#killian has walls

[mockiery]

Once Upon A Time 3x05 "Good Form" my beloved, I know the text and shots and scene transitions directly parallel Hook saving David's life to Killian's loss of his brother, and Killian's pained expressions of seeing David succumb more and more to the same poison Liam did. Killian's insistence David tell his family, give them the chance to say goodbye that Killian didnt have with his brother. Of Killian himself sayinf David reminded him of Liam, his canonical hero. I know the ep's dialogue speaks of Killian's want to be seen as a man of honor, to be that man of honor.

And I know Killian would absolutely have been a deflective ass with the "I didn't do it for you" to David about saving his life, bantering teasingly that he did it for Emma like David has accused all of his actions to get to and be at Neverland as - just a selfish attempt to have Emma.

And I know Killian's half-joking flirtation with Emma later with "Is that all your father's life is worth to you?" is in character bc for his entire presence on the show previously he has used compliments of himself and flirtatious remarks as deflection, jokes, and to be actively antagonistic/inflammatory/annoying/playful.

I know all of this. I know this is all perfectly in character and the nonspoken motives informed by the flashbacks to his past and his performance are deeply in character. But christ alive I wish that a tiny little line would've been added in somewhere that made it clear that his motivations in this ep and the Neverland arc as a whole weren't just about Emma bc it feels like the writers partially forgot this in 3a, despite the strength of this episode and all its parallels. They say characters' feelings out loud or allude to them more directly in dialogue all the time like pleeeeeeease, you could've made it a lil more obvious it's not solely bc of Emma like. i just wish it wasn't easily misread if u didn't read into it deeper with Killian's characterization, beyond his contradicting words

[simgerale]

CHAPTER ONE ; 3/3

TRANSCRIPT:

killian: Mama gets so testy this time of year.

dara: Try being Empress to an entire nation. Oh, right—that will be me.

k: And you get especially testy. Really, what is it about spring?

gregor: The snow melts, and everyone wants to renew their trade deals with unreasonable demands. Nothing new.

k: The politics of it all… how exhausting. [mumbling] Every year, I am more and more grateful that I gave up my chance at the throne.

[The secret door shuts behind him, the mechanism locking into place with a soft thud]

g: I will take my leave, as well. How long are you going to be in here?

d: All day. As I am participating in the trade talks this time, I must know everything there is to know.

g: Oh well. I was going to invite you to the luncheon regarding magic reform.

d: Let me know if any good ideas float around, will you?

g: ...As always.

[hvbris]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

Violet had never seen so much blood in her life. The world had turned onto an ocean of red, and in her ears, like the ringing of a bell, she could hear Sloane’s voice. He doesn’t like blood. Yes, Theo did not like blood, and yet he was covered in it, and nothing she did seemed to stop the carmine flow. With shaky hands, she kept applying pressure against the wound with her sweater, her tears falling uselessly in the puddle of blood.

She watched as Theo reached for his gun, aiming at a distressed Sloane. In all his sorrow, all she could see was the grotesque shell of a man, empty inside. Even his tears left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. She thought about the expression, crocodile tears, and all she could see was a big, cruel crocodile crying over his own wicked actions.

When Theo put the gun down, Violet reached for it, keeping one hand still on the sweater. She would still think about this moment, years later. The day she realised that terrible things could be done for noble reasons. She had never held a gun before. She had read about guns and how they worked, in fact she knew the mechanism quite well. But feeling it against her skin was a very different thing altogether, and it sent a shiver down her spine. It was cold against her blood-stained hand. She did not falter.

“GO AWAY!” she screamed at Sloane’s slouched silhouette, “leave us alone!!! Go away!!!” And then, aiming at best she could, she pulled the trigger.

He'd heard her scream and even as he hit the floor, Theo worried that he had failed to protect Violet. When he landed, he had tried to sit up again, feeling the horrible pain in his side and then a rigid tightness that stole his breath. His hand went instinctively to press against the pain and in an instant he felt the warm and thick consistency of blood. His hand shot away and he gasped breathlessly in pain and horror. He knew it was his own blood, he knew it was not going to stop and he knew he was not going to be able to get away from it. None of that was at all appealing to him.

Barely a moment later and Violet was at his side, putting pressure on the wound as he tried to twist himself out of the growing pool of blood on his shirt and on the floor. He caught her trying to reassure him, the words landing with some delay as he eyed her from the floor and then the flames as they engulfed the counter and beside it stood Sloane. He had a hand over his mouth, tears in his eyes as he dropped the gun he had just shot him with as if it burned him. Tossing it away from himself and staring, shocked at him on the floor. "No, no, no, no, no." Sloane complained and hit his head with his hands in some sort of punishment.

Theo went for his gun again and to aim it at Sloane, terrified and surrounded by things that only fed that very real fear, he wanted another threat 'extinguished' in that moment but he couldn't stabilise himself and he felt the pain in his chest only get worse. He put his arm back down and looked to Violet instead, not even sure what the hell to say or do. He'd been shot before but not with a lunatic in the room that happened to be on fire and a fourteen year old who needed his help. He wondered if this was it, that he would die in the shop he started life in. Was it poetic? It didn't feel that way.

[novaursa]

Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come. 

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather. 

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal. 

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be. 

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home. 

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again. 

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love. 

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together. 

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

[theodoresgirl]

hey I have a request for a Killian jones x female reader where the female reader is Emma’s twin sister (looks more like snow) and has a 3 year old daughter from a past toxic relationship, if you can’t do it that’s fine either way thank you :)

Killian jones x Emma’s twin sister

Killian jones x Fem!Reader

A/n: I did not forget about this request, Sorry it took me a few days to do! Hope you enjoy<3

—————————————————————————

Y/n was the daughter of David Nolan and Mary Margaret. She also is the twin sister of the savior Emma Swan. She grew up being bounced between foster homes in New Orleans. When she was 23 she had gotten into a really toxic relationship, at 25 she got pregnant and had a daughter.

She had been stuck in the toxic relationship until she was 28, She had packed up her and some of her daughters things and left in the middle of the night.

She had silky long black hair that was curly, brown eyes and a round face with dimples. She almost looked like a clone of Mary Margaret. Her daughter Edith had long dark brunette hair with emerald eyes.

Killian had met y/n and her daughter Edith one day when she had went to visit her sister and parents for one of the first times.

⭐️

Thursday June 25th, 12:51pm.

Y/n was sitting on the top deck of the jolly roger with Edith, They were eating some sandwiches from granny’s. They were waiting on Killian to finish cleaning his ship.

Edith was sitting on the edge of the ship walls looking out on the water, Y/n kept her view on her daughter and occasionally if he was in view, glancing at killian. Y/n finishes her sandwich and crumbles up the wrapper putting it into a bag.

Y/n looks around trying to see killian but doesn’t, “can i have your trash princess?” She holds the bag out so Edith can put her trash in it, “and I need you to be on the deck instead of railing so I can go run this up to the dumpster” Edith shakes her head as she puts her trash into the bag.

“I can’t leave you on the railing of the boat- ship? You could fall in the water” “Mermaid” edith looks over the edge. “It doesn’t work that way” She holds Edith back so she doesn’t fall. “I’ll watch her, Don’t worry about it love” Killian came up behind her, startling her. “Oh!- it’s fine- you- You don’t gotta worry about it, Weren’t you cleaning?” she nervously smiled, still not used to someone offering to help her.

“I’m done cleaning, Honestly love we could just head back to your loft if you wanted-“ “i wanna stay” the little one interrupted. Y/n sighed before nodding “i’ll be right back then” she said as she walked down and off the jolly roger.

“Alright then love” Killian smirks and she walks away. He turns towards Edith and leans against the railing of the ship and holds himself up with his elbows. “So what do you like kiddo?” He asked curiously. Edith answered back “Princess, Cartoons, Barbie-“ “I'm gonna have to cut you off there my lady, I have no idea what this ‘barbie’ is, Cartoons too?” Killian admitted. Edith looks at Killian with a confused look, “you don’t know barbie?”. Killian shook his head “what is it?”

“Barbie is movies, some of my favorites” She smiles. “You’ll have to show me one next time I’m over then” Killian pats her head with his hand.

Edith nods and giggles “we can watch a mermaid one” “oh? There’s mermaids?” Killian raises an eyebrow. “yes!! Yes!!” she nods and smiles.

⭐️

Saturday June 27th, 8:00pm

Y/n was laying in the living room with Killian and Edith. Edith was sitting in front of her mother and the pirate watching Barbie: In a Mermaid Tale 2. Killian was laying on the couch with y/n laying on his chest.

Killian had his focus on the tv, only sometimes asking questions about ‘Barbie’, and either getting an answer from the little brunette in front of him or the pale skinned woman in his arms.

After the movie was over both Y/n and Edith were asleep, Killian carefully slips himself out from under Y/n and picks her up. He carries her to her bedroom and lays her down before going out to the living room again and turning everything off. He picks up little Edith and carries her to her room and lays her down, tucking her in, “Goodnight Kiddo.” He muttered as he walked out of the room going into Y/n.

[dracolichen]

I've spent most of artfight working on this 100 character BG3 mass attack!

I'll zoom in, break it down, and list everyone below the cut!

In the foreground we have half-illithid buddies Favour from @rennybu and Ohta from @sori4partyrock greeting each other, with Saelihn Oriandyr on the left from aaazulisms and Kera from neutropara on the right. On the bench against the right edge is @thatglassofwater's Hallow talking to @swordmaid's Shri'iia. Behind her head is glampiirez's Axl.

Around the fireplace (that is behind the beam on the left edge) we have Imill from @cvnnbl leaning on the beam and facing @smuffeycat's Xaphan. Not quite to the circle but walking towards it is Amarlene, who belongs to dark.rabs. On the stool is @rosaart's Cobwynn Varmillier, next to Glimmer, from aspensarts. Dhenvod Suruc from @tboy-vampire talking with Chiaki Kobayashi from mimiqt. Spore-to-spore communication is happening between @ritelli-main's Rue and Faoryn Oru from _spiderwiz_. Last around the circle is the couple, Absalom and Alius, from gravesyard and birdlion respectively.

Let's start zooming in.

On the left end we have Misryn Goldsinger from @gatchayam, Soleil from riloops, and Vivern from ObsceneLemon. Walking by in front is jynxiejinx's Wynnie. Heisenberg-Chan's Dianthus is talking to @almightyjanitor's Aetias Larkspur and CormorantColors's Caurus. Siobhan from @wopwops is facing Eve from @lilyveins.

Next table!

From left to right we have; Astral_Queer's Tif Starlight, @asterroses's Hellefer, @riteofthorns's Alistair Fee, @noumios's Yatim Ravenheart, @dellabeat's Azar, @husvetten's Drashok, and supurrnovae's Rynri Ashtale.

Let's continue moving to the right and look at the entry area.

In the left foreground we have Quina from Drawbabycrybaby and @sound-nin's Nowhere. Behind them is @not-so-dreary-november's Kiya by the window and @digitalduckie's couple Royce Martin and Rusel. In the doorway is RDR's Aura. Continuing along that wall we have Skully_'s Eduin with Elzebubz's Amenadiel. In the upper right corner is Pauli_Tau_'s Pine sitting with @diroxide's Forza. In front of them is nermadethis's illithid Zephyr, with Antipione Misrali from AtlasHyperion sitting on the railing around the corner. Behind her on the bench is Quillarya and her familiar, Ink, from @loopyhoopywrites. At the little round table is Ruby Stoneheart from @fishyjpg having a scholarly discussion with Sterling from Echo_Dutchie.

Let's get the round table in the middle next.

Leaning on the railing behind the table is Auric with his crow Handsome from DeservedlyFluffy. @labotor's Thora Stormgrave distracts the table to get them facing her while her pal Griz M Rhazgut looks for a pick pocketing opportunity from below the railing. The dragonborn is @barrel-of-fantrolls's Jasper, the half orc is @eggsaladed's Cyriak, the drow Zelya and the tiefling Cobalt are both from @cobaltspace. In front of them at the bottom is @new-austin's Funkledunk already going for a refill on the pitcher. Leaving the bar area with a full pitcher is @shoestrum's Zylas, with SpoinkleyDoingle's Braham next to him. Coming up the stairs is Remora d'Amaronis from @labotor as well.

We'll zoom in again for the folks behind them.

At the window in the upper left is Makepeace from @starofthelabyrinth. Heading into the lower bar area is @skyberia's Néphos Huan, and applauding from behind the railing is Emerald Berylis from AceTrainerWes. The furthest back table has two characters each from vaporwaved8666 and @mollycoddlings, the siblings in the middle Tango and Aurora, with Killian and Burke on the ends.In front of them is our band, with Dagny from MDoebling standing on a barrel, surrounded by @azvhaalk's Sólstafir, @princefleabitten's Faeryl, and @dellabeat's Apostrophe on the hurdy-gurdy. In front of the band is Fish from @p0rcelain-b0yy. Panic from katiesimrell is coming down the back stairs, with @phantasmaghosti's Ahlysaaria leaning on the beam at the top and @milkfreaker's Apollon peering over the railing. Jhansra from @void-star and Jibril from Mothley_Cruee are conversing at the other background table.

