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canarias-stuff · 6 months

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A STORY FOR 🎃🕸TDDK HALLOWEEK 2023!🕸🎃

Based on Day 2 Prompts: Mirrors / Haunted / "Ghosts never speak till spoken to."

SUMMARY:

“You came back?” Was the first thing that the mirror said, a curious expression on his face. “I thought that you were done here?”

“What are you?” Todoroki asked, ignoring the mirror’s question.

“I already told you, I am a ghost.”

“I spent my whole weekend researching supernatural stuff, my google looks like I am ready to be a ghost hunter, but things still don't make sense! Your existence still doesn’t make sense!” Shouto spilled, his frustration at the topic leaking with every word. “I can see you, but I can’t prove your existence with numbers or logic! And this is so weird, because, what the hell am I doing?! Talking with a mirror?! The only logical explanation here is that I am finally crazy!”

Woah!, Shouto thought, surprised by his own outburst. Last time that he got to say so much in just one breath was at Asui’s 18th birthday party when he got really drunk, and was explaining why people should eat soba instead of ramen.

Or, a TodoDeku story where Todoroki talks with a ghost trapped inside a mirror.

Ao3 link:

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“What?! You didn’t hear about it?!”

“About what?!”

“It appeared!”

“What appeared?!”

“The ghost!”

…

Medical student Todoroki Shouto was a science type of person. Math, biology, physics and chemistry make a lot of sense, you can prove stuff using logic, numbers, chemical experiments, and you can show people that a bacteria exists using a microscope.

As long as you can give concrete proofs about something, that exists. It's not a rumor or gossip. Numbers and logic don’t lie. It shows you a fact, and even if you don’t understand why you should use that formula, as long as you use that, anyone will have the same result.

It is a fact. It is rational.

But that is his opinion, as a logical person. People are free to believe in whatever they want, but Shouto just didn’t understand why other people were so adamant on believing in…ghosts.

For some reason, since he arrived at his class that morning, the students from all departments were gossiping about the oldest building in the campus - the one that right now was under renovation. From what Shouto heard so far, something, a ghost of all things, showed up there.

He didn’t care about it, zombies and vampires could be spotted around the old building and he still wouldn't care, so he ignored the rumors and continued his day. Or so he did until lunchtime.

“So, Tsuyu-chan told me that Toga-chan told her that someone from the art department went to the oldest building in the campus because of a bet.” Uraraka said as soon as she sat at their regular table in the gardens.

“Oh, is that about the rumors that I’ve been hearing since morning?” Yaoyorozu asked, unwrapping a big sized (and really expensive looking) bento. “About the ghost?”

Todoroki had to control himself, or he would roll his mismatched eyes over this ridiculous gossip.

“I also heard about it.” Jirou commented, pointing her chopsticks at no one in particular. “And the students are also posting a lot of comments and stories about the rumors on the official students page on twitter.”

“Even the teachers had their own opinions about it.” Iida added, fixing the position of his glasses on his face. “Hizashi-sensei was yelli- I mean, sharing his ideas for 10 minutes.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to look at the white and red haired boy, who was munching his soba undisturbed by the stories.

“A ghost. Really?”

“Come on Todoroki! You don’t have to sound so annoyed. It’s just for fun.”

“I just can’t understand what is so fun, Jirou.” He admitted, expression serious. “Why do people insist on telling stories about ghosts? It doesn't even exist, it’s so obvious it is a lie, and everyone still gossip and speculate about it.”

“Woah! Sometimes I forget that you are the ‘it doesn't exist until it’s proved the opposite’ type of person!” The short haired brunette girl whistled amused by her friend's comment. “But anyway, it’s not a lie.”

“And how do you know?” He arched a perfect red eyebrow. “Where is the proof?”

“It’s not a lie, but I also didn't say it’s true. It’s a rumor.”

“...It’s a lie.”

“Todoroki-san, just because you don’t believe it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” Yaoyorozu interrupted, her voice soft and understanding. “I know that you are skeptical about this kind of stuff, but some people believe and you have to respect it, okay?”

“Sorry…I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“I know.”

“But.” He added. “I just don’t…understand.”

“I know what you mean.” Iida seconded. “I am a math and physics student, so I understand that logically speaking, ghosts and the supernatural in general are something that challenges everything that we learn.”

“Oh guys, come on!” Ochako grunted. “You don’t have to believe! Just think that this kind of story appears once in a while for the college student’s fun experiences! I mean, remember back in our school days when people were always gossiping about the School Seven Mysteries? Here at college it is not so different!”

“Uraraka is right, you don't have to believe." Kyouka nodded. "I don't believe it either because I never saw a ghost or whatever, but still, it is fun when people do courage tests and other events."

Well, Todoroki could agree with it. It was fun to see Kaminari and Ashido, two of their high school friends, run around the forest after being hit with a piece of konjaku during a courage test during their senior year.

"By the way, what are the rumors saying?" The tallest girl in the group asked. "I didn't hear about the specifics about the rumors…I was too worried about the mock test…"

"Well, Tsuyu-chan said that this art student went to the storage in the old building because they lost a bet."

"You already said it." Todoroki commented.

She didn't mind Todoroki and continued.

"The thing is, there is a story about a mirror in the storage room."

"A mirror?" Iida sais retorically.

"There's a rumor…"

"Again a rumor…"

"Be quiet, Todoroki!" Jirou snapped.

"...that says that the spirit of a student is locked inside the mirror, and if you call it, it will answer any question. Some people say that it can even tell you about your future."

"And what do we need to say to call it?" Momo asked, genuinely curious about the story.

"Mirror mirror of mine."

They stared at Uraraka.

"What?" Jirou asked dumbfound.

"Yeah, I know, kind of a Snow White punchline, but that's what the rumors say!"

"Seems like Snow White will show up in the mirror." Shouto lips curved up, amused. "Or the seven dwarfs."

"As long as it is not the Evil Queen, anyone is okay." Ochako giggled. "But anyway, the thing is, the student said these words, and something really showed up in the mirror!"

"His reflection. It's a mirror." Came Todoroki dry comment, but his friends ignored him as Ochako continued the story.

"Unfortunately, the student freaked out and left, so we don't really know if the ghost in the mirror can tell you about the future or something like that." She sighed disappointed.

"That's a shame." The ponytail girl said, a hand on her cheek. "If this is true, I would like to know what I am doing in the future so I can prepare better."

"You already do good enough, Yaomomo." The short black haired girl tried to cheer her best friend, patting her on the back. “But it does sound like the kind of story that people would gossip around the campus.”

“Don’t you think so?!” The brunette exclaimed. “If I wasn’t already scared of the old building alone, I would like to take a peek at the mirror and ask the ghost how I can become rich!”

“It’s a mirror.” Todoroki repeated. “It will show your image, and that’s already an answer for your question. Only you can make yourself rich.”

Uraraka rolled her eyes.

“So why don’t you go there and tell me if it’s real or not?”

“Why should I?”

Their friends looked back and forth from those two, clearly, something interesting would come now.

“You want proof that ghosts don’t exist, so go to the old building and call the ghost.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“No, this is science.” Ochako grinned. “You prove theories by trying them, right? So say ‘mirror mirror of mine’ and see what happens. You will prove a point, and entertain your curious friends! It’s a win-win situation!”

Mismatched eyes stared at the brown ones for a moment.

Todoroki sighed.

“Fine.”

