

Before him, his taunter stands with arms crossed, leaning against the cell's wall. The man's scalp and shoulders are aflame with blue fire — and yet there's a cold impassiveness in his eyes. He looks at Killian like he's an insignificant speck of dirt, an annoyance.

"You're..."

"Hades, yes." The god waves his hand with disinterest. The fire diminishes, leaving a dim wall-mounted torch as the only light source. "I'm sure you're honored."

"Wh-" the start of an incomplete question escapes his lips before he has enough mind to think first. He clenches his jaw, sharpening his expression.

The god continues without pause. "I, on the contrary, am not what you'd call honored." Hades crooks his head with a frown and steps further into the cell's tight space. Killian stands his ground, glare following Hades as the god circles him.

"You have been an inconvenience, to say the least," the god assesses aloud. His cold gaze sizes up his new captive soul from head to boot and seems to find Killian more than lacking.

A shiver rockets down Killian's spine. He conceals it with a roll of his shoulders, straightening up to meet the god's height with his own, but his nerves stay balanced on a razor's edge.

"You're centuries overdue, for starters. But I could let that slide with all the souls you were sending my way." He's close now, speaking over Killian's shoulder. "Lost boys, sailors, knights, merchants, all sorts. But ooh, you really started slowing down, didn't you, Hook?"

It takes every bit of his self-control to not pull away, refusing to allow Hades to gain a single inch in this game of intimidation. Killian knows these ploys all too well. He'd used them and been at the mercy of them for centuries.

"Or do you prefer Killian these days?" Hades mocks, rolling his eyes.

 Killian's mouth twitches. "Captain, to you." 

Hades slows to a stop and laughs. Another shiver shoots through Killian, this one less concealed. The god turns his head to him and smiles.

Killian feels his airway close before he processes the sight of Hades grabbing his throat. He's dead, his body is back in Storybrooke, his heart pierced through by Excalibur, his blood poured out onto the lake’s shore. But he bleeds here in the Underworld, and he needs to breathe. His vision starts to darken at the edges as Hades suspends him a foot above the ground like he weighs nothing.

His hand and hook latch onto the god's arm, scratching, pushing, pulling, trying to lift himself to find relief. Before Killian's boot can make any contact, Hades sharply yanks him sideways through the air.

"I hate to tell you, Captain, I'm the only one with any titles or command around here." He throws Killian against the wall, head slamming hard into stone, clattering to the floor. "And you haven't led a crew in quite some time."

"Aye, I've not," He admits, croaking out between a heaving breath and cough, hand shielding his throat, checking his neck for anything broken. Finding nothing out of place, he recovers, rising up. Thankfully he feels nothing wrong with his movement or sensation beyond the bruising. He pushes himself up to stand.

"Hook, then. At least while I let you keep your little toy there, hm? Sound good?"

Killian's blood runs cold.

Hades smirks. "As I was saying, you've really let me down these past few years, Hook. Just not enough souls dying by your hands- or hand, forgive me." He makes a false apologetic face that makes Killian want to throttle the bastard, but he holds himself.

"Now that- that was enough for me to want to have some words with you. But this recent business, this Dark One mess?" Hades grabs him by the throat again, slamming him against the wall this time. "That requires more than words."

Killian's hook is useless, failing to even snag the god's sleeve as he struggles. But when Killian meets the god's eyes, trying to speak, the grip loosens enough for Killian to wheeze out, "I'd have thought you'd like what I got up to as a Dark One." He raises his eyebrow, shoving down the panic igniting his nerves, aiming for his playfulness in duels past. He doesn't think he's all that successful.

"Up until you went and raised all the Dark Ones out of my domain, I had." Killian must look confused because Hades scoffs. "They were my best torturers down here, whether they were working for me or not. And now? I'm fresh out of all my favorite dead Dark Ones. Thanks to you."