Sliding over to the bar next!

On the bottom left @milkfreaker's Midra and TheKrakenSovereign's Nyhmmendra are facing the band. Behind them is @hoivess's dragonborn trio, Lucille Abdiel, Des Delos, and Saoirse Hymsong. In the back is @staggbones Pelaios Dretche with @shheep's Acorn, facing the card table. On the right side of the table is @corpsetype's Ciaran and snobsi's Yvon. Sitting at the car in front of them is @sysunknown's Riza D'aerthe, @noumios's Thyris "Euphoria" Dharvir, and @voltaical-art's Bishop. (Featuring the back of my own Vigor's head to fill in as bartender.)

Looking up real quick we have our acrobats!

Estrella the Radiant from @getetteroo and Smiles from @ahauntedcafe!

Last section!!

In the bottom left @hildamistwater's Yevgeniy Kuznetsov is passing a drink up to Ashara from canzadrine. Cansu from semageon is at the keg behind them. Ezra Deschain from @unkledeath is walking towards the back where bottles are being retrieved from, as iluvhisoka's Kaz departs with one on the left and @mollfie's Zinadove approaches with one. Parashy's Pebble sits on the step and looks on as argonlights's Loren celebrates and @lhtiriekko chills a bottle in the back.

Unless I mismarked my spreadsheet, that should be everyone!! Happy Artfight everyone, I hope you enjoyed our post-game party here in the Elfsong, even if you got where's waldo'd!

[potato-on-your-head]

listen Emma Swan is morosexual and exclusively attracted to men who are cringefail in one way or another, the most functional person she sort-of dated was probably Graham and even then their first makeout happened after she'd spent the whole day with him while he was having a nervous breakdown. her other flames include a pretend furniture salesman who fake pined after her until she noticed him, a 200-year-old twentysomething conman who taught her how to commit felonies at age 18, and a pirate who flipped from Kitten Thinks Of Nothing But Murder All Day to puppy-eyed pining for one (1) Emma Swan in the course of like a week. she was a goner the moment Killian Jones sauntered onto the scene. she's kicked his ass. she's seen others kick his ass. she watched him get hit by a fucking car. he said the dumbest flirty shit to her until she mashed her face into his from the sheer sexual tension.

it was always just a contest between which brand of moron she was going to pick in the end. she chose to be ride or die for Hot Eyeliner Pirate and we love her for it

you know who else in funny? Neal. I cannot get over how much of a loser he is. And the fact that he thought he ever stood a chance when it came between him and Hook??? Guy Liner McPuppy Eyes? Emma walks into his his line of sight and his world is instantly rocked. Killian Jones would NEVER get engaged to a random woman on the street because he was too scared to face Emma. Also Neal has zero drip. Man is wearing a dirty t-shirt and sweatpants 100% of the time. Hook is in dashing black pirate attire. He’s got a detachable hook for a hand and has alluded to having ~other~ attachments for it as well. Baelfire calls his dad “papa” despite being a grown man. “When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it. It will not be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me.” Neal baby i’m so sorry but you could nevvvverrrrrrr

[donteattheappleshook]

Not Broken at All Chapter 18/?

Summary:

A season 1 Neverland AU. Emma is still trying to adjust to her new life as Sheriff of Storybrooke and mom to Henry, who still believes everyone in town is a fairytale creature. When she finds a badly beaten, one handed man while patrolling, she’s convinced he’s crazy. He is, after all, rambling about fairies and shadows and crocodiles. But when Henry is suddenly taken out the window of a house everyone believes is haunted, the madman in the hospital might be her only hope of getting her son back. Whether he likes it or not.

Rated E

Catch up on Ao3 (where my italics work) or on Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Oh hey! What's up everyone?

I know it's been a while (shocking) but it's Solstice today and the muse decided something needed to be posted for this fic in honour of the fairy orgies XD

This was written super fast and not really re-read because it's already 10pm so I'll probably edit it later but I'm giving it to you all now.

Happy Solstice and I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3

********

Part 18

“Doesn’t look so bad,” Will shrugs when they stand outside the mouth of the cave the next morning. Emma and Wendy roll their eyes at the same time. It does look that bad. For a place called Echo Cave she’d had expected something bigger, something louder. But all she can see as they approach is a narrow tunnel in the rockface, no sound escaping from within. So she jumps when Tiger Lily’s voice suddenly comes from within. 

“You’re late.”

“Apologies,” Killian nods. “The forest has changed a fair bit since I last made the journey - it took us longer than anticipated to find the path.” 

“You have a habit of doing that,” Tiger Lily scoffs. “Misinterpreting time.” 

The reply is so quick, and Killian’s sigh so exhausted, that Emma has to hold back a snort of laughter.

“We came as fast as we could.”

“Come then, let’s not delay any further. The others have gathered.” 

“Who are the others?” Emma asks Hook quietly as they follow.

“The eldest of those who were here before Pan. They were barely more than children when it happened, but They have some memory of how things were.” 

“I thought you said they’d forgotten all their magic.” 

“We did not forget,” Tiger Lily snaps from the entrance. Emma watches as the faint, gold dusting of magic that covers their skin, the only light in the otherwise pitch black cave shimmers and slides over their arm, cascading like water down through their fingers  that they trail along the  rocky wall, leaving flecks of sparking, gold dust in their wake.  “It was taken from us. Through slaughter and cruelty. When the children who were left behind grew enough to become a threat to Pan, we were forced to lock away what little we remembered or meet the same fate.” 

Every time she thinks it can’t get worse, it does. The massacre of Tiger Lily’s people and the destruction of their history, the torture and killing of the Lorelei, the horror of the murder of those boys on the beach. There’s no end it seems to Pan’s cruelty, to his thirst for blood. 

Emma reaches for the shimmering of light that remains along the wall, glittering and moving with the flow of the rough surface. It glows brighter beneath her touch and something swells from deep within her, rushing to meet it, warm and electrifying, before she yanks her hand back and stumbles the rest of the way though. 

The walk is long, this cave buried deep in darkness and stardust. She’s not sure she even hears it at first, a small whisper of a voice from far away, the words too quiet to make out, but repeating. As they continue along and a dim light starts to appear in the distance, they grow louder. It’s a child’s voice, rolling against the walls of the cave - wish I’d never come here… just want to go home. Just want to go home. Just want to go home….

She feels Killian’s hand on the small of her back and realizes she’s stopped walking. “It’s alright, love. It’s just an echo. The last secret that was shared here.” She still hesitates, not wanting to get any closer to the haunting voice. “Whoever they were, they’re not here anymore.”

“His name was Ruffio,” Will says, nearly as quiet as the first echo. “He’s been gone a long time.” He only meets her eye for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing as though he hadn’t said anything. She can’t blame him. She knows by now that nobody in Neverland ever goes home. “Come on - we’ve got secrets to spill.” 

The light ahead grows until finally they emerge into a massive cavern. The stone that surrounds them black onyx - gleaming faintly against the dust that covers the ceiling like a galaxy above them. The space feels boundless, endless like the darkness could go on forever and she’s reminded of their flight here, of the endless sea of stars they’d sailed in on. 

There are four people standing in the center of the chamber on a platform of the same black onyx, all of them with the same sharp, androgynous features as Tiger Lily, all with the same loose-fitting clothes and cropped hair, and all with that same shimmer of living magic glowing faintly in the dark. Tink stands with them, waiting. None of them are any older in appearance than herself, but she knows better by now than to judge age or power by appearance on this island. 

The Constant. 

They follow the rest of the way to the narrow, stone bridge that connects the ledge to the platform on which the others stand. When Emma takes a step to follow Tiger Lily onto the bridge, Killian puts an arm out, halting her in her tracks. Emma watches, heart in her throat as the bridge crumbles after Tiger Lily, stone falling away behind every step until they reach the end and there’s no bridge at all. 

“The Constant keep no secrets,” Killian explains. “The cave can’t compel anything from them. We, on the other hand…” 

“Of course they don’t.” No wonder they wanted to use this place. Easy to make others share their deepest darkest secrets when you’ve got none of your own to divulge and nothing to risk. “What about Tink?” she asks, nodding at the fifth person standing with the Constant.

“The fey have wings.” 

Right. “So how does this work?” 

“From what I remember, you step out onto the edge and call out your secret. If it’s truly your darkest, the cave will echo it back to you.”

“And then we get across?” 

“Aye, easy as that,” Killian attempts a smile, but it comes out as a wince. “I’ll go,” he offers though he looks like he’s dreading this as much as she is. She’s just thankful she doesn’t have to start.  He lets out another sigh, bracing himself and then, “I kissed Emma.” 

Fuck. Her heart drops into her stomach. He’s been a pirate for two hundred years - How the hell can his darkest secret have anything to do with her?

Will smirks. “Kissed? Is that what they’re calling it these days? And I think you’re forgetting that we were all there when she jumped you at Solstice.” His smirk deepens. “And when Emma came back all wet.” If Emma could reach him she’d smack him. 

“I literally walked in on you,” Wendy deadpans.

“I’m not talking about Solstice,” he sighs, not rising to the bait. “It was…” She knows when it was. We’ll keep each other safe, they’d promised. She doesn’t need everyone else to know though. Not when she’s not even sure what any of it meant or what it means now. “It doesn’t matter,” Killian shakes his head. “It was what the kiss - what all of it - exposed.” Fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. “My secret is… I never believed that I’d be capable of letting go of my first love, of my Milah.” He breathes her name like a prayer and a wound. “To believe that I could find someone else.” His eyes lift to hers and it’s only by sheer force of will that she’s able to stop herself from taking a step back, from running away from the way he’s looking at her. Because she needs to hear this. They all do. If she wants to get across this fucking bridge, if she wants to talk to the fucking Constant, if she wants to get her son back - she needs to hear this secret as much as he needs to tell it. “That is, until I met you.”

She doesn’t know what to say or if she’s supposed to say something, can’t bring herself to look at Wendy or Will or look away from his eyes still burning into hers. And then before she even can do anything, Killian’s voice echoes through the cave, ‘until I met you’ called back to them like a ghost. A rumble follows as a section of the fallen bridge rises back from the depths below them, rock by rock, rebuilding itself. 

Killian lets out a humourless laugh. “So, who’d like to go next?” 

“I will.” Wendy stands with her shoulders straight, like she’s ready for a fight rather than a confession. Emma gets a sinking feeling in her stomach from the way she’s making herself look at Killian, with shame and guilt. He doesn’t look surprised - he looks like he expected this to hurt. “Sometimes… Sometimes I wish you’d never found me. Sometimes I wish you had just kept on walking that day when Pan left me to die.” She winces. “I’ll always be grateful to you for saving my life, for taking me in but…” 

Killian nods when she hesitates, her eyes damp with unshed tears. “Go on, it’s alright.”  

“You trapped me here, Hook. You’re the reason I have to live in this neverending nightmare. Forever. You knew what that water would do to me and I know you couldn’t ask but… you didn’t give me a choice. And I think that if I had one now - if I could have had a say in the next hundred years of my life… I’d rather you’d just let me die because this -” she gestures at herself, at everything around them.  “It’s worse than death. And because of you I’ll never leave.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “I can’t even die if I want to. Not unless Pan decides that’s what he wants. You forced this life on me, Killian, you cursed me to live because it made you feel better and I don’t… I’ll never forgive you for that.” 

Tears stain her cheeks now, jaw tight as she refuses to let any more follow and Emma can see the heartbreak on Killian’s face. “Wendy…” but she shakes her head and he stops the step he’d taken towards her. 

“I’m sorry,” she chokes and he shakes his head this time. Her secret echoes around them like a taunt this time - ‘never forgive you for that’ - and another piece of the bridge rebuilds itself. The silence hangs between them, louder than any echo, until Will steps up. 

“I suppose I should go next - while we’re on the topic of never being forgiven.” He takes his own steadying breath. “I’m dying.” 

Wendy’s face falls. “... what?” It comes out cracked and small and frightened. “What do you mean you’re dying?”

The look Will gives her - there’s so much guilt there, so much pain and self-loathing and love. Emma may not know much about it but she can recognize it now in his eyes, in the way he looks at Wendy. “I lied when I told you I didn’t know what Pan did to my heart. I’ve seen him do it before.”

“One hundred years…”

Will nods, a self-deprecating smile falling flat. “I really hoped that I could keep it from you for a little longer. Neverland will slow it down but… he squeezed a hundred years from my heart. I’ll start aging faster - a lot faster - and pretty soon…”

“How long?” He hesitates a beat longer than Emma can handle - and Wendy… gods, she can’t imagine. “How long?”

“I’ll be dead in a few months - three, maybe four depending on how long I would have lived if I’d aged like a normal person but - I’m so sorry, Wen. I didn’t want to tell you, I -”

Whatever he was going to say and whatever she might have answered  is stolen by the cave calling back to them in Will’s voice, ‘dead in a few months’. Nobody looks as the bridge puts itself back together, all of them too focused on the cruel revelation. He did it for her, Emma realises, for all of them but… he’s dying because of her. Wendy’s losing him because of her. Even Killian looks solemn at the news. 