…

The sky was already a dark shade of orange and purple when Shouto’s classes ended that day. His friends were probably gone by now, fridays were the days that his classes last longer than the other majors, and no matter how much his friends love him, they definitely love their early freedom on fridays more.

He was tired, and had a lot of homework and a new project to start, but when he was passing by near the old building, the conversation with Uraraka came to his mind.

Proof.

If he goes inside now, he can show Uraraka that rumors are rumors and that ghosts don’t exist, and the earlier he does it the better, or Uraraka would definitely say something like he is afraid of entering the building or whatever.

He approached the building and pushed the door open, a loud crack sound echoed in the empty hallways, and for a split second Todoroki thought that this scenario looked like one from a horror movie that his friends forced him to watch years ago.

There were a lot of paint cans, wood and other tools like hammers and saws scattered around, after all, the college was indeed renovating the building, but no one was there, probably all the workers left early. Well, it’s friday.

“By the way.” Todoroki abruptly stopped walking, mismatched eyes looking around. “Which room has the mirror?”

Of all things to forget, he forgot to ask Uraraka where he was supposed to find the mirror.

…

The sun was long gone when he finally found a storage room for the theater and arts department. The room was filled with costumes, boxes with makeup, brushes and paint, there was some cardbords and signs stacked in one of the corners of the room, but the flashlight of his phone wasn’t good enough to distinguish what was written or draw on them, and Shouto didn’t want to turn on the lights of the building, the last thing he wanted was the security coming by and ask what he was doing there.

Going deep inside the storage, something reflected the light of his flashlight.

A mirror. A full length mirror hanging on the wall.

“Must be this one.”

A rectangular mirror with a golden frame. There was a crack from the top right corner to the bottom left corner, slightly distorting his reflection. Shouto put his phone on the floor and grabbed the mirror, taking it from the wall and turning it around to take a look behind it. It was heavy, but then again, the mirror was glued at a wood surface.

He inspected the object for a full minute, but nothing was wrong with it. It was a normal old mirror that the arts department probably dropped, but was too lazy to throw in the trash.

There’s just one thing left to do. Todoroki thought, putting the mirror back at the wall.

He stared at his reflection, his mouth opened.

“Mirror mirror of mine…” What was he supposed to say now? A question? What should he ask? He didn’t have anything in particular to ask anyway. “...Is there anyone more beautiful than me?”

Okay. What the hell just came out of his mouth? He joked about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, but his brain must have had a really bad short circuit, because what the hell he just said?! Thank God no one was there to hear that…

A giggled.

…or so he thought.

“Who is there?” Shouto called, eyes looking around the room, because he heard someone giggled.

“Well, so far, you are the prettiest person I have ever seen." Someone said, voice muffled. "But this is just my opinion."

The college student turned his head, once more looking at his reflection in the mirror, this time though, his reflection was not alone.

Big emerald eyes, curly and fluffy green hair, cheeks painted on freckles that looked like stars, and an amused but sincere smile.

"Hello!" The boy in the mirror said when their eyes met, the smile still playing on his lips.

Todoroki flinched. WHAT.THE.HELL?

"Oh, you are the first one that doesn't run away on the spot!"

There must be a logical explanation for this, Todoroki told himself, because how is it possible that...that...an image(?) was talking with him?

"Hum...? Hey?" The mirror waved a hand. "Are you okay? Oh, please, just don't pass out here!"

"I..." He cleared his throat. "I won't." Shouto found his voice again, mismatched eyes never leaving the mirror.

"Thanks god! I was really worried for a second!" And the mirror sighed like he was really relieved.

Shouto studied the mirror again. Was it really a mirror? Maybe it was a screen and someone made a really good job programming an A.I?

"I am not a TV, app or A.I." The green haired boy said amused, and Shouto flinched again, surprised that he was muttering.

"So..." He couldn't believe what he was about to ask. "...what are you?"

"Not 'Who are you' but 'What are you' ..." The boy paused. "I would like to say that I am a person, but people call me a ghost."

A ghost.

Hah. Great.

"Ghosts don't exist." Shouto denied, not wanting to believe in what he was looking at right now.

The boy in the mirror blinked a few times, pointed a finger at his own face, and arched an eyebrow.

"But I am right here...?"

"You're not a ghost."

"If I am not one, then what exactly am I?"

"...I don't know... yet ."

"Oh! I see!" The mirror snapped a finger, face suddenly lighting up. "You are shocked! Or just in denial!"

"I am not!" Todoroki grunted. What was happening? He was arguing with a mirror? He must be dreaming or gone insane! Where was the logic that he liked so much?

"Sure~"

Was the boy in the mirror sassing him?

"Anyway, did you just come here to ask me that?"

"What?"

"I mean, did you really ask me the same question that the Evil Queen used to ask her mirror?"

"I didn't know what to ask." Todoroki replied dryly, and then added. "And I didn't believe or expect that something would answer me at all."

"Well, I answered, so what do you want to do now?"

Shouto stared at the boy, analyzing him. Now that he calmed down and was trying to better assess the situation, he could see that the boy was wearing some kind of costume, like a jumpsuit, and black ironed shoes. The green haired boy was probably shorter than him and around his age. If this was some kind of prank, the mirror boy sure was doing a good job.

"I am leaving." Shouto said suddenly, grabbing his phone that was still on the floor, and turning his back to the mirror.

"Oh." He heard, and it sounded really sad. "Bye bye."

The red and white haired college student closed the door behind his back and quickly left the building.

...

Todoroki didn't tell his friends about the mirror. He spent all weekend searching for logical explanations for what happened at the old building, because as a scientific person, how could he accept that whatever he saw that day was a…ghost?

No. No way.

There must be a logical answer for that. So he researched, and researched and researched. The algorithms for his google showing now, articles about ghosts and other supernatural figures, people trying to hunt said ghosts or communicate with them.

When monday arrived, Todoroki did his best to avoid his friends, because right now he was a man on a mission to prove that whatever was that person he saw in the mirror, was not a ghost.

…

Shouto lied to Iida, saying that he would go to the college library to study for a mock test, and being a serious student, Iida nodded and walked away, proud of his best friend.

Now, the half white and half red haired student was standing in front of the mirror, on a late monday afternoon, glaring at his own reflection and waiting for the green haired boy to show up.

“Hey, where are you?” Shouto said, but the mirror was still only showing his reflection. He pondered for a second. Was the ‘mirror mirror of mine’ a condition for the other boy to show up? He should try. “Mirror mirror of mine, where are you?”

He blinked, and on the next instant, green eyes were staring back at his own mismatched ones.

“You came back?” Was the first thing that the mirror said, a curious expression on his face. “I thought that you were done here?”

“What are you?” Todoroki asked, ignoring the mirror’s question.

“I already told you, I am a ghost.”

Woah! , Shouto thought, surprised by his own outburst. Last time that he got to say so much in just one breath was at Asui’s 18th birthday party when he got really drunk, and was explaining why people should eat soba instead of ramen.

“...Are you done?” The mirror asked.

“...Yes.” The student answered, sitting in front of the mirror.

“What is your name?”

“Todoroki Shouto.” There was a pause. “And you?”

“Well…I am not really sure.” The boy said sincerely. “But I remember someone calling me Midoriya something. Well, something that sounds like Deku.”

“Deku?” Shouto parroted. “That…sounds mean.”

“Yeah, I know. But if this is my name…well, that’s fine.” The mirror, Midoriya, shrugged. “Why…did you come back? People usually leave here crying and shouting and never come back, but you…are here.”