Killian smirks, and were his vocal cords not being crushed, he'd tell the evil bastard 'you're welcome'. Hades catches his meaning well enough it seems though, squeezing tighter until Killian's vision goes dark at the edges. Before consciousness abandons him, Hades throws Killian face first to the ground across the room. His arms don't move fast enough, unable to stop his forehead thrashing into the rough stone.

He coughs, his hand at his throat again, as if that'd help him breathe better. He pushes himself up by his hook, the metal scraping against the stone with a dreadful noise.

"Forgive me for being unaware of Dark Ones’ continued employment after death." The gravel in his voice strains painfully, but he grins up at the god as he rises to his eye level. "Would've considered that more thoroughly before I sacrificed my bloody life."

"You think you're cute, don't you?"

Killian huffs a painful laugh. "I think I'm right bloody handsome, yes."

The pure, gleeful malice that ignites in Hades' eyes is enough to make Killian's stomach turn. "Let's see what I can do about that."

Hades grabs him by the collar and pushes him down to his knees effortlessly. When the god's fist finds Killian's face, his vision goes white, his neck snaps back like whiplash from the carriages of Emma's realm — cars, or whatever. He's still reeling, his hand limply clawing at Hades' grasp, when another impossibly powerful strike collides with his face. His left eye feels like it's been crushed inside his skull. When he goes slack, Hades' grip on his collar is the only thing keeping him up. Then there's a hand in his hair, pulling, ripping him up from the freezing floor before just as quickly slamming his face to the stone of the wall and releasing him. His own dead weight drops him to the floor, where his cheek and chin take a final blow.

Killian has bested men with greater strength than his own more times than he can count. He's killed a few dozen that he'd consider more talented swordsmen than him. He bloody well held his own against a giant undead witch for far longer than anyone should've, after a 30 foot fall onto unforgiving rock. He'd dealt with Pan for two centuries, played his games, took his demonic thrills in stride. But Killian feels the difference here and now.

 Those were men, boys, mindless monsters. This is a god. 

He deals more force into a hit than Killian has felt before; Killian's left eye is swollen over, a pool of fire in the socket, and the surrounding structures throbbing enough that Killian fears the browbone's been fractured. The pain is blinding in more ways than one. His throat is bruised enough that every breath hurts. He swallows, forcing down a whimper at the pain of the action. Still, he pushes himself up, managing to get to his hand and knees, feeling every impact bruise across his body. He forces his breath to steady.

When Killian dares to look up to the god, Hades is watching. His hands are tucked behind his back as he leans over patiently, studying him. With Killian's face in view now, Hades grins at his handiwork. "Now, that's a start."

"What do you want from me?"

Hades' grin widens. "Why, what a lovely question! Someone's finally catching up. I thought you'd be a slow one, but here we are already!"

Killian exhales, pushing himself up and back, sitting on his heels unsteadily. He looks to Hades and waits.

"First, I want to try something. This need not be a wholly negative relationship. You may well prove to me that you can make up for all the Dark Ones you lost."

"How so?"

"I'm glad you asked."  

Hades' smug face isn't one that Killian thinks he likes much. He'd worked for ship captains with that look — if you got yourself in trouble and wanted to make it to shore, you apologized, and you groveled. You asked to make it up to them, offer to work the whole night through, something grueling. Or on the rare occasion, you offered invaluable information that'd either make money or reveal a side-dealing first mate. But that was rarely all they wanted, not from a sailor that'd wronged his captain. The lash was always part of the deal.

Hades looks to the dagger on the floor. Killian's eyes — or rather, his eye, he's down to one now — follows it as the blade shoots up, handle first, into Hades' hand. The god ponders it, turning it over in his grasp. Dagger was a generous word, it's small, more a knife than a dagger.

"What do you plan to do with that?" Killian's brows raise, the left one alighting with pain at the movement. He grits his teeth.