“Your turn, Emma,” Will chokes out with the palest attempt at levity she’s seen him manage since she met him. “Wouldn’t want to be left out of all the fun, would you?”

She looks out towards the chasm between them and the Constant. She doesn’t even know what she expected to confess, or what she’d hear confessed by those with her, and now, with the truth of Will’s fate hanging in the air, nothing feels like it matters in the grand scheme of things. 

What even is her deepest secret? That she gave up Henry? That she had her heart broken by a selfish man who used her and then left her? That she spent a year of her life in jail? That she’s spent her whole life searching for the parents who left her behind? That between Neal and her parents she doesn’t think she could ever trust someone again - could ever let herself love someone again, or let them love her… That she might be anyway? None of it feels like enough; none of it even feels like a secret anymore, not since Henry found her and brought her to Storybrooke. 

And then, like bile and sick, she feels something being forced up from her throat, words clawing their way to the surface and past her lips of their own volition. She can’t stop them. She doesn’t even know what she’s going to say until they come spilling out. 

“I wish Henry had never come to find me. I wish he’d never brought me to Storybrooke.” The confession leaves her gasping, tears in her eyes as though she had been sick. She wants to be, hearing such a horrible truth being spoken out loud. Killian looks at her with sympathy, but she turns away from it. And once it’s started, she can’t stop it. “I never wanted to be a mother. I gave him away because I knew he’d be better off without me - but also because I knew I’d be better off without him. He’s a beautiful, amazing kid and I love him more than anything… but I never asked for this. Every day since he showed up at my door I’ve been terrified - every minute of every day. Those few minutes in the Fae forest when I couldn’t remember him were the most peaceful I’ve felt in months and when it all came flooding back it just reminded me of how much simpler my life was before I had to be anything to anyone. I don’t want to lose him. But I never wanted to find him either.” 

The bridge rebuilds itself, completing the path across as the worst thing she’s ever said, ‘never wanted to find him’,  is echoed back to her cruelly. She feels drained, numb, and she wonders if the others are feeling this horrible emptiness too. She looks out at where the Constant wait. If this is their idea of having them prove their allegiance, they better be ready to give theirs in return.

“Come on, Swan,” Killian tells her, leading her across the bridge. None of them say a word, Will and Killian both casting glances at Wendy who won’t look up from her feet, and the silence follows them the whole way across. 

“That sounded rough,” Tink comments when they reach the platform, the five Constant talking in harsh whispers in a language she doesn’t recognize. 

“How lucky of you to have missed it then,” Will snips. He must be feeling worse than Emma realized.

There’s an argument starting, still in that foreign language, but she can tell just the same. Every few words there’s a glimpse of something that feels familiar, a syllable from another language she’s heard, a word that could be French or Spanish, a glimpse of English, not one language but many - like every language spoken at once.

“This meeting has been a topic of some controversy,” Killian whispers. “But I think Tiger Lily might be on our side.” 

“You can understand them?” 

He shrugs. “One picks up a few things after two centuries.”

There’s a small scoff from Tink. “Yeah, all that pillow talk was really educational.”

Killian ignores the quip. “They’re the keepers of the last of the forgotten history of the old Neverland.” He nods at each as he names them. “That’s Philodendron, Halcyon, Alder, Jacaranda, and you know Tiger Lily.

“Tiger Lily is one of them?” 

“Tiger Lily was the oldest Constant to survive the massacre. They were just shy of a century when Pan took over.”

“A century?”

“The Constant are eternal, love. A century is nothing.” 

The Constant have gone silent, a tense, begrudging conclusion to their argument that Emma can feel even if she doesn’t know the words. 

Finally, Tiger Lily speaks. “Tinkerbell tells us you wish to unearth the secrets of the island - secrets that were buried to keep us safe.”

“Secrets that could return the island to the way it once was if you ally with us against Pan,” Killian counters. 

“If our knowledge could have defeated the boy,” Alder interjects, “we would have done so a millenia ago when he first laid waste to this island.” 

“Maybe your knowledge alone couldn’t defeat him, but we have the Lorelei on our side, and the fae,” Wendy adds, gesturing at Tink. 

Alder scoffs. “You have one fairy. One who’s been without magic for almost five hundred years, who’s magic was corrupted by the very demon you seek to destroy. Our magic was born from the innocence and dreams of children, the purest light magic there is, and even it was snuffed out by Pan’s darkness. What chance have you with a weakened fairy and the duplicitous sirens?” 

“We have more than that,” Tink interjects, bitterness and insult obvious in the bite of her words. “We have her.” It takes Emma a moment to realize that she’s the one being gestured at and now every set of eyes is on her. 

“Me?” 

“Her?” Wendy frowns. 

“You can’t honestly tell me you haven’t noticed. She practically reeks of magic. It’s spilling out of every pore. I clocked it as soon as she got here.” 

“I don’t have magic.” The Constant continue to stare, questioning, doubting. “I don’t. Don’t you think if I did I’d have used it by now to get Henry back?” 

“Not if you weren’t aware of it, love,” Killian offers gently.

“Okay but I’m not some fairytale character; I’m from Boston - the land without magic. I don’t have any power.” 

“Oh for…” Tink swears under her breath, crossing the room and grabbing Emma’s wrist. Faster than she can stop her, the fairy pulls a small blade from the complicated twist of pins and leather that keeps her mass of blonde hair piled on top of her head, ivory handle embellished with gold runes, and slashes it across Emma’s palm. 

“Ow! What the hell!” Emma shouts, yanking her hand away. That fucking hurt. Tinkerbelle doesn’t resist, the rest of their small crew moving to intervene, but all at once, they freeze. Emma follows their gazes to her hand, clutched tightly in a fist to her chest and her breath catches. There’s light seeping through the cracks in her fingers, golden and swirling like smoke, shimmering like the magic that flows over the Constant’s skin. 

Jacaranda reaches a hand out to her, palm upturned in a request and Emma looks to the others before carefully placing her hand in theirs. Carefully, the Constant unfurls her fingers, examining the light that shines from her wound with a careful touch. Their eyes go wide. “This is our magic,” they say, voice soft and tinged with awe. “Ours and… something else.” 

“May I?” Philodendron asks, extending their own hand. Emma nods, even as the urge to refuse shouts at her. You don’t have magic. You’re not magic. You’re a goddamn bail bonds person from Boston, not a fairytale character. Philodendron looks at her after taking a moment to examine the wound themselves. “This is light magic,” they confirm. “It’s raw and untapped but powerful, more powerful than anything I’ve seen since before Pan’s time.” They twist her hand a bit, trying to look closer, to read something in whatever they see that Emma can’t. “But this isn’t born of belief and dreams as ours is, it's the product of something else… of -”

“True love,” Emma breathes out, so low she doesn’t mean for anyone to hear it. Henry had said that hadn’t he? That she was supposed to be the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, that she was supposed to be the Saviour. 

“Yes, that’s it,” Philodendron nods slowly. “You were right, Tinkerbelle. This is more powerful magic than we anticipated.” 

“Can you use it?” Emma asks, still not believing it really, but if it means they’ll help her get her kid back, she doesn’t care what she has to do. 

“That depends,” Halcyon takes a step forward. “Can you wield it?” 

“No, I…” she doesn’t even know how this is possible. 

“I can.” They all turn to Tink, Emma cradling her hand to her chest once more. “If you tell me what we need to do, I can guide her. But you’ll have to let me.” The last bit is directed at her and she hesitates… Tink hasn’t exactly made a secret of the fact that she’s not a fan of hers, and she just slashed her damn hand open… Trust already isn’t her strong suit to begin with. “I’m not going to steal it,” Tink snaps and looks genuinely offended and Emma remembers that she knows what it is to have her power taken from her. 

“I know you won’t. I just… what if it doesn’t work?” How powerful could this magic be? She’s not anything special, she never has been. Why would this be any different? 

“Then I guess you don’t get your kid back.” 

“Tink,” Killian warns but Emma can’t help but appreciate the fairy’s bluntness. 

“What do we need to do?” 

“This cavern, ” TigerLily starts, taking a knee and placing a hand reverently on the stone, “used to be a sacred place. It held all of the secrets of Neverland, and the dreams of children who visited - the purest and most honest of truths of all - fueled the island as it did our magic. This was its source - the source of everything. 

“But then Pan tainted this cave with his twisted version of secrets as power, as something to be wielded, and forced us to sacrifice the last of the light magic that still breathed life into Neverland, the cavern shielded itself from his darkness. Now it echoes truths rather than accept ones taken maliciously. This place… has seen nothing but darkness for centuries. It has not been sleeping, but fighting, the last of the resistance against Pan right under his nose, keeping the darkness at bay and it has hardened. We need to remind it what the light looks like.” 

“It can have mine. Whatever this is. If it can help and if this place can defeat Pan it can have all of it.” 

Tiger Lily smiles kindly. “Not all of it. It would never snuff out your light. But even the slightest kindling can spark an inferno and with it you can breathe magic back into the island.” 

“How?” 

They nod to Tink who retrieves her knife again, slashing her own palm this time, the light that glows from her wound a shimmering green, and holds her hand out to Emma. Heat burns across her skin when she takes Tink’s offered hand, the light between them growing, shining and mixing. Tink places her other hand on Tiger Lily’s shoulder and the Constant flattens both their palms against the stone beneath them. After a moment, they look to Emma and she knows she’s doing it wrong. She’s not doing anything but she’s doing it wrong. 

“I’m sorry.”

Tiger Lily shakes their head, their smile not malicious, but understanding. 

“I have met so many lost boys and girls on this island. So many broken, hardened children lead here by fear and hurt and neglect, so afraid to trust, to love, to admit or even accept what they want, what they desire more than anything - what has been robbed of them. This place is born of dreams and truths and you, dear Swan, strong Swan, brave Swan… frightened Swan, have locked yourself away from both.” 

“But I already told this place my darkest secret.” But she doesn’t need Tiger Lily to tell her - this place echoes darkness, resists darkness. That secret was Pan’s magic - not Neverland’s. 

“What do you dream of, Emma? What truths do you keep from yourself?” Emma opens her mouth to speak but Tiger Lily holds up a hand. “Do not tell them to me. Tell them to the lost girl. Unburden her.” 

What does she dream of? Things she can’t have, things she’s never had, things that were taken away. She wants to find her parents, that’s no secret though, she’s always known that. She wants them to have never given her up in the first place. She wanted a family, the one she could have had with Henry and Neal if he hadn’t turned out to be the vile person he was, the life that she’d had just a glimpse of after one missed period, before everything went to shit. She doesn’t want that anymore. She hasn’t let herself want any of it since then, not love, not family, not hope… 

Her skin begins to warm, something flaring beneath the surface. Liar. She doesn’t know if it’s the cave or herself or her magic but it echoes through her like her secret against the walls. Tiger Lily accused her of locking herself away from her dreams, from her truths, but can they even still be truths if they’ve been silenced and stomped down for decades? 

She thinks of the lost girl she was, abandoned, a runaway on the street, burning the last of her childhood, of stupid fairytales and stories to keep warm in a world that was only ever cold. What had that girl wanted? Powerless, lost, alone. That girl who felt like nothing, who meant nothing to anyone, who had never mattered and never would, who had only herself to take care of her. She wanted to matter - to someone, to herself, she wanted people to matter to her, to be able to let them. She didn’t want to be alone anymore. Even as she pushed away every foster parent, every friend, every lover as she grew older, she didn’t want - she doesn’t want - to have to do it alone. 

That’s what she dreams of, what she refuses to admit that she dreams of. That for all of her rightly earned distrust of everyone, for all of her caution and her fear of abandonment, of love and hope, she wants to be able to let them in, let them matter. She wants to believe that she could have that happily ever after that she’s scorned all her life. 

Images flash in her mind as the heat builds, her body tingling, a faint glimmer of light shining against her shut eyelids. Henry smiling in her doorway in Boston, Mary Margaret offering her a home, Killian bringing her to Neverland, Wendy helping her hide from Pan, Will sacrificing himself for her, Killian nearly sacrificing Milah’s name - sacrificing his memories, all of them banding together to help her save her kid, even Tink now, helping her to wield magic she doesn’t understand. 

She’s not alone. She’s not in this alone. For the first time in her life she has people she can count on. People she can trust. She thinks of the smile Henry gave her when she let him know she wasn’t going to leave Storybrooke even though she could, of Mary Margaret’s pep talks, of shared hot chocolate and drinks and advice in their apartment, of Killian in that dank brig after one of the worst hours of her life - perhaps I would - of his words whispered in the quiet darkness of his cabin - I’m here. You don’t have to ask - of his confession echoing around them - until I met you. She does matter to people. She’s not nothing. She was never nothing. She matters and she has people who matter to her. 

Her whole body alights, the blood in her veins not blood anymore but something else, something powerful and she can feel it surging beneath her skin, pulled by a force as it rushes through her and towards that opening in her palm. The white of her light overtakes the green and Tink’s body jerks like the surge of magic is as jarring to her as it is for Emma. Tiger Lily gasps, the ground beneath them starting to glow, tendrils of golden light snaking towards them across the stone like rivulets. Their body starts to shimmer, the dusting of gold shining brighter until their skin is swallowed by it completely. 