“I am trying to understand your…existence.” And Shouto was trying really hard. “People die, and that’s it. The end. There’s no life after you die.”

“Some things can't be explained. And I am some kind of proof, right? After all, you can’t really pinpoint why I exist, and I don’t think any scientist would understand either, I don’t understand, and I’ve been here for a while.” Deku commented, but there was no arrogance in his voice, he was just saying what he really believed.

“How long? I mean, how long have you been trapped?”

“Hum…that’s a difficult question.” Midoriya looked pensive. “After a while you kind of lose track of the time, since I can only appear if someone says those Evil Queen’s speech. So, yeah, it could be days, months or years, but I bet that I’ve been here for a couple of years.”

“That…sounds…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“I was about to say boring, but it fits too.”

This time Midoriya laughed, and Shouto couldn't control the small smile that appeared on his own lips.

“Yes, it is boring, but most of the time I feel like I am asleep, dreaming about a world and people that I can’t remember after waking up…so yeah, but I can manage something. It’s not like I’m gonna die…again.”

“Don’t you…want to be free from the mirror?” Shouto asked, taking a look at the golden frame. “Find the light or something like that?”

“Of course I want to, but I don’t even know why I am here!” The mirror boy replied, biting the inside of his cheek. “Maybe I died in front of a mirror and my soul got trapped, people say that mirrors have this power. Or maybe I am cursed? Or I am the real Evil Queen’s mirror!”

“...Don’t be ridiculous.” Todoroki deadpanned. “And how do you know this kind of stuff? I had to do plenty of research to find some legends about mirrors and their power.”

“I am amnesiac, not dumb.” Came the reply, and then the laughter. “I don’t know either, I like to think that I was curious about a lot of stuff when I was alive, and even if I forgot my name, I still have the knowledge that I got during my life.”

“Remembering your name would be better.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. There’s no way to know.”

They went silent, Deku humming a soft melody that Shouto never heard, but it was nice.

“Do you…want to know your name?”

Emerald eyes stared at him.

“What?”

“I said, do you want to know your name?”

“Well, of course I want to, but how…”

“I will do some research, try to find a clue about you, and with luck, we can get a name.”

“Would you…do something like this…for me?” Shouto didn’t know that a ghost or mirror could cry, but the small droplets at the corner of Midoriya’s green eyes were tears. No mistake.

“If I can’t explain rationally stuff like ghosts, I would like to at least prove that someone by the name ‘Midoriya something like Deku’ one day was a living person.”

“Thank you.” Midoriya said between sobs, hands trying to stop the tears that keep falling. “Thank you.”

And for the first time since all that crazy experience started, Shouto felt like something was right.

...

The days passed by, and Shouto would visit Midoriya every day. It was fun, Midoriya was a good listener and was really intelligent, he would always give Shouto his opinions on the papers that a teacher would score, and mutter over small things.

Shouto didn't even notice when he stopped caring about the logic behind Midoriya's existence.

...

“Another test?!” Uraraka exclaimed, clearly indignant. “How many mock tests have your teachers passed you in the last two weeks?!”

“I lost track after the third one.” Jirou commented, not really giving a shit about Todoroki’s possible suffering. “That’s medical students for you.”

“Ugh! This way you will never have enough time to check the old building!” The brunette complained, and Shouto had to control his usual stoic expression. “The rumors are already dying, and I still don’t have an answer about the mirror!”

“Rumors are rumors anyway.” Todoroki said, not letting a single amused tone of voice escape his lips. “And if you are so curious, just go there by yourself and check it out.”

“No way! I am scared!” She cried, arms around her shoulders, trying to protect herself from an invisible threat. “What if something really shows up?”

“Then scream and run away.” He answered. Shouto wondered what Midoriya would say to whatever Uraraka asked about.

Yaoyorozu placed her chopsticks down, and stared at Todoroki for a moment, but it was long enough for Shouto to realize that the ponytail girl was looking at him.

“Something is wrong, Yaoyorozu?”

“No, not really.” The tall girl said, but her eyes still had a curious light in them. “I just feel like usually you would answer a little bit different that kind of question.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said ‘Then scream and run away’ , when usually you would say ‘Nothing's gonna show up’ .”

“Ah. That’s true.” Iida agreed. “That would sound more like Todoroki-kun.”

“Heh~” Ochako hummed, amused. “Have you finally accepted that a ghost may exist, Todoroki-kun?”

“I never said that.” He stated, trying his best to keep his cool. “I just gave you a logical solution for a hypothetical situation. Or would you stay put and wait for something to jump on you like those stupid people from horror movies?"

“Of course I would run away! No way that I am dying like that!”

“I thought so.”

“Yaomomo, that is a totally Todoroki kind of answer.” Kyouka nudged her taller friend.

“I guess so.” Momo sighed and went back to her lunch.

Crisis averted.

…

“Why do you wear a jumpsuit?” Todoroki asked one day.

“Hum…I wonder why…” Deku answered. “But they are pretty comfy.”

“It’s weird.”

“No, it’s cool! Makes me look like a superhero!”

“Are you a kid?”

“I look around your age though?”

…

“Why do we need to say ‘Mirror mirror of mine’ to call you?”

“I don’t know. But it’s kind of fun!”

“For you.”

“Of course! Or maybe there’s a rule like ‘Ghosts never speak till spoken to’.”

…

“Someone came here today.” Deku said.

“What did they ask?” Todoroki asked, eyes never leaving his anatomy book.

“They asked about you.”

“About me?” He got his coffee, taking a sip of the drink.

“Well, the exact words were, ‘Mirror mirror of mine, how many children me and Todoroki Shouto will be blessed with? ’.”

Shouto spatted the coffee and coughed, Deku laughed the whole afternoon after that.

…

“You are popular.”

Shouto arched his eyebrow.

“Why do you say it?”

“I mean, people keep coming here, and your name appears a lot on their questions.” Midoriya smirked. “Do you want to know what they asked?”

The red an white haired student glared at the mirror.

“Let me get a coffee, and this time I can spat all my coffee in the mirror.”

“That’s gross!” The green haired boy laughed, and Shouto's expression softened seeing the mirror so relaxed.

“It would be your fault.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

…

“Todoroki-kun…do you have a girlfriend?” Deku asked one day, freckled cheeks slightly pink, and for some reason, Shouto felt his own getting hot. “Or a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Hum…and do you…like someone…?”

That question was really tricky. Shouto should lie, but just one look at Deku’s face was enough for the college student to spill everything.

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh…I see.”

After that, Midoriya changed topics, and didn’t comment about it anymore, and neither did Shouto.

…

“Mirror mirror of mine, why can't I find anything about you?”

That was the first thing that he told the mirror that afternoon.

“I don’t know.” Deku said as soon as his image appeared in the mirror, a small smile on his lips.

“...I am sorry, Midoriya.” Shouto apologized, sitting in front of the mirror, a defeated expression on his face.

“Don’t make this face, it’s not your fault that apparently, I am a difficult person to find.” Midoriya joked, trying to lighten up the mood. “You’ve been researching for almost two months, you are using your precious time on stuff that you didn’t even need to.”

“But!”

“It’s okay. Really.”

“I thought…that I could prove that you existed.” Todoroki frowned, eyes looking at the floor and hands closing around the fabrics of his pants. “I thought that I could help you…”

“Todoroki-kun, look at me.”

“I can’t…”

“Yes, you can.”

Slowly, mismatched eyes looked up to find gentle green ones.