"Oh me? Nothing. It’s what you will do with it." He places the handle in Killian's palm with a devilish look. "I'm surprised you don't recognize it, considering, well, what you've done with it before." 

Killian holds it, his mind in its air-starved and rattled state sluggishly trying to piece together Hades' implication.

"Oh, I like that. Searching your mind for all the blood you've shed, looking for a time you used something as small as this. No hook, no sword, but an itty bitty knife. How personal it had to have been, right? Feel the blood on your hand, see the look in his eyes up close as you take a man's life."

Killian's heart stutters in his chest.

"Oh, there it is! Tell me. Please enlighten your audience, captain."

Killian's jaw is a vice, tight enough that his bruised throat burns. He forces the words through clenched teeth. "Brennan Jones."

"How cold, truly. Name, not relationship? That's a good sign, I'd worried you'd gone too soft." Hades grins, that vicious fire in his eyes returned. "Who was he, Hook?"

"You already bloody well know." The contempt in his expression could rival the god's.

Hades steps into his face so he's all Killian can see. The god himself burns and freezes like the cell itself does. "I want to hear it. From you."

His gaze falls. "My father."

Killian couldn't look his father in the eye as he drove the knife into him, and Hades knows it, it seems. There are very few lives he's taken with a broken gaze. He'd excused it as remaining vigilant of his surroundings, and it was. But in truth, it was simple guilt. Hades has chosen to toy with his mind, with his guilt — it's a familiar twist of the knife that's been stuck in his gut for centuries. Killian dreads the game that this god of demons has in store for him. He'd thought he'd seen the worst that the worlds' most manipulative bastards had to offer, but this was a god.

"Thank you." Hades whispers it condescendingly into his ear, before stepping back and opening his arms in a grand gesture. "Now, I have a very special gift just for you. Consider it an audition."

"For what?"

 "You said it yourself, didn’t you? Dark Ones don’t get to retire." He clicks his tongue disapprovingly with a shake of his head.

"What do you want from me?" Killian spits. He's running out of patience. And sense.

 "That's the spirit! Keep that energy going, you'll need it."

Killian almost lunges at the man, stepping forward with the knife raised in threat. His hook did nothing, he doubts this little thing could do any better but wielding it in Hades direction feels better than just standing around. Hades feigns surprise.

"Easy, now." The 'surprise' turns to a smirk. "Save it for your cellmate."

Killian squints, keeping the blade up. "Cellmate?"

"You didn't notice? My, my, I thought your instincts were better than that, Hook."

Hades practically pouts at him, shrugging when Killian's eyes scan the cell. The grated bars lack any door, and the other stone walls are empty. There's nothing but blood and chains hanging off the wall. He looks to Hades again who smiles, his shrug relaxes as his eyes drift up from Killian to something directly above him.

Dread fills Killian's gut. He follows the god's gaze up to the cell's ceiling and his stomach drops.

Above, wrapped in hanging chains, is a bloody mass of a man, hanging limply. His blood-matted hair hangs down and obscures his features, but Killian knows that face. He knows it anywhere. He's seen it in nightmares for centuries, seen his smiling assurance that night before he sold Killian and Liam away. He's seen that desperate dying face tell Killian he could still change and be a better man, seen it every night when he's closed his eyes. Killian's father hangs unconscious, beaten, bloodied, and chained. In hell. And Killian sent him here.

[chodzacaparodia]

hiii i know i have like 2 things to respond to you about (apologies, i have been traveling for my company's holiday party lol), BUT! since you reblogged the fic writer asks post, i'm going to ask about:

10. what is the longest amount of time you’ve let a draft rest before you finished it?

12. a trope you’re really into right now

13. a fandom you’re thinking about writing for

14. where do you get your inspiration?

17. talk about your writing and editing process

27. your favorite part of the writing process

28. your least favorite part of the writing process

29. how easy is it for you to come up with titles?

feel free to answer any or all of them (i know it's a lot 💀)

hiii ( ﾉ^ω^)ﾉ take your take! I hope you had fun :3

And thank you for the asks 🫶🏻

10. what is the longest amount of time you’ve let a draft rest before you finished it?