Emma can feel sweat beading on her skin, the salt mixing with the tears she hadn’t realized she’d been crying. She doesn’t know how much longer she can keep this up, the power coursing through her overwhelming. Tink’s hand is shaking in hers, both their palms damp and slippery and white knuckled and she can’t imagine how much more effort the fairy is putting in as the one actually channeling all of this. 

“There’s so much,” Tiger Lily says in awe. “We’ve forgotten so much.” Their eyes are glowing with the same gold that covers their skin, their mouth pulling into a smile even as tears roll down their cheeks. 

“I can’t -” Tink starts, but doesn’t let Emma release her hand when she tries to stop.

There’s another moment, the light engulfing the Constant almost completely, so bright Emma has to look away, before finally, suddenly, it stops. The three of them slump against the ground with a gasp of exhaustion. Emma doesn’t even turn when she feels hands on her shoulders, helping her to sit up, she knows it’s him. Wendy is at Tink’s side helping to support her as well as the Constant circle around Tiger Lily, all of them holding one another in a moment that feels beautiful and private as joy and heartbreak play over their faces. 

“Can you. Stop him?” Tink pants out. 

“I… I think so. There’s just - there’s so much. I need time to sort through it all.” 

“We don’t. Have. Time.”

“All of the secrets of Neverland, millennia’s worth, have just been poured into my mind. It will take me more than a few minutes to understand it all and find what will help us.” 

“How much time?” Emma asks. Henry’s already been here too long - too long without knowing that she’s here, that she’s coming for him. 

“I don’t… give me a few nights at least. Come back in three days. That should give me time to make sense of what is needed at least.” Their eyes are far away, like they’re not seeing the cavern around them but something far bigger and far more extraordinary.  

Emma nods. “Three days?” 

“Three days. And then we’ll rid this island of its false king forever.”

***********

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[g-on-ef]

Goddess of Loneliness ideas

Not sure yet if I will write GoL I'm tempted so imma just dump some ideas I have and see where it goes ^^

After coming back from the states Maya is isolated from everyone

Annika becomes a little mean spirited towards her and reminds everyone she always knew Maya was an awful person and she wasn't even surprised that Maya betrayed her family

Maya doesn't say anything but is hurt that her brother and Killian don't defend her and if anything Killian adds fuel to the fire

Gareth does however by reminding Annika she betrayed her family by dating the fucker that stabbed her brother almost got Nikolai killed and almost drove her to suicide

That did not end well with Jeremy as he defensed his sister

Gareth deciding they're being unfair to Maya remins everyone that their own partners have done some shitty things to them and they were quick to forgive them but can't do the same for Maya

It ends in a huge fight between him and Killian which had Jeremy and Niko separating them before it can escalate to something worst

Mia throws a comment how Maya is still ruining their family by pitting them against each other as she Niko and Kill leave

Gareth tries to sooth her but she decides to leave to go somewhere else

What no one knows is Maya has her own little cottage where she goes to escape

Maya writes in her diary and cries of being alone

She tries to talk to her mom who ignores her her dad who claims he's busy but she knows he's not

She tries to talk to Illya but all he does is yells at her calls her selfish and throws a traumatic event that happened to her back to her face making her feel worse than she already did

Trigger warning mention of eating disorder and self harm

Three weeks have passed and Maya has been a mess

Her eating disorder is back as she overhears Annika and the rest of the Elite girls talking badly of her Mia included

She gorges down on food till her stomach is full and vomits it out

She's done this before as her punishing herself so she does it again

She use to burn herself

She goes back to that habbit

Brandon catches her doing it

He approaches her but Maya dismisses him and tries to leave

Bran doesn't leave and threatens to tell Nikolai what she is doing

Maya says she doesn't care if he knows since she's not important to him and never was

No one knows this but Maya has a beautiful voice and sings beautifully she's also a huge anime nerd bigger than Cecily

She's also a talented anime artist

She's done commissions and has made a shit tone of money from it

Hell one of her drawings is hanging proudly on Cecilys walls but Cecily doesn't know it was Maya that drew it

Maya is a swifty and an army and part of the beyhive

In order she loves Jimin Yoongi Jin Hobi Namjoon Taehyung and Jungkook

Okay her list is always changing but Yoongi and Jimin are always on top

She owns rare merch and keeps in her little cottage

Annika, Ava, Glyn, and a reluctant Cecily and Mia think she deserved to be punished so they along with Killian tore up her posters she had at the mansion along with her Taylor Swift Viynal and Beyonce shirt that was a limited run and merch she had

When she went to her room she saw the state it was and felt like crying

The merch didn't mean a lot since she had bought it in double but it still hurt that someone ruined things she bought with her own money

She quietly packed everything and threw it away

Bran saw her room destroyed and helped her clean it

Maya didn't say anything she just picked up her things and threw them out

She was grateful she kept her sign merch, the rare photocards, and everything important to her in her cottage

Bran tried to talk to her but she ignored him

Bran was getting worried and didn't want her to hurt herself

He never told Niko but he was worried for her

He asked her if she wanted to hang out with him

Maya didn't say yes or no so Bran dragged her with him to go for some coffee

Maya didn't understand why Bran was being nice to her

Bran told her it's because no one should feel so low

Maya reminded him what she did to mia

Bran reminds her what his family did to hers

Maya smiles a little and it's the first time she actually did

She and Bran start hanging out more

The two bond and Maya can safely say she made a friend

Bran can say the same

Mia isn't happy and neither is Lan

Niko is conflicted

Maya brings him to her cottage and shows him her drawings

Bran is honored to be the first on here as well as the one she trusted with her drawings

Maya is happy

Well not for long

Maya is reminded once again of the pain she caused and how she'll ruin Brandon

She's tired of the constant harassment

The constant pain

Lan especially threatens her along with Eli Killian and Creighton

Having enough Maya runs away

She leaves a drawing for Bran and only Bran and leaves

She heads to California to start a new life

She doubts anyone will notice she's missing

She destroys her phone and anything that can trace her and leaves

[hollyethecurious]

CS AU: Being Ghosted (2/4?)

Summary: Killian and Liam Jones are called in to help with the haunting of an old carriage house where a skeleton was recently found walled up within the cellar. This is no ordinary ghost hunt for the supernatural fighting brothers, however. This job will require Killian to face the person who has been haunting him for nearly a year. Emma Swan. The woman he ghosted.

A/N: Yeah, yeah. I know the holiday season is in full swing and we ought to be done with the spooky stuff, but I love a Victorian/Dickensian Christmas aesthetic that leaves room for good old ghost stories. This addition gives me a BINGO for my Fall/Spooky card (better late than never) and will likely have two additional parts to come.

Shout out to @kmomof4 for her exceptional beta skills!

Rated T / Also available on ao3 / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me! / Part One

Part Two

Leaves rustled overhead, clinging to branches that were ready to be freed of them as the crisp autumn breeze coaxed them from their perch and gently swirled them to the ground below. Those with the misfortune of landing on the pavement were crunched beneath the tires of Killian Jones’ Chevelle, pulling up in front of an old carriage house that was being renovated into a home.

A home for Emma Swan. A home she recently began to share with her boyfriend. A home where the two resided, sharing all of the intimacies he desperately wished he could have shared with her. Intimacies and quiet moments and heated arguments and passionate make up sessions and mundane chores and yes… even their current plight.

A haunting.

Killian would have willingly faced it all with her had circumstances been different, which, he supposed, was why he was here now.

“You ready for this, little brother?” Liam questioned after Killian had put the car in park and shut off the engine.

“Younger,” Killian reminded him in his usual exasperated tone, pushing open the driver’s side door and climbing out while side-stepping his well-meaning brother’s inquiry.

The front door of the carriage house opened and a man exited, greeting them hesitantly, “You must be the Jones brothers?”

“We are,” Liam said, approaching the man with an outstretched hand. “I’m Liam. This is my brother, Killian. Are you the owner?”

“Uh, no,” the man said, shaking Liam’s hand then stuffing his hands in his pocket with an acknowledging nod towards Killian. “I’m Neal Cassidy. My girlfriend’s the one who called you. She technically owns the place, but we both live here.”

Something in Killian’s gut twisted, the ache intensifying when Emma emerged from the carriage house, looking as stunning as he remembered but without the warmth and affection he’d last received from her.

“You guys must be exhausted,” she said after introducing herself to his brother and barely giving him her notice. “We’ve made up the guest room and there’s a pullout in the office.” Turning to her beau, she placed a loving hand on his arm and sweetly suggested, “Why don’t you show Killian to the office and I’ll take Liam up to the guest room.” Addressing Liam - and only Liam - once more, she said, “After you two get settled, we can take you down to the cellar where this all started.”

“That sounds grand,” Liam said, gesturing towards the carriage house. “Lead the way, lass.”

As they filed in, Liam looked back at Killian over his shoulder. His expression echoed that which Killian was already telling himself.

He had fucked up.

Badly.

“So,” Cassidy began, showing Killian into the office where the pull out couch had already been made up for him. “How do you know Emma? She wasn’t really clear on the details.”

Dropping his duffle on the bed, Killian busied himself with rifling through his supplies, attempting to keep a neutral tone. “What details did she share?”

“Something about a dare and the cemetery and not wanting to talk about the experience because it had been too intense.”

Killian let out a commiserating hum. “Intense is certainly one word for it,” he murmured, the memory of Emma laid out beneath him, kissing the holy hell out him while making sounds that haunted him to this day flashed through his mind and tightened the fit of his jeans.

Unwilling to betray Emma’s confidence, and not exactly eager to share the details of their acquaintance with her current paramour either, Killian shifted the conversation to the matter at hand. “As I understand it, the paranormal activity began after the two of you uncovered skeletal remains in the cellar. Is that correct?”

“Yeah,” Cassidy replied, leaning against the door jamb and crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought Emma was crazy at first when she insisted we had a ghost. I mean… you know how irrational women can be.”

Killian chafed at the man’s derisive tone. “If there’s one thing I know about Emma, mate,” Killian informed him with a slight edge to his words, “it’s that her instincts should never be dismissed.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Cassidy back pedaled. “I believe her now. Kind of hard not to when a ghost appears over your bed while you’re trying to convince your girl she’s not too tired to fulfill her duties. You know what I mean?”

Fists balled, Killian took a deep breath and tried to rein in his anger. He was saved from doing anything rash by the sounds of his brother’s voice.

“Ready to check out the cellar?”

“Aye,” Killian clipped out, following after Liam and resisting the urge to shoulder check the repulsive man who had somehow fallen into Swan’s good graces - and her bed (not that he wished to dwell on that fact) - as he passed.

Emma led them down a steep flight of steps into the cold, dark, and dank space below. The atmosphere had an immediate effect on Killian, raising the hair along the back of his neck and giving him the eerie feeling of being watched.

“This was part of the original structure, yes?” Liam asked, shining his flashlight into the inky black corners the dim bulb at the bottom of the stairs couldn’t quite reach.

“Yeah,” Emma answered, lingering by the stairs with Cassidy as the Jones men looked around. “From what I understand, it was cold storage for oats and hay and other food stuffs for the horses lodged here when it was a carriage house.” Gesturing towards an opening, she continued, “I noticed that space had been bricked up and I wanted to open it back up. That’s when I found…”

“The body,” Killian supplied, casting a glance towards her and meeting her eye for the first time since he’d arrived. His heart clenched, the look on her face making him wish he could have spared her such a discovery. Perhaps if it had been he who had been there… No. There was nothing to be gained in thinking that way now. The past was the past and there was no changing it.

“And you called the police?” Liam confirmed, searching the area where the skeleton had been found.

“Of course we did,” Cassidy scoffed. “What else were we supposed to do?”

Killian and Liam exchanged a look. Neither of them could fault their decision, but they both knew, had it been them, they would have handled it much differently.

“And how soon after the body was removed did the occurrences begin?”

“Almost immediately,” Emma answered. “It started with noises on these steps.” She gestured at the stairs they’d used to access the cellar, the tension in her demeanor evident in the stiff, closed-off way she stood in the unsettling space.

“Noises?” Liam questioned. “Like footsteps?”

“No,” she replied. “More like… something falling down them. Then things actually started crashing down them.”

“What do you mean?” Killian pressed, his concern heightening as she continued.

“If we leave anything sitting in the hallway outside the cellar door, it will eventually make its way down here. Clearly having taken a tumble down the stairs.”

“Yeah,” Cassidy said, backing her up. “I thought it was the authorities being careless, because we had a parade of crime scene personnel traipsing through here for weeks after we reported the body.”

“But you knew it was more than that, didn’t you, Swan?”

Emma locked eyes with Killian. He could tell his question had brought back the memory of her first ghostly encounter. She swallowed hard and for a moment it was as though they were the only two people there.

“Rooms would get cold,” she told him in a quiet voice; her words conveying all the nuance and unspoken truths she knew he would understand in a way her boyfriend had not. “I would hear things. Smell things. Things I hadn’t experienced in all the months I spent renovating the upper levels.”

“What sort of smells?”