“You don’t have to wear such a painful expression.” The boy in the mirror commented, a gentle and soft smile on his lips. “It’s not your fault that there’s no information about me. Maybe I died so long ago that there is no data at all. Don’t blame yourself for stuff that you don't have control over.”

“I just wanted to find your name.” He muttered.

“I have one. Midoriya Deku.”

“You are not sure.

“I am, because is the name that you call me, right?”

“Midoriya…”

“Yes, that’s my name.” Deku smiled.

…

Something changed by the end of the second month since Shouto met the boy in the mirror.

“I hear someone calling my name when I am sleeping.” Midoriya said during one of their conversations.

“Your real name?!”

Deku shakes his head.

“No, they call me ‘Midoriya’.”

Shouto stared at the boy in a jumpsuit, Midoriya looked like he wasn’t telling him everything, but demanding answers was never a good option, he should be patient and wait until the grenette was ready to talk.

“Maybe it is a piece of your memory.” Todoroki tried, and green eyes stared at him. “And soon you will get an answer.”

“Yes, maybe.”

…

Three months after he met Deku, something felt off.

Shouto woke up that morning feeling like something was wrong. His alarm didn’t go off, he woke up 30 minutes before the alarm, and occurrences like that were rare since he wasn’t a morning person.

It was raining outside, the sky was gray, and once in a while he could hear the sound of cars running over water puddles. Usually he didn’t mind rainy days, but that morning, that kind of weather wasn’t helping him get rid of the wrongness inside his chest.

Midoriya.

The name of the boy in the mirror was the first thing that came to mind.

He wanted to see Midoriya no matter what.

…

“Midoriya!” He exclaimed, pushing the storage room open and going straight to the mirror, forgetting for a second that calling his name like that didn’t work. “Mirror mirror of mine, where is Midoriya?”

The clock ticked.

One, two, three, four, five…a full minute.

But Midoriya didn’t appear,and that made Shouto panic.

“Mirror mirror of mine, where is Midoriya?!” He tried again, however nothing but his reflection was there. “Midoriya! Hey! Midoriya!”

“...Todoroki-kun.”

The voice, that familiar and sweet voice came from behind him. Slowly Shouto turned his body, and behind him, was a shorter green haired boy, with emerald like eyes, and freckles that looked like the stars, wearing a green jumpsuit and black ironed shoes.

“Midoriya…”

“Hi.” The boy waved.

“You…” Shouto said dumbfounded, approaching Deku carefully, as if a single hasty gesture would scare him away. “...are free.”

“Yes…looks like that.” Deku agreed, not moving from his place.

“How…?”

“I had a dream last night, or more like I retrieved my memories.” He said, and when Shouto stayed silent, he continued. “I remembered why I was stuck inside the mirror.”

“Did you…” But Todoroki didn’t have the courage to finish that sentence, because right now, everything was too real.

“No, I am alive.” Deku said, and Shouto felt his heartbeat skyrocket. “And I’ve been alive for a really long time, when something called quirks were still going around the world.”

“Quirks?”

“Something like superpowers, I would say. Can you imagine a society where we had heroes and heroines running around the city saving people’ lives?” Deku explained, a little bit more excited. “That kind of explains why I am wearing a jumpsuit that looks like a Halloween costume.”

“Midoriya,” Shouto called, trying to make the boy come back to track.

“The thing is, there was a villain…her quirk allowed her to trap people inside a mirror, and I think she died before someone could figure out where I went. Time passed, and I was probably sleeping all these years, no one found me, and the first time I woke up, people were scared of me.”

“What was the condition to get you out of the mirror?” Shouto asked, stopping in front of Midoriya that didn’t back off.

“I had to remember my name.” Midoriya replied, a nervous look on his face. “For a few weeks, I felt like someone was calling me in my dreams…or memories, and last night…they finally said my real name.”

“...can you finally introduce yourself?” Shouto asked, lips quivering.

A few tears fell from Deku’s green eyes, but he smiled.

“Yes, I can.”

“So, mirror mirror of mine, can you tell me your name?”

“Nice to meet you, I am Midoriya Izuku.”

“Izuku…” Todoroki tried the name. “Izuku.”

It was perfect.

“Do you want to know who was calling me?”

Shouto nodded.

“Ask the question.”

“Mirror mirror of mine, tell me, who was it?”

“Someone that I loved so much, and fell in love once again.” Izuku said, loving eyes staring at mismatched ones. “Do you know someone that goes by the name, Todoroki Shouto?”

…

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“What?! You didn’t hear about it?!”

“About what?!”

“It appeared!”

“What appeared?!”

“The ghost!”

“Oh, is that about the rumor about the ghost trapped inside the mirror hanging on the wall of the storage room in the old building?”

“Yes!”

“No way, there is no ghost there.”

“And how do you know?”

“Because I heard it from a student whose grandfather used to study here. Did you know that is not a horror story? It’s actually a romance?”

“What? A romance?”

“Yep! They said that once upon a time there was a hero who was imprisoned within a mirror, waiting for his soulmate to appear, because that was the only way he could recover his memories and break free from his glassy confinement, so one day he could get together once again with his loved one.”

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #fanfiction #ao3 #fluffy #friends #angst #romance #mirror #haunted #story prompts #drama #fanfic #midoriya izuku #todoroki shouto #tododeku #tddk #tddkhalloweek2023 #halloween

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softpadawan · 7 months

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Kanezra To Do List

All I Need - Final chapter 65% done

Ellada - 80% done

The Visitor - 70% done

Stripped - 80% done

The Sacrifice - 50-60? % done but it's already close to 10k words and 4 chapters and would be perfect to post for Spooky Season

Last year's Halloweek prompts (art)

I think that's plenty to tackle for now 👻

#this is more for my personal/mental organization #kanezra #hjbwrites #wips #this is a pretty ambitious list but i've been working on some of these fics since 2021 #and if i don't finish them now (or at least post them as is) they'll never see the light of ao3

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iverna · 2 years

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So... anyone interested in doing Halloweek this year? I’ve been asked about doing it again, but I wanted to ask and see how many people are actually interested in doing it before I start trying to come up with prompts and things.

We could also leave it prompt-less, and just have a week of spooky/supernatural/scary/mystery stories and art and edits leading up to Halloween? Or... I don’t know, let me know if you have any interest, any ideas, or any requests!

#halloweek 22 #ouat #captain swan

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tealquacks · 1 year

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The Painting Mage

Written for day three of Arcane Halloweek! @fandom-events ! The prompt was "mages, witches and wizards". So we have a bit of young Jinx, discovering something interesting... Read on archive of our own:

Enjoy!

The paint splattered against the wall like blood spray, vivid blue like the strange crystal’s glow making Jinx flinch. She lowered her brush, staring at the art she’d made so far. Just a few lines, honestly, but it calmed her. She took a deep breath, curling her toes into the rough floor of her cell. If she stared at her painting long enough, she could pretend she wasn’t in the cell. That nothing happened. She poked the blue paint. It didn’t explode, simply stuck to her finger. It couldn’t hurt her. Nothing that she made could hurt her. That was the beauty of her creations. They didn’t hurt unless they made her remember.

Art allowed her mind to wander from Vi and Vander. The mere thought of them made her shoulders tense. Both of them were as good as dead to her. They’d left her, cold and alone in an alleyway. After the enforcers heard the explosion from the strange blue crystals, they came running. Yanked her away from her family before she even knew what was going on, beating her harder than rain against the ground.