Ehhh. It's hard to say? Recently, one of my fics was lying around for about 4 months because I left it to write 2 other fics (which is funny because it was a fic about a divorce and I left it to write a fic about a wedding 🙈)💀 But I have too many unfinished ones, including one that's been waiting for me to get back to it for over a year :')

12. a trope you’re really into right now

Pining!!! I love pining so much, for me it almost always has to be pining! I really love it when one character pines for another. I especially love it, when the character I like more is the object of pining, because I can pour my love for him into the character hahah. Like, bruh, I totally understand why you're so hopelessly in love with that character, I feel the same lmaoo.

But when it comes to reading, I've recently gotten really into the Hanahaki Disease trope and I'm increasingly thinking about finally putting on paper one idea that's been brewing in my head for a long time. But first I definitely have to finish 2 other fics that I'm working on (and in one that I'm working on seriously, there's so much pining that it's embarrassing lmao)

13. a fandom you’re thinking about writing for

I would like to write something from "Shadow of the fox" by Julie Kagawa someday! This fandom is practically non-existent, which is a shame (hellooo, there is Japanese folklore, and even doomed by narrative yaoi lmaoo). Okame and Daisuke deserve their happy story and there are only 11 fanfics about them on ao3 😭

And I would like to write something fro "My Hero Academia" someday! Tododeku is the reason I started reading fanfiction in the first place and it's scandalous that I haven't written anything about them yet

14. where do you get your inspiration?

I wouldn't say I usually get inspiration from anything? It's just that at random moments an idea, scene or dialogue pops into my head and I create a whole story around it. Although often, when I develop these stories, I often draw inspiration from my own feelings or fears or some stupid things I saw on the internet 💀or I happened to write a fic strongly inspired by another anime than the one characters belong to

17. talk about your writing and editing process

As I mentioned earlier, it starts with an idea. A scene or dialogue appears in my head, and I create the rest of the story around it. And that's usually how I start, by describing those scenes and dialogues, and then I create completely different scenes and dialogues. I almost never write in order, they're always random scenes, which I then try to somehow connect into a whole 💀 I often move a given scene to another moment in the fic, depending on where it suits me better.

I edit the text when I translate it into English. I always write the whole thing in Polish first, because it's easier for me to express my thoughts that way, sometimes I add sentences in English right away, because I know they'll fit well there. When the Polish text is finished, I start translating from the beginning. When translating, I immediately correct what was wrong or unfinished (because sometimes I don't finish sentences and break them off halfway 💀). I'm aware that the text won't be perfect, because often what sounds sensible in my language may not make sense in English. But I try 🥹

27. your favorite part of the writing process

When I hit "publish" on ao3 and I know I'm officially done 😭😭 I really like it when the whole thing is done, like a burden is lifted. But I also really like writing dialogue! That's when the characters come alive and show their personality

28. your least favorite part of the writing process

WRITING lmaoo. Writing really is torture, this hobby more gives joy and suffering. And I especially hate writing summaries for stories. Like, I know I spent weeks, months writing these stories, but how do I describe it in a few sentences? How am I supposed to encourage people to read this? Bruh, I spent so much time on this, here's my sweat, blood and tears, if you want to read it, read it, I don't know how else to tell you about it, my dear potential reader 😭 My brain can't handle it

29. how easy is it for you to come up with titles?

The second thing I hate after writing summaries. It takes me too much time. I can write a fic for over a month and spend that time wondering what to name it. Sometimes it happens to me that the title is born right away, usually with the fic idea. But more often, the title waits until I write the whole story and decide what fits it best. I usually have a working title for a story before I change it (I know very well that I'll change it).

Again, thank you so much for asking ♡♡♡

Fic writer asks