His brother broke the reverie that had momentarily linked them, snapping the connection that reminded Killian of what they had once shared.

“Um,” Emma began, shaking herself and focusing on the question. “Leather? Hay? Like a barn, but without the pungent animal smells. More how I’d imagine this place was when it was an active carriage house, I guess.”

“So, he could have been killed here during that time,” Killian said to his brother

“Agreed. We’ll need to learn more about the building’s history.” Addressing Emma once more, Liam inquired, “You told Killian the authorities had yet to identify the remains, is that correct?”

“Yeah. But they did issue a cause of death. Blunt force trauma and a broken neck.”

“Injuries one might sustain from falling or being pushed down a flight of stairs,” Killian remarked. “It would certainly explain the occurrences surrounding the cellar steps.”

“My friend Belle is the town librarian and she has access to city records,” Emma informed them. “When you agreed to come, I asked her to pull anything that might tell us the history of the carriage house. Who owned it. Who may have worked here. Things like that. She said she’d try and have a file ready for when you got here.”

“Good thinking, love,” Killian praised, unaware of the endearment he’d let slip until Cassidy shot him an affronted glare then suspiciously flicked his gaze to Emma’s pinked cheeks before sending another hard look Killian’s way.

Clearing his throat, Killian reached up and scratched behind his ear, turning his attention towards Liam and suggesting, “Before we go any further, we should ascertain what sort of spirit we’re dealing with.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked.

Killian couldn’t help the smug feeling that went through him at the sight of her pulling away from Cassidy’s attempt to wrap a possessive arm around her waist. She took a step towards the center of the room where Liam was already pulling supplies out of the bag he’d brought with him.

“There are generally two kinds of spirits who refuse to move on,” Liam told her. “Malevolent ones who were equally nasty while alive, and those who simply have unfinished business they feel compelled to resolve before they can find peace.”

“Malevolent spirits refuse to leave,” Killian added. “Hell bent on punishing or exacting revenge against the living. The only way to be rid of them is to--”

“Salt and burn their bones,” Emma said, causing Cassidy to balk behind her.

“How did you know--”

“Aye,” Killian said, cutting Cassidy off. “Which will be somewhat difficult to accomplish, seeing as they are still in the medical examiner’s possession.”

“So…” Emma drawled, joining he and Liam as they continued to set up the space for the task they would need to perform. “Best case scenario would be this spirit just having unfinished business?”

“That won’t necessarily make matters any easier,” Liam informed her. “Figuring out a spirit’s unfinished business isn’t usually as straightforward as salting and burning bones.”

“So, how do we determine which kind of spirit it is?”

“Ems, the thing attacked us while we were making love,” Cassidy said, being sure to emphasize the making love part as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “The thing is obviously bad news.”

“We weren’t--” Emma began, mortification giving way to irritation as she looked back at him then shook her head and said, “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” Looking down at the two brothers as they finished lighting the circle of candles they’d set out, she said, “As I told Liam upstairs, when he manifested he didn’t look threatening. He had his hands over his mouth--” she raised hers to mimic what the spectre had looked like, “--but was clearly trying to tell us something when he vanished almost as quickly as he appeared.”

“Well,” Liam said, pulling the last piece of the equipment from his bag, “This will hopefully allow him to tell us what he tried to communicate with you.”

A belittling snort escaped Cassidy. “A ouija board? Be serious.”

“I assure you, mate. We are quite serious,” Killian informed him as he took a seat upon the cold, cellar floor alongside his brother. “But if the idea of communing with the dead is too much for you, then feel free to sit outside while we conduct our investigation.”

Clearly catching the challenge to his courage, Cassidy grit his teeth and grumbled in Emma’s ear. “Can you believe this guy?”

“Neal,” Emma sighed with a tone of censure. “Shut up and sit down.”

Entering into the circle, Emma lowered herself onto the stone floor and crossed her legs beneath her. Reluctantly, Cassidy followed, a disgruntled look passing over his features in response to the sitting arrangement that had placed him between Emma and Liam instead of separating her from Killian.

“A few ground rules before we get started,” Liam began, holding the planchette in his hands.

“I think we’ve all played with ouija boards before,” Cassidy interrupted rudely, earning him a stern stare from the elder Jones.

“Aye,” Liam responded with a cutting edge to his words. “You may well have, but what we are preparing to do is not child’s play. We are opening a portal to the spirit realm, and for all our safety, precautions must be taken and adhered to.”

Cassidy shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing more.

“Go on,” Emma urged. “We’ll do whatever you tell us to.”

“Right,” Liam began again. “Once we’ve placed our hands on the planchette, they must remain there until the session is concluded. I shall be the only one addressing the spirits, so you must refrain from talking or reacting. And when it becomes clear that the spirits are finished communicating, we must all close the session together by moving the planchette to goodbye. This is the only time we intentionally guide it. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. The seriousness of their endeavor hung heavily around them as Liam continued.

“I’m going to set the planchette on the board, but before anyone touches it, we need to attune the space.” Setting the planchette down, Liam extended his hands to Killian and Cassidy, saying, “Everyone needs to join hands and focus on the spirit we wish to call forth.”

Killian took his brother’s hand then opened the other to receive Emma’s. When she tentatively placed her hand in his, Killian glanced up at her face. They locked eyes for a brief moment before she flicked hers away, but Killian knew his touch was having the same effect on her that her touch was having on him. There was no mistaking the familiar physical tension they’d once shared under similar circumstances.

“Focus on the person we seek,” Liam instructed. “We know him to be a man. We know there is something he wishes to communicate. We know this space was his final resting place until a few weeks ago. However you choose to manifest him within your mind, hold that image there and focus on him.”

Difficult as it was, Killian tried to push aside thoughts of Swan and the feel of her hand in his. Even still, she remained a fixture in his attempt to concentrate. She was there when he thought of the man’s body being discovered. She was there when he imagined how he may have looked when he’d manifested himself to her. She was there with every noise, every scent, every strange occurrence that had led her to reaching out to the one person she knew could help her. Despite the tragic circumstances that led the man to being walled up within the cellar, Killian could not help but feel gratitude to the spirit who had brought Emma Swan back into his life.

“Right,” Liam said a moment later. “With the man still centered in everyone’s mind, place your hands on the planchette.”

Killian sucked in a breath at the loss of her hand, but quickly schooled his emotions and joined the others, placing his hands upon the planchette and readying himself for what was to come.

“We call forth the spirit of the man found concealed behind the wall in this cellar,” Liam called out. “We ask that he come forth and tell us his name. What is your name, spirit?”

The temperature dropped and several of the candle’s flames flickered. Killian could hear Emma’s rapid breaths over the pounding of his own heart.

“Spirit!” Liam called out again. “We invite you to tell us your name!”

A gasp fell from Emma’s lips when the planchette jerked beneath their fingers. With wide, green eyes, she cast her gaze towards Killian as the planchette slid across the board. He gave her a look of encouragement, hoping his own gaze conveyed that there was nothing to fear - that he would not let any harm come to her - before her eyes fell back to the board and the word being spelled out beneath their fingers.

“D-A-N-I-E-L,” Liam read out as the planchette roamed across the board. “Daniel? Your name is Daniel?”

Yes

“What is it you want, Daniel?”

H-E-L-P

“You need help? That’s why we’re here. How can we help you to move on?”

H-E-L-P

“We understand. How can we help? What do you need us to do?”

T-E-L-L-H-E-R

“Tell her? Her who? You want us to deliver a message to someone?

Yes

“You need to tell us who. Who is her?”

L-O-V-E

“Someone you loved?”

Yes

“What’s her name?”

R-R-R-R-R-R-R … No

“No? No, what?”

No

“We don’t understand. No, you don’t want to tell us her name?”

C-A-N-T

“You can’t?”

C-A-N-T

“Why can’t you?”

C-C-C-C-C-C

Killian leaned over and whispered into his brother’s ear. “Another spirit maybe? Interference from another entity?”

“Is there another spirit with us? Someone who does not want you to communicate with us?”

Yes

Killian removed his hands from the planchette, earning him a startled gasp from Swan and a scathing reprimand from his brother.

“Killian!” Liam hissed. “What the devil are you--”

“Use my energy, Daniel,” Killian offered, opening his arms, and himself, up in surrender. “Take my energy and manifest yourself. Tell us who’s trying to silence you.”

“Brother, have you lost all sense?”

“It’s alright, Daniel,” Killian encouraged, ignoring his brother. “You can take my energy and--”

Killian’s words fell away when the fine hairs began to lift over his entire body. His arms began to feel heavy and it was a struggle to keep them lifted, especially when his breathing also became laboured.

“Killian, put your damn hands back on the--”

Liam’s admonishment was cut short by a startled, expletive falling from Emma’s lips. Manifesting above the board, in the center of their circle, was the ghostly image of a young man.

“Is that… Daniel?”

“That’s the man we saw!” Emma confirmed, her eyes wide as saucers and brimming with equal amounts of fear and awe. Forgetting herself, and the rules, she tentatively asked, “Are you…? Are you Daniel?”

The spectre nodded. He couldn’t have been more than early to mid twenties when he died, and though it was difficult to ascertain certain physical identifiers like height or hair or eye color, given his current metaphysical state, his clothing could serve as a clue that would narrow down the timeframe of his passing.

“Tell us how we can help you?” Liam said.

Killian, relieved that his brother was willing to capitalize on the moment, knew that he’d get an earful later, especially if Daniel managed to draw energy off him to the point of him passing out. Though woozy, Killian focused his efforts on the questions his brother continued to repeat and the spirit’s attempted replies.

“Who is the woman you want us to contact? Who else is here with us?”

Daniel tried again and again to speak, but the sound of his voice could not pass from his plane to theirs. Reaching down with ghostly hands, Daniel nudged the planchette and guided it once more to the R. Before he could maneuver it to the next letter, a second pair of hands appeared from behind Daniel’s head and wrapped around his lower face, obscuring his mouth.

Emma screamed and Neal jolted back, nearly knocking over the candles behind him.

“Nope!” Cassidy exclaimed, scrambling off the floor and sprinting towards the stairs.

“Neal!” Swan called after him, though she remained rooted where she was with her hands still affixed to the planchette.

Daniel struggled against the phantom hands, clawing at them with his own while Liam tried to wrestle back control of the seance.

“Reveal yourself, spirit! Tell us who you are and why you wish to silence Daniel! What unfinished business does Daniel--”

The planchette began to spin, making it impossible for Liam and Emma’s hands to remain there. An impossible gust of cold wind swept through the cellar, extinguishing the candles and ruffling both Killian’s and Emma’s hair. The light bulb at the bottom of the stairs shattered, sending down a shower of sparks. The only illumination remaining was Daniel’s ghostly form, but it too was quickly snuffed out, leaving the three of them in darkness.

“Bloody hell,” Liam cursed, the sound of him rummaging through his duffle preceding the beam of his flashlight. Reaching over, he grasped Killian’s shoulder and questioned, “Are you alright, little brother?”

“Younger,” Killian muttered, earning him a relieved clap on the back from his brother; his petulant response the only proof Liam needed as to his brother’s condition.

“You two stay still,” Liam instructed. “I’ll relight the candles and clean up the glass. Is there a broom down here?”

“Y-Yeah,” Emma responded, shakily. “In that cabinet.” She gestured towards the corner, then offered, “But I can do that.”

“No,” Liam said, waving her off as he finished lighting the candles. “You stay with Killian. He’s going to need a minute to recover from his tomfoolery.”

“It got us answers, didn’t it?” Killian shot back, heavily. Drained of energy, it was all he could do to remain sitting upright, but he’d be damned if he let Liam know just how much the encounter had affected him.

“Aye. I suppose it did,” Liam conceded, procuring the broom and dustpan so he could begin sweeping up the broken bulb.

“What answers?” Emma asked. “All I have is more questions.”

“We know there’s indeed another spirit here,” Killian told her. “A woman, if the ringed fingers and manicured nails give any indication. We also have a name to work with - Daniel. Based on his manifestation, I’d wager he was in his mid 20s when he died and by the looks of his clothing, I would guess he worked as a stablehand at some point. That gives us a frame of reference to work with as we investigate his identity further.”

“Speaking of which,” Liam said, disposing of the broken glass and tucking the broom back into the cabinet. “You said you had a friend assisting with research?”

“Yes!” Emma replied, plucking her phone from her back pocket. “Belle. I’ll text her now and see if she’s ready to share her findings with us.”

“Perhaps you would like to check on Mr. Cassidy as well?” Liam suggested, reminding them both of the forgotten man.

“Um, right. Yeah.” Swan stood and brushed the dust off the back of her jeans. Her phone vibrated in her hand, capturing her attention. “Belle says she has everything ready and we can come by the library any time.”

“Terrific,” Killian responded, attempting to pick himself up off the floor… and flailing. “Um, Swan? Would you mind, uh…”

Emma glanced down at him and must have perceived his predicament. Her eyes widened, a startled expression crossing her features, as she reached down and helped him up.

With a steadying hand pressed against his chest, she asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “Just a bit… unsteady.”

“Here,” she said, leading him towards the stairs where he could rest against the banister. “Better?”