Then, they imprisoned her. Not before a proper trial, of course. Her trial had been widely publicized. A spectacle. Nobody seemed to realize the person behind the witness stand was a child. Everyone else in the prison stared at her like she was weak, and Jinx realized that she was, especially when compared to the massive forms of the other prisoners. When she thought of giving up, Vi would come into her mind. So she fought. And lost. Every day hurt. Even if they didn’t lay a finger on her some days, just being alone made her feel feral.

Vi was right. She was a Jinx. Bad luck to everyone, especially herself.

To keep herself sane, she started carving designs into the walls with a sharp piece of rock. Occasionally, she’d get a piece of charcoal, or a nicer guard would slip her a crayon and some paper. The rest she’d have to find, steal, or buy from the prison dispensary. She’d saved up almost all of her money for these paints over the course of who knows how many years, if only to cling to her sanity. The brushes she had to make herself, trimmings of her own hair crudely taped to sticks. While her mind wandered, her hands had a mind of their own, painting.

Jinx looked at the bright spattering of paint on the wall and drew a single line. She’d been working on a face. Thin and angular, drawn in bright blue and stunning green, streaks of purple and pink striking strong shadows. The hair had taken such a long time to draw, a smear of color with a streak of fluorescent yellows, like a streak of white in the hair. Then, she painted a mouth.

She painted another line, then two more that were curved. It almost looked like a mouth, stern and downturned. She giggled in spite of herself. It really looked like a mouth! A well-painted one at that. She silently patted herself on the back.

“Hello,” she said to the friendly face, “I’m Jinx! Who are you?”

She waited for a response. Nothing came. Something had to be wrong with her. Her expression deepened into a frown, brows furrowing. She sighed and shook her head. It’s fine, she told herself, certainly other sane people talk to paintings. Certainly.

“Of course you didn’t say anything, you don’t have ears!” She cawed.

Two curved lines in the same blue made a pair of ears, Jinx using her thumb to smudge the paint as a form of crude shading. The ears looked nice, if a bit large for the head, and she tilted her head.

“Now can you hear me?” she chirped, “I’m Jinx. It’s good to meet you!”

She laughed. For once, Vi wasn’t in her head. Nor were Mylo, Claggor, or Vander. She’d made a new friend. Someone who didn’t think she was a terrible jinx who messed everything up. She smiled at her painting.

It smiled back with crookedly painted teeth.

“Hello Jinx, it’s good to meet you too.”

The painting’s voice was rough and rang through the air like a gunshot. Jinx yelped, dropping her crudely made brush. Paint splattered all over her feet. Jinx clutched at her head, staring at the painting as the disembodied head tilted ever so slightly.

“Jinx?” Jinx screamed and stumbled back at the voice. The mouth was moving. Little droplets of spit-like paint fell from the crooked teeth. She shook all over. Had she gone crazy? She had to have gone crazy. Paintings didn’t talk. “You’re not real! I’m going crazy!” Jinx snapped with a trembling voice. The painting laughed.

“I can assure you I am real, child,” the voice comforted, “You created me, after all.”

She furrowed her brows, staring at the painting who definitely shouldn’t be talking, he was a painting!!!!!

“How?” “Jinx, I would love to answer your questions, but I would rather like to be able to see. Could you give me a pair of eyes?”

Jinx shakily picked up her brush. She walked back towards the wall and raised her brush. An eye. She could paint an eye. With shaking hands, she drew a circle. The paint dripped. She tried to wipe it away with her hand, but it ended up smearing messily over her hands and the painting’s face like an ugly scar. The paint kept on dripping. Jinx shook. She smeared it again. Bright blue stuck to her fingers. She tried again with pink, purple, and green. The result was a mess of color covering half of her painting’s face.

“I- I’m sorry, I messed up, I messed up your eye really bad.”

The painting made a quiet shushing noise.

“It’s okay, Jinx. You’re an artist, right? So anything you create is art.”

She sniffled, her eyes wide and rimmed with tears. “Even if what I made looks bad?” The painting chuckled.

“Of course. Now. Paint the other eye.”

Jinx breathed in slowly. She raised her brush and dipped it in a little bit of black paint. She tapped the brush end off on the pot and drew a simple circle. And inside that circle, she painted a blue circle. With her thumb, she used black paint to smudge an eyebrow over the eye. And because the painting looked a little silly without a nose, she quickly sketched a nose, big and crooked. It fit the rest of the angular silhouette and made the face look a little goofy, more friend-like. Jinx giggled.

“What, is there something on my face?” The face asked, blinking a little.

“You look silly!”

“That’s not something you should say to a friend!” the painting chortled. Jinx tilted her head. “We’re friends?” “Of course we are.” “You look lonely, though.” “You do too, child.”

“But you look extra super lonely because you have no body!” The painting guffawed. Jinx couldn’t stop herself from chortling ridiculously, staring at the face she had painted. Oh, she’d really lost it. But did that really matter anymore? Even if she was crazy, it was so nice to hear another voice… It had been so long since someone talked to her like a person. She smiled even brighter at her painting. A friend, she finally made a friend. Literally. She made a friend. “How are you alive?” she asked. She raised her paintbrush and drew two lines connecting the head to the neck. Curved lines made a shoulder. She’d made a mistake in the neck, but managed to make it look like the collar of a shirt. She smiled as she began to paint the body. “Because you created me, child. I am… a simulacrum of some sort. A painting, brought to life by the magic of creation.” “Magic?” Jinx asked. She’d only ever read about magic in storybooks, evil wizards and cruel sorceresses scorching the lands of Piltover. She looked at Silco. How could he be evil? Jinx thought of another book of Vander’s, a collection of paintings from all over the world. In one, there was an entire garden that had been made by a wizard. In another, a massive city had been coaxed from the sea. Creation. Jinx took a shaky breath. Silco didn’t seem phased by her fear. “Magic, powerful magic at that.” “I didn’t even realize I could do magic!”

The painting shook his head.

“Then you must be a rather impressive mage, especially for your age. Ah, thank you for the arms, by the way. And the torso. I hope a pair of legs will be joining them shortly.” Jinx giggled.

“They will! I’m sorry about not being able to give you hands, though. I’m not that good yet, so I made your arms go behind your back! Oh! What’s your name? I asked but you scared me really bad so I forgot to ask again.” The painting smiled fondly at her.

“Silco, you may call me Silco.”

“That’s a nice name!” Silco smiled. Jinx sat, painting the outline of one leg.

“Speaking of questions, child, are we in a jail cell?” Silco asked.

Jinx stepped back. She crumpled to the ground and curled in on herself. She nodded. “Yeah, we are. I… hurt a bunch of people. It was an accident, but my family left and then the enforcers took me here– please don’t leave!”

Silco pushed himself off the wall, a sad expression on his face. The stone was completely blank where he once stood, now a colorful ghost lowering himself on his one leg.

“Jinx, you created me out of nothing. You are a bright soul, and anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly fooling themselves.” Jinx gazed through the bars of her cell.

“I… what if they’re right about me, though? The lawyers, the judges, my family, they all said I was a thief, a rat, a– a Jinx.”

She looked back at Silco. His face had gone soft, brows furrowed. “Who cares what those small-minded fools have to say? This whole world could be yours, Jinx. You are so much stronger than anyone thinks, even you. You don’t deserve to be stuck behind bars for a simple accident– you deserve to be out there, creating.” Silco pulled himself forward even more. The gaps in the painting Jinx left started to fill themselves in more, patches of skin tone and black joining the cacophony of color that made up his existence, glowing like a neon sign in the jail cell. His hands– parts of him Jinx hadn’t dared to paint– were completely made of the stone of the jail cell, held together by whatever magic Jinx had. Jinx scrambled behind him, hastily painting another leg for her newfound friend.