“Aye. Thank you, love.”

Her posture stiffened in response to the endearment and she turned away, intent on climbing the steps out of the cellar. Killian reached out and lightly grasped her elbow, stalling her steps.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… are you alright? I should have asked how you’re handling the ordeal.”

“I’m fine,” she told him. Her position on the steps had brought her to eye level and though there was still only candlelight illuminating their surroundings, Killian could see the truth of her words in her eyes. “This isn’t my first haunted rodeo. Remember?”

Killian let out an amused huff. “Aye. How could I forget.”

They stood there a moment longer, Killian’s hand still resting against the crook of her elbow. He could feel the raised flesh of her arm through the thin fabric of her sleeve and wondered if it was a remnant of the ghostly encounter or perhaps an involuntary response to his touch.

Was he wrong to hope for the latter?

“I, uh… I should go check on Neal,” she said, dragging her tongue across her lip before her teeth scraped over the tender flesh in its wake.

The sound of something heavy scraping the floor above them pulled Killian from thoughts of capturing her mouth with his own, and almost too late he noticed an object about to hurl itself down the cellar steps.

“Swan! Look out!”

With all the strength he could muster, he managed to force her against the wall, shielding her as something crashed down the stairs. Their bodies pressed together, chests heaving against the other’s, it took them both several moments to process what had just happened.

“Emma!” Neal cried out, sprinting through the floors above and coming to a stop at the top of the cellar stairs. Staring down at his girlfriend who was currently being blanketed by another man, Neal’s face grew thunderous as he exclaimed, “What the hell is going on here?!”

“It appears to be some sort of statue,” Liam commented. Killian wasn’t sure if it was genuine ignorance as to the man’s meaning or if his brother simply wished to avoid a scene. Crouched down, Liam inspected the object and added, “Lucky the two of you managed to get out of the way. This could have done serious harm.”

Swan pushed against Killian’s chest, forcing him to step back from her so she could turn and take the man still fuming at the top of the stairs to task.

“It was that stupid garden statue of Pan you insisted on bringing inside!” she shouted. “I told you not to leave it in the hall!”

“How was I supposed to know a ghost could move it?” Neal shot back. “The thing weighs like fifty pounds!”

Stomping up the stairs, Swan grabbed Neal by the arm and hauled him away from the cellar entrance. Although Killian could not discern what was being said between them, there was no mistaking the tone of argument in their voices. He probably ought to feel guilty for having a hand in their current discord, but all he could focus on at the moment was the way his body was still reacting to having been pressed against Emma’s. The way she’d felt beneath his weight, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the feel of her hands clutching the back of his shirt, the way their eyes had connected after the danger had passed, the moment their gazes flicked down in unison to the other’s lips, the impulse he’d nearly given in to kiss her, the certainty he felt that the same desire had run through her mind as well.

“Brother,” Liam said, his tone making Killian groan internally.

He knew what was coming.

“Don’t,” he replied. “I already know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh?”

“Aye,” Killian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I was rash and foolish in the way I invited the spirit to use my energy, and I need to get my head on straight. No more distractions.”

“Actually,” Liam said, hoisting his duffle, which he’d repacked, up onto his shoulder before crossing the cellar and joining Killian on the stairs. “I was going to say… A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets.”

Slapping his brother on the shoulder he continued up the steps, leaving Killian utterly gobsmacked.

Chapter Three - Coming Soon!

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[jrob64]

Her Favorite Moments of the Day

A CS Canon Compliant One-shot for CS Spooky Season/Autumnal Bingo

With this short one-shot, I can now say I have a bingo on my board! While the prompt 'creaky floorboards' was probably meant to have spooky connotations, my muse took this in a fluffy and slightly smutty direction. Thank you to @hollyethecurious for the fantastic idea of the autumn bingo board. Be on the lookout for some winter themed bingo stories in the coming months!

Thank you @hookedmom for being my beta once again!

Summary: Emma Jones's days include many moments with her husband and infant daughter, each one of which is her very favorite.

Rating: soft M (minor smut) and F (major fluff)

Words: 1191

Can also be found on Ao3 and ffn

Story under the cut

*********

Emma Jones watches her husband Killian lay the book he’s been reading aloud face down on the coffee table, as she rocks their eight-month-old daughter in the corner of their living room. “She’s finally asleep,” he says quietly, walking over to stand in front of his two blonde-haired loves.

When Hope was born, Killian placed the rocking chair in that specific location so his wife could look out at the ocean while she nursed their little girl. Emma knows it gives him endless pleasure seeing the two of them together, Hope gradually calming at the end of the day as Emma softly hums a lullabye.

Emma looks up at him. “Do you want to carry her upstairs?”

“Of course,” he whispers, carefully releasing a lock of his wife’s hair from their daughter’s lax grip. Then he gently lifts Hope into his arms, smiling down at her. Emma can tell he’s reveling in the feel of Hope’s sleep-stilled body against his chest. When she’s awake, she’s constantly on the move, scooting and crawling at a speed that has her parents fearful for her safety at times.

He turns and slowly glides across the floor, brushing kisses to the crown of the baby’s sweet-smelling head.

Emma watches them go with a sleepy smile on her face. Dusk has fallen outside, darkening the room enough to soften the edges. The fire Killian built in the hearth creates dancing shadows on the wall and a crackling soundtrack for their quiet home. After a hectic day of work and caring for a small, energetic child, the time she spends feeding her precious baby and watching her drift to sleep, while her beloved husband reads to them, are some of her favorite moments of the day.

As Killian approaches the stairs, she calls out to him unnecessarily. “Please avoid the creaky floorboards so she doesn’t wake up.”

“Aye, Love. You remind me every night.”

She does, because it’s part of their routine. She rises from the chair and heads to the bottom of the staircase so her eyes can follow him. He moves to the far right on the third step and skips the seventh one altogether. Watching his attractive backside as he performs the necessary movements is another one of her favorite moments of the day.

They’ve been married for years, but their affection and passion for each other hasn’t waned.

She goes into the kitchen to make hot cocoa, humming as she gathers the ingredients. She’s stirring the milk as it warms in the saucepan, when Killian comes up behind her, wrapping her up in his arms. “Something smells delicious,” he murmurs, nuzzling behind her ear, the low timber of his voice raising goosebumps of pleasure on her skin.

“You usually say that about my pancakes,” she says playfully.

“You’re well aware I’m not talking about anything you’re cooking on that stove, Love.”

She smiles. “The hot cocoa will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Ah, but I’m ready now,” he croons, pulling her tighter against himself so she can feel just how ready.

“What has gotten you so…worked up?” she gasps.

“I know you were watching me as I climbed the stairs. I could feel your gaze on me.”

“I love watching you avoid the creaky steps,” she admits. Biting her lip in anticipation, she turns in his arms to face him. “I love watching you do almost anything.”

He reaches around her and turns off the stove. “To hell with the cocoa,” he murmurs against her temple. Then he captures her lips, backing up until he bumps into the table behind him. They kiss hungrily, starved for each other, even though they just shared intimate moments that morning before Hope awakened.

“Upstairs,” she demands breathlessly.

He hoists her up, arms cradling her ass, and she wraps her legs around his hips. He walks them briskly through the kitchen and starts up the stairs. When he steps on the third one, it lets out a loud creak and they both freeze.

Listening intently, they breathe out a sigh of relief when all they hear is silence. “Sorry, Love,” he whispers. “I forgot.”

“Skip the seventh one,” she giggles.

He does, and they make it to their bedroom with no further mishaps. With practiced ease, they strip each other out of their clothes, lips eagerly exploring bared skin. These passionate moments are some of her favorites, too.

She moans as he pays special attention to her breasts, knowing how he loves that they’re still larger than usual. His clever fingers trace the shiny stretch marks that mar the smooth skin of her abdomen. She used to be self-conscious about them, but he assured her with his words and touch that he adores the reminders of her carrying their child.

Her hands aren’t idle. They stroke, caress and tease the places she knows bring him the most pleasure. Soon, husband and wife are panting and writhing, moaning and pleading. Their bodies are heated, slick with sweat and arousal. When he enters her, it’s familiar but completely new. They move in sync with one another, driving each other higher and higher, until they climax together.

As their bodies cool, his head cradled between her breasts, hand skimming her ribcage, she mumbles, “You deprived me of my hot chocolate.”

“Sorry, Love,” he chuckles. “I suppose you prefer that bloody beverage to intimacies with your husband.”

She tilts his face up to look into his eyes, her own conveying her sincerity. “Never,” she guarantees. “I will never have enough of you, my love.”

They’re in no hurry to move as they lay naked under the covers. These moments, when they are skin-to-skin after making love and having hushed conversations with each other, as their hands, fingers and lips roam, are more of her favorite moments of the day.

When they’re finally ready to move, Killian slips on some loose flannel sleep pants and goes downstairs to finish making the cocoa. Meanwhile, Emma cleans up, washes her face, moisturizes and gets into her pajamas.

He brings their beverages upstairs and they sip them contentedly, while each reads a book from a stack on their nightstand. When the mugs are empty, Emma takes them downstairs, completely forgetting to avoid the creaky stairs. She washes the dishes, double checks the lock on the front door, clicks off the lights and goes back upstairs.

Peeking into Hope’s room on the way back to theirs, she’s surprised to see Killian rocking their daughter. Upon seeing her questioning look, he murmurs with a grin, “You didn’t skip the creaky floorboards, Swan.”

Crossing the room with feather-light steps, she stops beside him, one hand carding through his thick hair, while the other softly caresses Hope’s rosy cheek. Bending down, she presses a kiss to the baby’s head, then one to Killian’s lips. She also counts quiet moments like these among her favorites.

Then again, when she thinks about it, every moment she spends with her husband and daughter are her favorite moments of the day.

*********

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse into Emma, Killian and Hope's life together. Be sure to check out all the fantastic offerings for the Autumn Bingo event found on Ao3 here.

Tagging:

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[exhaustedpirate]

her handless wonder

this all came to be from my love for the season 3 finale, my unsatisfaction at the resolution of that little Emma slip up a couple of episodes before AND my dislike of Regina; blended it all up and added a sprinkle of smut and voila! edited by the amazing @belovedcreation

rated M | 2498 words

also on AO3

“You traded your ship for me?”

“Aye.” 

It feels like hours ago and no time at all that he had made his confession. It still makes her heart pound just thinking about it. The truth and the devotion in his eyes meant that she could have done nothing except kiss him. Not that it was a hardship, really.

Killian kisses her now, on a dark corner next to the bathrooms, his lips insistent and passionate. Emma wraps her arms around his neck and prepares for the ride. Distantly, she knows they should stop - anyone could find them there. 

But his body is strong and warm against hers and his arms tight around her waist. Her self-restraint has limits - she had to wait an hour already (an eternity) so that she could make a quick exit, claiming exhaustion, and catch Killian’s attentive eye so he would know to follow her. Which led to her pressing him against the wall of this dark corner and pulling his lips to hers before he could say anything else to delay her desire to kiss him. And touch him. And hold him. And be touched by him.

Her lips trail down to his neck, hearing his quick breathing against her ear. She touches his chest over his many layers, her fingers caressing the chest hair peeking out through the shirt’s opening, and she feels his hand and hook on her hips. She smiles against his neck, worrying a mark to his hot flesh and feeling her insides tingle at the responding groan. 

“Touch me,” she demands, grabbing his wrists to urge him to do something, anything, her mind too flooded by desire to think of specifics.

But he flinches and pulls his arms away from her gasp. She lets him go, not wanting to force anything on him, and looks up. His lips are parted and his breathing rapid, signs of his lust, but there’s shame in his eyes overtaking the desire even as he tries to escape her gaze. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks quietly and places her hand on his cheek to bring his eyes to hers. “Killian?”

“I think,” His voice is rough as he responds, eyes shuttered even as he looks back at her. “We should stop, hmm, for tonight.” 

She wants to respect his wishes, she does, but she knows he’s deflecting. He wants her, can feel the proof of that against her belly, but something is stopping him. And then she notices how, while his right arm stays at his side, his left is carefully hidden behind his back.

“Killian,” Emma insists, her hands laying on his shoulders before slowly moving down his arms. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It-I-” He stutters and that’s even more jarring than him stopping her advances. He flinches when she finally takes hold of his hand and hook and she finds her final clue.

“Is it because of this?” she asks, keeping her eyes on him while she tugs on his hook. He doesn’t answer but she sees the truth in his eyes. “You know, I don’t care about that, right?”

Killian takes a deep breath and there’s carefully hidden pain in his eyes. “That isn’t what you said earlier,” Emma frowns, her mind working overtime to figure out his meaning. And, like a lightning strike, she remembers - Davids insists Hook join her and she deflects, of course, because she’s emotionally fucked up: “What is he gonna do? I have magic. He’s got one hand.”. In her remorseful reminiscing, he is able to extricate himself from her loose grip. Her cheeks redden with shame and she looks away. He sighs. “It’s alright, Emma, don’t feel obligated to be with me just because of what I did.”