Silco fully stepped from the wall. He loomed over her, all sharp and menacing. But his smile, painted by Jinx, comforted her. Silco extended a phosphorescent hand to her. She took it, surprised by its warmth. She stood. Without thinking, she threw herself onto Silco, crushing him in a tight hug. He settled his hand on her head. He felt real. Realer than anything Jinx had ever seen.

“But how can I get out?” Jinx asked, her face still pressed into Silco’s painted shirt. Silco laughed softly, pulling away. He looked down at her with his chaotic, colorful eyes.

“You make a way out, little mage.”

Jinx looked up at him, then to the blank wall of her cell. If she could paint a person…

…then she could certainly paint a door. A way to a better place.

She dipped her fingers in the blue paint. She dragged them over the floor, sending crashing waves over rough stones. She turned her head back to look at Silco. He watched her patiently, a small smile on his face.

She marched forward to the wall, her canvas. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. She could paint anything, anywhere. Her mind wandered to one of Vander’s old books. A picture, so bright and beautiful that she just had to tear it out and keep it. And she told her family that one day they’d go there, and see it with their own eyes.

They were dead now. So she’d have to paint it for them to see. She flicked her fingers over the wall, splattering blue paint like the rhythmic rocking of the sea, flicks of white forming wave crests, and the seabirds circling overhead. She could hear them, splashing against the thin barrier of reality that still was there. She dunked her brush into bright pink, and sunset was born on the dark walls of her cell, a neon-sign sun dangling like a stuffed animal from a power line over the ocean.

Far off in the distance a marble town perched, cast in the deep shadow of the setting sun and surrounded by verdant grass. Ocean water flowed into her cell from her painting, gathering over her ankles. Jinx laughed. She dunked her dirty brush into the ocean water, then into white paint. She pressed her thumb against the brush and sent paint flying.

A sea of stars glowed in the sky Jinx had painted, just starting to reveal themselves as the sun dipped into the ocean. An albatross flew into her cell. The crashing waves now reached her knees. Guards and convicts started yelling, muffled by her creations. That didn’t stop Jinx. Pink blossoms drifted from flowering trees and kelp tangled up in the salty ocean water that shimmered like gold. Silco waded next to her.

“This could all be yours, Jinx,” Silco spoke, “someday this could all be yours.”

She stepped forward. The floor of her cell was sand now, and her feet dug into it. Fresh air filled her lungs. She ran, ran towards this painting given life, her creation, and the water rose up to her stomach, her chest, her neck. The guards were getting closer now. Jinx floundered in the water. Silco yanked her into his arms, Jinx resting her head on his shoulder. His hands were rough, but they held her, they kept her safe. Now, now she was truly free. She couldn’t stop the triumphant whoop from escaping. She looked behind her. The guards were at her cell, trying to unlock it, calling after one another. She stared back through the painted gate. Guilt filled her. Maybe she deserved to be in there. For Vi, Vander, Claggor, Mylo. Her smile fell. But then Silco took her hand, gently squeezing it.

“Let go now, Jinx. There’s nothing left there for you,” he whispered.

Jinx stared at the cell. The rift in reality she’d caused started to fall apart, pieces of the sky starting to close like a wound. Slowly, bit by bit, the gate closed. The world healed around it. Clouds and endless sea filled the place that once was her jail cell. Jinx let out a deep breath, pressing her head against Silco’s.

He was right. There was nothing left for her there. Here, she could have a second chance. Maybe she could paint herself into a person Vi would be proud of. Create something worth loving. Fatigue crashed into her like a wave. Making a person and a portal must’ve been too much, she realized. She slumped against Silco, knocking her head into his shoulder.

“I’m gonna draw you a friend,” Jinx sleepily spoke, “She’s gonna be big and tough and I’m gonna name her… something like my sister’s name, Vi.” “How about Se-Vi-ka?” Jinx nuzzled her head against her newfound friend’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” she muttered, “and she’s gonna have a big sword and never lose a fight, and she’s gonna be so strong.” Silco ran a hand through her mess of hair, humming at her musing. “Get some rest, Jinx. It’ll all be okay.” And she believed him, drifting off to the sound of the ocean.

#arcanehalloweek22 #arcane #silco #silco arcane #jinx #jinx and silco #jinx arcane #silco fanfic #jinx fanfic #ya boy writes #silco and jinx

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footballerimaginess · 2 years

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Updated List*

Here is my updated autumn prompt list, some of these will be featured in HALLOWEEK.

SCENARIOS Cute/Spooky 1. Jumping in leaves Frenkie De Jong 2. Pumpkin picking 3. Getting stuck in the rain John Stones 4. Trick and treating Kostas Tsmiskas 5. Pumpkin spice Rob Holding 6. Warm nights in Mason Mount 7. Thunderstorms Conor Gallagher 8. Scary house Antoine Griezmann 9. Scary movies Mason Mount 10. Bonfire Jordan Henderson 11. Crunchy leave walks Ruben Dias/Virgil Van Dijk 12. Puddle jumping Pierre Emile Hojberg 13. Library visits Darwin Nunez 14. Stealing his jumpers Ruben DIas 15. Finding Halloween costumes Mason Mount 16. Buying autumn candles Martin Odegaard 17. Halloween nail art Jack Grealish 18. Carving pumpkins Eric Garcia 19. Pamper night Reece James 20. Autumn/Halloween decorating Timo Werner DIALOGUE 1. “Are you scared?” Pablo Gavi 2. “It is absolutely freezing” Darwin Nunez 3. “Pass me your jumper please” John Stones 4. “You will turn into a pumpkin spice if you drink anymore” Thomas Muller 5. “You are turning this house into a Halloween house already” Timo Werner 6. “Are you planning this party or not?” 7. “I hate the dark” Ben Chilwell 8. “I think we have taken the wrong turn?” Leon Goretzka 9. “A Halloween baby oops” Reece James 10. “I have seen so many scary movies, I don’t want to anymore” Jadon Sancho 11. “I can hear a noise, tell me was that you” Andy Robertson 12. “You can’t wear that, you are a grown adult” Eric Dier 13. “Autumn candles are my favourite” Ruben Dias 14. “All I want to do is curl up with a good book” Ruben Dias 15. “My pumpkin is way better than yours” Pablo Gavi INSTAGRAM FILES Autumn - Eric Dier Halloween Outfits - Kevin Trapp Halloween - Random Players

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therealtendercrisps · 2 years

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would gifsets be an acceptable form of gift for the secret santa event?

We would like to have as many people participate as possible although this event is centered on catered content through requests of writing, art, and other handcrafted media.

I do, however, recommend @fandom-events 's Halloweek event! They have many cool prompts to work with that may suit your interests!

If you have any other questions, let us know ❤️

#asks #mod doritwo

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starlight-vixen-emiko · 3 years

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HalloWeek Prompts

Hello everyone! I made prompts for the week of Halloween for my fellow writers (and artist friends)

I made this randomly in case anyone was late for prompt months and just wanted to write or draw stuff for the week of Halloween.