That catches her attention though. She looks up sharply and finds a resigned expression in his face. “No,” she says determinedly and sees his eyes widen slightly. “That’s not why I’m doing this.” She takes hold of his hand and hook once more, her grip tight. “I’m kissing you because I want to kiss you and I'm touching you because I want to touch you.”

He shakes his head against her determination. “Emma, it’s-”

“I was wrong and stupid,” She interrupts and locks his gaze with hers. “I said it because I was pushing you away, because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it,” She pulls his arms around her and feels warm at how they instinctively wrap around her again. “I don’t care that you only have one hand, I care about you and I care about being with you.”

He doesn’t let her say more, his lips pressing against hers in a hungry kiss, one she is more than happy to reciprocate, her arms wrapping around his neck. Their bodies mold against one another and she relishes the warmth, the perfect fit of their bodies. His hand finds the round curve of her ass and she grins against his lips before letting out a pleased gasp when the cold metal of his hook finds the bare skin of her back. 

“Besides,” she whispers. “I’m sure you can do a lot more with one hand than many men can with two. Wanna prove it to me?”

He chuckles darkly, his lips at her ear, teeth finding the flesh of her earlobe. She feels warm and like there’s electricity in her veins. She has never felt this way from such small touches before. “As you wish, Swan,” he whispers back in a hoarse voice, warmth pooling between her legs. “But we should find a more private place, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t answer, her hips grinding against his and her hands covering every inch of his body she can reach. Emma sucks in a sharp breath and takes hold of his hook. Without a word, she pulls him up the stairs, his steps in time with hers. They reach his door in a blur but it’s been far too long since she’s kissed him. He must feel the same way because he twirls her around until her back hits the wall next to his door and takes her lips in his.

“Killian,” she sighs against his lips, her hands grasping his shoulders.

“I got you, love,” he mumbles, hand finding the waistband of her jeans. “I got you.” His lips trail down her neck, focusing on her pulse and she feels like she wants to scream in victory. It feels better than she ever imagined. And she did imagine. A lot.

Emma is so distracted by his talented lips kissing, nibbling and sucking her skin that she doesn’t realize he unbuttoned her jeans until she feels his warm hand over her underwear. “Please,” she gasps, his fingers circling slowly against her clit. “Touch me, please.”

Her begging works. With a growl, he nibbles on her collarbone as he slips his hand inside her underwear and she swallows her sigh of relief with a loud moan. His hand stops and she opens her eyes to see him glancing around before looking back at her with a glint in his eyes.

“You’re going to have to be quiet, love,” he whispers and she bites her lip at the sound, his fingers twitching over her pussy at her reaction. “Can you do that for me?” he asks and his hook caresses her jawline.

She nods enthusiastically, rubbing her thighs together to urge him to touch her more and he grins, a smile full of promise and lust. He slants his lips over hers and she feels his fingers press against her clit, sinking her teeth on his bottom lip. 

“Gods I can’t wait to feel you around my cock, Emma,” he murmurs as his fingers begin to circle at a quickening pace. “You’re going to feel amazing, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” she gasps, gripping his biceps tight in her grasp. “I want to feel you inside me.” 

His hook slides up against the skin of her belly and her mouth parts in a gasping moan. She feels his eyes on her but all she can focus on is the way his circling fingers quicken and his hook reaching the fabric of her bra. With desperate movements, she unhooks her bra, letting the undergarment sag underneath her clothing. She takes hold of his brace and looking into his eyes, she pulls his hook against her breast. His eyes darken as if he can see it, as if he can feel it, and she likes to believe he does. 

The cool metal presses against her hard nipple at the same time he slides a finger inside her. “More,” she whispers, she begs. “More.”

“Fuck,” he gasps, sliding a second finger inside her while pressing the heel of his palm against her clit. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you, Emma?”

She nods desperately, wanting nothing more than to grant him that desire. But she needs something more, she needs- His lips find hers, a burning kiss. “Then, come, my love, come for me.” he begs against her mouth and his teeth find her bottom lip.

She shatters with a silent scream, his fingers slowing down to drag out her climax, to turn her into jelly in his arms. His left arm wraps around her waist to pull her against him, holding her up in her unstable legs. Emma blinks her eyes open to find him watching her, a desperate look in his eyes.

“I knew you’d look enchanting when you come,” he whispers and she is surprised to feel her body heat up at the praise, at the sound of his voice. His fingers drag between her folds slowly, whispering over her clit. “Better than I imagined.”

“You imagined it?” She smirks as her hands rub up and down his arms. 

“Many, many things, Emma.”

“So did I,” she confesses and bites her lips at his sharp intake of breath. Her hands move to his chest, feeling his heartbeat and slowly making their way to the waist of his leathers. “Should we go inside your room and see if reality measures up to fantasy again?”

“With pleasure, love.” 

Despite her request, she is still disappointed when he has to remove his hand from her clit. But he more than makes up for it by licking his fingers clean from her essence, his eyes fluttering shut with delight at her taste. He cups her chin and kisses her, his tongue tangling in his hers and she gasps out a moan at her taste in his tongue. His hips grind against hers and she feels his hardening desire against her. Her hand cups his cock over his pants and he pulls away from her lips to let out a strangled moan.

“Shh,” she grins, her hands massaging him while he looks at her with that blazing gaze and his bottom lip captured between his teeth. “You’re going to have to be quiet.” Her grin widens as she repeats his order back to him. “Can you do that for me?”

“Bloody hell,” he groans before fumbling for his keys in his coat pockets.

It takes too long for the door to open, especially when Emma is much more interested in pressing her body against his back and running her hands everywhere she can reach. The door slams behind her and the lock is turned determinedly, her body vibrating with anticipation and desire. The result is scattered clothing, rumpled sheets, sweaty bodies, a delicious morning shower and more orgasms than she ever thought she was capable of having. A perfect first night together. First of many.

Early in the morning, with her naked body draped half on him, half on the bed, she traces her fingers down his left arm, fingertips tracing his scars lightly. His right arm curls tighter around her waist but he doesn’t stop her.

“Maybe I should start using Regina’s nickname for you,” she randomly says, trying to cover up the teasing in her voice.

“Captain Guyliner?” She can hear his raised eyebrow. Ridiculous.

She grins, finally looking up at him. “Handless wonder.” There is teasing in her voice but also fondness, so much affection she feels like she’s drowning.

“So, just as good as a man with two hands?” He raises his eyebrow in jest but she can see his desire for an answer. 

“Hmm.” She bites her lip and swings her leg to straddle him, the sheet falling from her shoulders, her body in full view of his eyes in the light of the rising sun. She grinds her folds against his length and bites her lip at his moan. “A million times better.”

---

Regina is part of the family. Emma really needs to remember that. 

Needs to remember that she is Henry’s adoptive mother and Snow’s … stepmother. God. Needs to remember that family dinners are a great thing and, after so long on her own, she loves her family, loves spending time with them. No matter how hard it gets to do so.

“Next time, Miss Swan,” Regina’s haughty eyebrow is pointed judgmentally at the bread rolls she was asked to bring, “get something of quality.”

Murder is bad. Murder is illegal. She is the Savior, she can’t murder people. 

Killian’s hand finds her thigh under the table, massaging it reassuringly, and her pulse slows. She turns her head towards him and smiles back at him in gratitude. He pats her jeans covered flesh and turns back towards the table. 

“Actually, your Majesty,” She loves the way he says it like an insult, nothing like the way he refers to her mother. He stretches his arm to take a bread roll from the basket. “I was the one who chose these as they are my favorite.”

It’s a lie. Emma had been the one to pick them - finding the cheapest option, considering they were just bread rolls - but she wasn’t going to say so. He grins at the former Evil Queen as he takes a bite of one. He doesn’t fake it. He doesn’t care, not like she does. No one does.

She sees Henry trying to hide a grin from the corner of her eyes. He enjoys family dinners but Emma thinks he enjoys it more because of the inherent rivalry between his adoptive mother and his birth mother’s boyfriend. Maybe she should have a talk with her son about his enjoyment of family drama. Although she’d feel like a hypocrite.

“Of course, the Savior can’t think by herself without her handless wonder.” 

Regina speaks with disdain, meant as an insult. It would be, at any other point. But they remember that first night, his insecurity, her reassurance, his touches, his talent. And so, to the surprise of the smirking Queen and exasperated family members, Killian laughs. And Emma laughs with him.

“You are absolutely right, your Majesty,” Killian smirks, sitting back on his chair and subtly placing his hand back on her thigh. “I am her handless wonder.”

[simgerale]

CHAPTER ONE ; 1/3

TRANSCRIPT:

[sounds of swords clashing and rowdy cheering]

geordie: Your highness, apologies for the intrusion, but her majesty has asked me to remind you of the time.

killian: [panting] The time? And what exactly is the time?

g: Half past noon.

k: So she wished to inform me of my tardiness. Thank you, Geordie. I will be with you shortly.

---

k: Am I the only late one?

g: I am afraid so. Even the princess arrived promptly.

k: Drat. Dara will never let me live it down. The one time I lose track of the hour…

g: No matter, your highness. Soon you will be Knight Captain and have plenty of excuses for tardiness.

k: I sincerely hope not. I am perfectly satisfied with my rank.

---

luca: There you are, at last.

k: Apologies, apologies. What did I miss?

[snowbellewells]

CS Secret Santa 2024 Gift Fic: "Christmas Getaway With You" for @stevebcks

I am sorry that it is so late on Christmas night for your present @stevebcks! But yes, I have been your Santa this year. I have really enjoyed chatting with you and getting to know someone I hadn't ever met or gotten to talk with yet in this fandom. I hope you will still enjoy this, even though it is later than I had hoped. I also hope that this Christmas has been a great one for you and that you've truly enjoyed the warmth and joy of the holiday.

You gave me so many great ideas in your answers to my asks, and I tried to work in several of them - giving Emma and Killian more time together in their happily married everyday life, giving a glimpse of them raising their daughter, getting to see them celebrate the holiday, and to visit New York again together. I even attempted to sneak Merlin into the story (at least a playful nod to him!)

Without further hesitating, here's your story!!

“Christmas Getaway With You”

By: @snowbellewells

“Emma, for the last time, Love, you’ve checked everything twice! We’re all ready to set sail.” Killian’s gentle tone of affectionate exasperation finally served to snap Emma from ducking back into the kitchen to be absolutely certain that the door into the mudroom and their backyard beyond was secure and that the coffeemaker was indeed unplugged from the wall for what was at least the third time. Shaking her head at her own anxious dithering, she leaned into his side when he wrapped his arm around her, bringing her to a standstill in the entryway. Killian’s steadying presence soothed her frazzled nerves, just as he always did - no matter what the problem, and she thrilled at the sensation of the smooth curve of his hook rubbing back and forth lightly over her hip, the simple gesture somehow lulling in its familiarity.

“You’re right, Babe,” Emma breathed out as she looked up at him with a grateful smile. “I’m acting crazy and I’m not even sure why.”

“Nonsense, I wouldn’t necessarily call you crazy. Any pirate worth his - or her - “ here he waggled an eyebrow and gave his wife a knowing wink, “salt, knows well enough to properly safeguard the treasure.”

Emma snickered at that and pulled away, but this time she finally moved toward the door, as had been her original intention. Reaching to the coat rack whether her favorite leather jacket and beanie hung waiting, Emma grinned at her own worried expense before speaking to him over her shoulder, “Still, enough’s enough. We’re only going to be gone a few short days. Henry comes in on Friday, plus he’ll have Hope here then, and probably Violet too once she gets back to town, and we’ll be back on Monday.”

Killian’s eyebrows both rose up to disappear under the dark fringe of hair hanging over his forehead as he feigned shocked surprise. “You’re allowing the lad and his lady love to cohabitate under your roof when we aren’t here to chaperone?”

Her husband’s playful pretense of being scandalized had Emma putting her hands on her hips in equally mock consternation. “Oh, don’t pretend your delicate sensibilities are overcome. If you think I don’t know you gave him some tips on successful wooing of said lady love along the way, you’d better think again, buddy.”

Killian chuckled in return at that, dipping his head in a slight bob of agreement to show that he knew she had him there. Taking his own jacket from the peg next to his Swan’s, Killian swung his own outerwear over his shoulders and then waited at the door for Emma as she patted her pockets and made certain she had her keys, phone, badge, and cards before following her out onto the porch and locking the door behind them.