October 24: Spiderweb / Black Rose

October 25: witch's brew / potion

October 26: Curse / Hex

October 27: Jumpscare / Nightmare

October 28: Bloodlust / Cold Blooded

October 29: Shudder / Goosebumps

October 30: Scarecrow / Puppet

October 31: Halloween / Trick or Treat

#halloween prompts #october prompts #writing prompts #art prompts #halloweek prompts

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wistfulcynic · 4 years

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Happy Holidays! I'm dropping into some of my fave creator's ask boxes and encouraging them to Spread the Cheer by Sharing What You Created This Year! Before a new year starts, take some time to reflect on the things you wrote or created to bless the fandom this past year. Remind us all of the awesomeness you put out there in 2019, and feel free to tease us with things to come in 2020! Then pass this along to your faves, so they can share in the fun!

Aaah! Thank you anon(s)! ❤️❤️❤️

2019 is my first full year of fic-ing, and according to AO3 I have written nearly three hundred and sixty-six thousand words, which considering that I was always the kid who submitted nine and one third pages for a ten page essay is kind of astounding.

I had three fics begun in 2018 that carried on to this year, the first is Finding the Altar, my first attempt at the secret dating trope, mostly written last November but I wrote the epilogue for the 2019 January Joy. The second carry-over is Another Brick in the Wall, begun exactly a year ago and finished a few months into the year. It is the high school AU that I never meant to write but that ended up taking over my life, still one of my favourite fics because of how much I enjoyed writing it. Finally there’s also Both Are Infinite, which was started last September and is still unfinished. I am SO sorry for that, but I promise it will be finished. It is not abandoned!!

For things started in 2019 we have:

The Key, an angsty, smutty one-shot written for January Joy

Their Way By Moonlight, the love of my life and my number one priority for 2020. It’s a 3B canon divergence in which Emma and Killian are soulmates who can share dreams, which leads to him coming for her and restoring her memories in New York in a very different way than in canon. There’s also a different curse on Storybrooke and a very different development for Emma and Killian’s relationship, along with loads of Captain Cobra and cursed Snowing, and an arc for Regina (including a partnership between her and Killian) that I really love.

Honeysuckle, the purest thing I’ve ever written. Precious cinnamon roll Librarian Killian, and single-mother Emma who gets caught in a precarious situation until he comes to her rescue. Inspired by @shireness-says

Three Non-Blondes, secret-dating attempt number two. Very silly, but fun, with maybe my favourite version of Mary Margaret.

The Depths of Love, another 3B divergence with no second curse. Emma trying to work out her feelings and Killian trying to protect himself from heartbreak. Also my very first collaboration with @thisonesatellite and honestly I’m not sure this story would exist without her.

The smutty trio of Schadenfreude parts One and Two, and Steak and Something on the Side. Voyeur Neal and Asshole Walsh.

Osaka-shi Serenade, the most personal thing I’ve written. Based on how my husband and I met when we were teaching English in Japan. Still unfinished, but again, *will* be!

Two Sunday Mornings, a pair of angsty ficlets from each of their POVs, plus Brothers Jones.

One More Kiss, a Lieutenant Duckling short fic that I didn’t love when I wrote it but has really grown on me, to the point where I might (*might*) expand it at some point. Quite angsty, but happy at the end.

The Great Grammar Caper, a very very VERY silly future fic in which Deputy Jones is the hero we need but his efforts are foiled by a devious Granny.

Rainbound, a take on the snowed-in trope, only with rain.

The Parquet Man, absolutely and without question the most fun I’ve ever had writing. The storied romance that is Captain Floor, told from the POV of Killian (by me) and Floor (by @thisonesatellite, who writes unorthodox POVs like NO ONE ELSE).

The Very Witching Time and its follow-up The Sleep of the Sun, written for @cssns and @cspupstravaganza respectively. My very favourite verse, in which Emma is a witch and Killian cursed in the form of a dog. There is magic and an extraordinary house with a sentient garden, and creepy forest, and more magic, and Cora with an evil plot, and even more magic, and some adorable and surprising children at the end. PLUS some absolutely stunning art by @mariakov81 to accompany it ❤️❤️❤️

How Not To Flirt, based on a prompt. Emma tries to flirt with Killian but he fails entirely to see it.

Words Unspoken, a friends-to-roommates-to-lovers story full of mutual pining and very, very poor communication.

The Ballad of Emma and Killian, in which they are not famous when they meet, but when their careers take off they stand by each other through it all. Rockstar!Emma and actor!Killian.

On What They Fall, my magnificent octopus. Angry, damaged Killian who can’t see how much Emma loves him. Mutual pining, angst, Captain Book brOTP, and people working through their emotions, prioritising their mental health, and coming out of hard times strong and brave enough to allow themselves to be happy. Another personal favourite.

abandon, a birthday gift for @kmomof4. Neverland sex-pollen smut, pure and simple. Well, simple anyway.

come sit at our feast, a Halloween fic written for @csrolereversal Halloweek. Without question the most out-there thing I’ve written, with all the OUAT characters reimagined as supernatural beings who come together every Halloween to throw themselves a hell of a party.

Drink The Wild Air, a birthday gift for @thisonesatellite which will be finished SOON. The Captain Duckling high-seas swashbuckling adventure tale I’ve wanted to write for some time. Featuring Brothers Jones 2.0 and CASTLE STORMING.

Drabbles, a series of short fics of all kinds, written when I need to clear my mind.

Across The Snowy Places, a Thanksgiving tropestravaganza. Featuring secret dating, snowed-in, only one bed, heater not working, favourite author, found families, matchmaking, and drunken affection/confession. ALL THE TROPES.

To Keep It All The Year, my Christmas gift for @katie-dub. Final chapter coming soon! This story has just flowed out of me. It features angry, broken Killian, single-mother Emma, adorable wee bab Henry, and some extraordinary Christmas magic.

WHEW!! I think that’s all of them! I’m a bit 😮😲😳🤯 looking at this list. It’s been a less-than-great year on the whole, to be honest, but at least productive on the fanfic front!!

Thanks for the ask, anon, and I hope you have a great Christmas and a brilliant New Year!!

#asks #asked and answered #2019 round-up #holy heck #that's a lot of fic #kind anon #anon ask #profdanglaisstuff

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grey-the-goose-art · 1 year

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Some Halloweek drawing prompts for y'all 🎃

#art #drawing #drawing prompts #halloween #halloweek #halloweek 2022 #prompts #october prompts #draw with me #grey the goose #goose draws #grey the goose halloweek

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csrolereversal · 5 years

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Rules and guidelines!

Boom yeah, I’m finally writing the rules down. First and foremost, let’s set some dates!

Captain Swan Role Reversal Halloweek will begin on Friday the 25th and end, of course, on Thursday the 31st of October (duh).

The first one to sign up will be Artists so I know how many will partecipate and with how many works.

When do Artists sign up?

From September 1st to September 15th. After I open the sign ups (I know, it’s logical and as obvious as you want, but it’s better to be safe than sorry).

How do Artists sign up?

You just have to send me an ask or a message saying you’re in and with how many pieces. This is very important, guys.

What can you present for the Role Reversal?

You can do digital or traditional pieces, aesthetics/moodboards, gifsets and even edits but they need to “tell” a story, or at least prompt one. The setting, the pose, the action they are up to, the atmosphere, the surrounding, everything can influence a writer’s mind. I’m not going to tell you how or what to draw, I’d cut my fingers off first, but I ask you to create something you’d love to read about.

To clarify: if you sign up with two pieces, you’ll be paired with two Writers.

And now, on to the Writers.