“There,” Emma said, pleased to feel the weight of everyday concerns falling from her shoulders with the closed door. Taking Killian’s offered hand, she added, “Let the holiday adventure begin.”

~~~~**

The next afternoon found them snuggled in a corner booth at the charming Serendipity’s in the Upper East Side of New York City itself. Not only was the frozen hot chocolate heaped with whipped cream and toppings decadent enough to induce guilt all on its own, but sitting there cozily tucked into Killian’s side had Emma almost feeling selfish for escaping from her family and friends in Storybrooke, not to mention her little girl to steal a few days - and nights - alone with her pirate husband. Nevermind that Hope had her Grandpa David completely wrapped around her tiny fingers and would be dragging him around with the dogs, goats and sheep on the farm until dark and then she and Grandma Snow would probably create the most intricate and icing-frosting gingerbread castle known to man; suffice it to say Hope was in little girl heaven being spoiled by her grandparents at present, and would get to spend a whole day with her adored big brother right before Emma and Killian returned; she was hardly pining away feeling left out. Maybe she should feel ashamed of herself for counting it almost a luxury to canoodle with her handsome husband in public without interruptions from well-meaning neighbors (or parents), Ruby winking at her knowingly from behind the counter at Granny’s, or one of the dwarves bursting into the middle of the date to proclaim some new emergency, but she felt incredibly spoiled and pleased at pulling it off all the same.

A pleasant rumbling chuckle from Killian’s chest vibrated through her as he licked the last of his own dessert from the spoon, making Emma’s heart rate triple and her cheeks heat at the image of his lips enveloping the utensil and thinking of how deliciously they felt sampling her bare skin as well when they were behind closed door. “You seemed pensive, Darling,” he murmured low in her ear, voice sounding mild and innocent, though Emma could clearly see otherwise when she shot a sideways glance at his twinkling eyes and mischievous expression.

“As if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” she countered with a huff, pushing away slightly to sit upright, sip the last dregs of her melty treat, and rise to stand before him determinedly. “Enough stalling, Captain,” she added with tart certainty. “You aren’t going to get me addled enough to forget what you promised. I may drag you back to our room, but…”

As she paused for a shaky breath, Killian ran his tongue salaciously over his lower lip, eyeing her intently and taking her internal temperature up another few notches. Still, Emma arched her brow right back at him in return and leaned in to meet his teasing look with one of her own. “But not before you take me ice skating, as planned,” she finished.

Shaking his head at her antics, Killian rose to his feet as well, leaving a generous tip for their server - with dollar bills, not doubloons, as Emma had reiterated he must do to blend in properly in the Land Without Magic - and offered her his arm as gallantly as ever while they made their way back out into the frosty night. Once they were back on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the chill air as they turned their steps toward Central Park, Killian spoke up again with resigned knowing, “Though I suspect you largely wish to see me at disadvantage and looking foolish, you wish is - as always - my command, Emma.”

The wide, dazzling grin she gave him in return sent any hesitance Killian had felt at the strange activity fleeing to the furthest back corner of his mind. His lovely wife beaming so open and joyously was still entirely too rare in his opinion, and it made any upcoming embarrassment well worth it. Emma, for her part, could see that decision in his adoring gaze, and blinked back the tears that beaded her eyelashes, loving him all the more for his dedication to her happiness.

~~~**

Upon reaching the crowded space sent aside as an ice-skating rink within the acreage of Central Park, not only did Emma gain a bit of an eager spring to her step, her shining golden hair swinging mesmerizingly over her shoulders, but Killian felt himself charmed too, in spite of his reluctance. The borders around the frozen surface were looped and festooned by a wealth of twinkle lights glowing cheerily, and at some point during their stop for dessert at Serendipity’s, snow had begun to fall lightly, giving the entire scene just the sort of pretty white dusting that added the perfect festive look to the atmosphere. People were scattered all around the busy clearing - as they were all throughout this major city, Killian was coming to understand, almost packed atop each other really. There were couples skating hand-in-hand and parents helping their children put on skates interspersed with teenagers weaving in and out of the slower skaters on the ice and laughing over their cocoa in clumps at the picnics tables; humanity of all ages and races converging here in holiday cheer. It truly was something to witness.

Emma led the way to the rental stall with confidence, causing Killian to wonder with blatant curiosity if she and Henry had come here often in that lost year when they were separated and her lad was still just a youngster yet. That time had dragged and tormented her unendingly, thinking Emma was lost to him forever, just when she had begun to see him for the man he wished to be, the man she had restored in him. All the same, for his Swan, it must have been such a sweet, simple respite in many ways. She didn’t remember the family, or the pirate, she had lost. Henry was hers alone, and had always been so. Returning to the constant battles and demands, to sharing her son with the woman who would have gladly seen her dead - or in a cursed sleep forever - could not have been the easy choice. Killian knew that - and yet, it struck him anew in moments he least expected it. 

Turning to see the slightly pained expression on his face, Emma’s brow puckered in confusion. “What’s wrong, Babe?” she asked worriedly, tugging the hand she held to get his attention fully. “You know I’m mostly kidding you, right? If we skate a couple rounds and you hate it, we don’t have to keep going.”

Killian shook his head with a light scoff at that, waving off her concern before bending to press a kiss to her forehead in reassurance. “Don’t you worry, Love,” he soothed. “I was only lost in thought for a moment.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, leaning in to rest a hand over his heart as she often did, ever since his time in the Underworld, it having become a bit of a habit to assure herself his heart was beating with life once again.

“Aye,” he nodded decisively, without a moment’s pause, not about to keep her guessing or make her feel he wouldn’t wish to join her in whatever she truly wished to do.

By this time, they had reached the front of the line and turned from conversation with each other to face the attendant renting skates to all the bravely bundled up visitors of the outdoor rink. To Emma’s surprise, the young man smiling back at them had an oddly familiar glimmer in his deep chocolate-brown eyes and soft affection to his smile. It was completely at odds with her certainty that she’d never met him before, nor could she begin to guess his name, but the way he greeted them with such friendliness and - she could have sworn - a playful wink, made it seem as if he somehow knew them. He was a handsome and eye-catching guy, his close-cropped black hair, mocha latte skin, and lean height made him hard not to notice, all the more reason Emma suspiciously felt she ought to know him, though her mind offered no further clues. “How can I help you fine folks?” he spoke then, bright and completely innocuous right words. “A couple pair of skates?”

“Right you are,” Killian answered, giving Emma a curious look to show he found this effusive welcome strange as well, but carrying on normally. “Two pair for an hour’s rental, if you please.”

With a nod, the attendant turned to reach behind him to the shelves and retrieve the skates in their sizes which Killian had requested. Emma offered him the rental fee money, as Killian had taken both pairs of skates in his good hand and didn’t often choose to extend his false wooden hand to strangers, even if he did concede to wear it when they ventured outside Storybrooke. However, when her gloved hand touched his to give him the money, a shivering flash ran through her, nearly knocking Emma back on her heels. 

Glancing up at the man sharply, Emma drew in a quick gasp of surprise, even as she felt Killian’s touch at the small of her back in silent support. All she got in return was a subtle bow of the head, acknowledging what she had felt, and the lowly murmured, “It’s lovely to see you happy for the holidays at long last, Savior.”

“What - ? Wait, who are you?” she sputtered, floundering for a response. “How did you - ?”

“Emma, Love, maybe now is not the time,” Killian whispered at her ear, nodding subtly toward the line of people behind them, beginning to shuffle and grow impatient when they didn’t move on with their skates and make way for the next customers.

“To answer your question, I’m Melvin Emrys, skate shop employee extraordinaire,” the enigmatic young man broke in with a smile. “Though I doubt that helps you, as I am sure even now you are thinking that name does not quite fit.” He winked again. “Both of you enjoy your time on the ice. It truly can be magical this time of year. But I’m afraid that now I must see to the rest of my customers.”

Killian ushered Emma over to a bench nearby, she still looking back over her shoulder uneasily, trying to understand what had just happened. Her pirate was hovering a bit more protectively than usual, but nothing overtly threatening had actually happened, and so they soon attempted to shrug off the odd encounter, see to their skates, and were soon gingerly stepping out onto the ice.

To her utter delight, Emma found that the gliding movement came back to her easily, her feet moving almost as if on auto pilot, her muscle memory seeming to sustain her, even if it had been years since she’d last been on skates. Swirling around she faced Killian, who was still on solid ground, looking dubiously at the frozen surface and then her as if again trying to gauge if she only wanted to see him land on his arse. 

Holding out her hand, Emma cocked her head to the side and gave him a playful pout before wheedling, “Come on now, Pirate, don’t tell me the scourge of the high seas is afraid of a little frozen water. Don’t you trust me?”

Resolve seemed to crystallize in Killian’s bright blue eyes, the determined bob of his chin seeming to solidify his decision. “That’s hardly fair, Sweetheart. You know I trust you as I would no one else.”  He took first one, then another cautious step forward, until he was, wavering only slightly, standing fully on the icy surface. “I simply wonder if you might also wish to see me looking as ridiculously uncoordinated as you sometimes do.”

“Hey!” Emma blurted out, almost jerking her hand back to cross her arms over her chest in feigned affront. 

He had hold of her already, and rather than slipping and losing his balance, he pulled her into his unexpectedly solid embrace, grinning down at her with a face so full of mischief that she knew immediately she’d been had. 

“You already know how to ice skate just fine, don’t you?” she asked, the answer having already dawned on her without much of a doubt.

Waggling both eyebrows at her in a way that made her want to both giggle and smack him simultaneously, Killian nodded in confirmation of her words, not willing to string her along any further. 

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked curiously.

“All that time on the seas, traveling to so many different lands and times, I would have had to have picked it up somewhere. There are parts of the sea that turn so cold, even that much water can freeze solid,” he offered simply. “But you seemed to eager to show me something from your world, to teach me something that you loved to do, that I hated to spoil it for you. And I wasn’t completely sure that after so long in Neverland, I would still remember how…”

“Hmm…” Emma grumbled a bit, but it was half-hearted, seeing that his heart had been in the right place, and also eager to skate with him, to feel the breeze in her hair and the snowflakes on her face and enjoy the feeling of almost flying with him at her side.

“Now, now, Darling,” Killian crooned, taking her hand and pushing off gracefully, both of them setting off in a smooth glide that curved gently when they reached the end of the rink. “Don’t pout, just because you won’t be getting to see this arse you love bumped and bruised and frozen from landing on the ice.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see about how much I love it once you probably show me up at this,” she said, but her cheeks were heating pleasantly just watching how smoothly he moved beside her. He was as graceful in this as he was everything else he tried.

~~~**

By the time their few days in the city drew to a close, it was Christmas Eve. As they packed up the Bug for the trek back to Storybrooke, Emma couldn’t help reflecting on what a difference a few days away could make. She and Killian hadn’t had this much time to themselves since they were married, quite possibly even since their inadvertent trip to the Enchanted Forest of the past. She couldn’t claim to read her pirate’s mind, but they did understand each other, just as they always had. It was clear enough that he felt as renewed as she did, and anxious to get home again to their loved ones, especially their little girl.

She knew Killian was also thrilled to have found gifts fit for his pirate princess at FAO Schwarz and couldn’t wait to give them to Hope the next day. He’d found a huge, ostentatious, feathered pirate hat worthy of his showy old nemesis Blackbeard, but he knew his daughter would love it. Along with that, he’d purchased a shining miniature toy cutlass which looked as much like his as he could have possibly imagined without being an actual weapon. Emma found herself grinning even more at the thought of the large, squishy-soft stuffed octopus she’d found herself to add to the haul. After being spoiled by her grandparents and then her older brother the last several days, Hope would be on a sugar high and bouncing off the walls with excitement already. Seeing all her presents from the big city would have her beside herself.

And Emma wouldn’t want it any other way. There was something incredibly healing about seeing her own child get to have the sort of Christ mas she herself had always dreamed of - surrounded by belongings and love - and getting to be a part of it herself at long last.

So when they drove past the Storybrooke sign some hours later, snowflakes still sparkling in the chill air and Killian’s solid warmth at her side, nearing the rest of their family and a Christmas celebration sure to be of royal proportions at her mother and father’s farmhouse that night, Emma smiled at her True Love and let herself savor that extra little thrill of Christmas magic.

[iam93percentstardust]

an idea inspired by paranormal home inspectors:

as a joke, because he's a terrible, terrible person, bucky advertises steve's home inspector job as a way to get rid of the ghosties and ghoulies causing creaking floors and cold spots in your home. to steve's never-ending frustration, the ad goes viral and people take it way too seriously. it's never ghosts, of course, just bad insulation, mishung doors, and old floors, but it's paying work at least.

the first time he gets called out to the old mansion on the hill just outside of town is before the new owner takes possession of it. he does the usual, collects his paycheck, and goes back home, only to get called out a few weeks later because the owner has since moved in and is still complaining of cold spots.

aldrich killian gives steve the creeps. if this guy is actually complaining about the cold spots, then he sure doesn't act like it. he acts oddly excited instead, a weird gleam in his eyes when he shows steve to the previous owner's son's room, who disappeared the day after his parents were killed in a car crash. killian says the cold spots are the worst there. steve notes the spots and decides that it's probably a draft coming in from the old windows, given that he'd just replaced the insulation.

killian leaves him to it, disappointed by steve's insistence that there are no ghosts in the house. steve gets to work on the window, whistling some pop song that he heard on the radio. it isn't long before he hears someone humming behind him. he sighs and puts down the tools, turning around to remind killian that he's been doing this a decade, he doesn't need to be supervised, and humming is just going to distract him.

except--

it's not killian.

"hi!" the slightly transparent twenty year old says, handsome face inexplicably matching the photos hanging up on the wall behind him. "i'm tony!" he leans in, and steve can feel the temperature in the room drop a few degrees. "and you're going to help me get out of here."

[novaursa]

Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Paring: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames. 

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long—it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.” 

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.