When do Writers sign up?

From September 16th to September 22nd. (Again, after the post).

How do Writers sign up?

Same as for Artists: send an ask or a message my way, and you can even sign up to write more than one piece if you feel up to.

What can you present for the Role Reversal?

Any kind of story you like! It’s up to you whether it’ll be a multichapter, a one-shot, or just a drabble.

In case of multichapters:

1. The first chapter drops on the dropping date during Halloweek.

2. I’ll make sure to reblog every update, so please tag the blog whenever you update.

There’s a minimum of words you have to use: 1k words. I put this limit because, when Artists take their time to bring your words alive, they create something beautiful, so please use them the same courtesy and don’t give a simple “descrition” of the scene. We aim for fics, not for captions.

How many Writers can participate?

Now, this is the tricky bit. Until the 15th, I won’t know how many Artists will participate and with how many works. The moment I know, I’ll put the number on the post opening the sign ups for Writers, hence why it’ll be first arrived, first served. I’d love for it to be open to everyone interested, and I apologize in advance if I’ll have to refuse someone subscription - hopefully I won’t, but still.

When will you know whom you are paired with?

On September 23rd I’ll do the matches which will be totally random and I’ll proceed to inform you straight away.

This will give Writers roughly a month to write something, while a little bit longer to the Artists to work on their pieces. I’d hate to see any dropouts, so please consider signing up very carefully.

For this event, I don’t think I’ll put up a Discord chat - unless you ask for it, that is - but I’ll encourage dialogue between Artists and Writers - who knows, maybe you’ll find yourselves new friends - because there might be things the Artists love but the Writers would never write.

Be careful, though, the Artists are the one to decide what to draw, much like in other events Writers are the one who write and the Artists follow along, maybe giving intel, but not changing the plot.

If there’s any problem, please contact me here or at @darkcolinodonorgasm.

When will you know the dropping dates?

Same day as the pairing, September 23rd.

Since the event lasts only for a week, I won’t ask for which day you’d rather drop the art and fic. What I ask you, though, is to promptly tell me if you have issues that will prevent you from posting on that date and we’ll try to figure something out.

Can Artists do more than one piece for fic?

Artists can sign up for one or more pieces - respectively one or more Writers will be assigned for each piece, and it’ll be up to the Artist to choose which Writer to entrust their art with once I’ll pair you up, but that doesn’t stop the Artists to create more pieces for the same fic if the muse is willing (for example, in case of multichapters if you want to illustrate a passage you particularly love or even just for one-shots if your Writer writes something you want to draw).

What about NSFW art?

If you want your work to be NSFW but you don’t know how to post it because duh, Tumblr, you can create a thumbnail with a link to the full NSFW art which Writers will post on ao3 given the lack of restrictions over there.

How will you post?

Much like for every other event I’ve seen and participated in, both Artists and Writers will post their works, Writers uploading the art in the same post as their fic while Artists will just upload the art, each one tagging the other.

In case of gifsets, instead, a link from the Writer to the Artist’s post will suffice.

Will a collection on ao3 be created?

Yes it will! And if you post on ffnet, too, I’ll try to find a way to have a collection over there, too!

Whew, I think this is all.

Hopefully.

In case you have more doubts or you think I’ve forgotten something important, please do contact me and I’ll answer your questions and/or try to figure something out.

Thank you!

See ya on September 1st for the signups!

#captain swan #ouat #once upon a time #fanfiction #cs #rules and guidelines

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travellvogue · 5 years

Text

Masterlist

who i write for

* =smut

STORIES:

Hidden Love: (Dele)

1- First Time*

2- Don’t Rule it Out

3- Half a Broken Heart

4- Revenge is Best Served Cold*

5- Get Out

6- You

7- Finally

———————————————————————

The Gaffers Daughter: (England NT)

1- Miss Southgate

2- Experience

3- Not the Only Ones

4- Two Hearts

5- Newbie

6- Checkmate

7- Secret Admirer

8- Beans

9- So Wrong, So Right*

10- Betrayal

11- I’m Sorry

12- Gareth

13- Sincere

14- Worth the Wait*

15- Just Friends

16- Choose

17- Endgame

The Gaffers Daughter, Returns: (England Nt)

1- Back Again

2- Old Times

3- In My Eyes

4- Drowning*

5- Bitter Pill

6- A Silent Love

7- I’m in Love With

———————————————————————

Meant To Be: (Jesse Lingard, TAA)

1- Fairytale

2- Change Of Tone

3- The Beginning of the End

4- Peer Pressure

5- Shoulder to Cry On

6- The Truth

7- The Wrong Shade of Red

8- By Your Side

9- True Love

10- You Made Your Bed, Now Lie In It

11- Happy Ending

———————————————————————

Three-Four-Fivesome Series:

1- Three’s A Crowd*

2- Three’s Company*

3- Special Guest*

4- Five Stars*

———————————————————————

It’s Still You: (Jadon Sancho Short Story)

1- The Bad

2- The Good

3- The New

_________________________________________

Physical Therpay: (John Stones & Tyrone Mings)

1- Thigh Tattoo

2- Storm

3- Heartmaker

_________________________________________

Friend of a Friend: (England Nt)

1- Reunited

2- The Set Up

3- Someone New

4- Chance

5- What about Ben?

6- The Truth

7- Once, Twice, Three Times

———————————————————————

Blurb Imagines:

I Love You

Valentines Day

Future

Insecure

We’re In Public

Proposal

Pregnant

Newborn

Anyone You Like:

Heartbreak

Happier

Rush

Need You Now

Picnic

Honeymoon Coast

Jesse Lingard:

Got Lost In The Rush

Threesome*

Marcus Rashford:

Jealous

Tease- part 1 part 2

Threesome*

Dele:

Heart Breaker - part 1 part 2

Unfinished Business*

Three’s A Crowd* / Three’s Company*/ Special Guest*/ Five Stars*

New Man

Trent Alexander Arnold:

Good Morning

Together

The Art of Persuasion*

Shoot Your Shot

Pregnant*

Date

...my favourite blurb

My Champion*

Anthony Joshua

Poolside*

Jadon Sancho

Three’s A Crowd* / Three’s Company* / Special Guest* / Five Stars*

Just a Little Bit of Your Heart

A Modern Day Romance*

Reiss Nelson

Special Guest* / Five Stars*

Pregnant*

Eric Dier

Five Stars*

Ben Chilwell

Done Deal

Virgil Van Dijk

Latte Love

Mason Mount

Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts*

Ruben Loftus-Cheek

Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts*

———————————————————————

🎃🎃🎃.

Halloweek 2019

Halloweek 2020

———————————————————————

🎄🎄🎄.

12 Days Of Christmas 2019:

12 Days of Christmas 2020:

———————————————————————

NSFW Alphabet

FLUFFY Alphabet

_________________________________________

BABY IMAGINES

BABY IMAGINES- Season 2

_________________________________________

PROMPT LISTS

things you said...

grumpy affection...

smut queens...

more smutttt...

baby prompts...

the little things...

__________________________________________

what i love

2019

#masterlist #travellvogue

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witchtomez · 6 years

Text

Master List

*UPDATED 4.21.19*

Yoosung week 2018 prompts (Yoofluff / Yoosmut):

First Date (ao3)/ First Time (ao3)

Hobbies (ao3)/ Experimenting (ao3)

Through Other’s Eyes (ao3) / Caught in the Act (ao3)

Alternate Universe / Supernatural (ao3)

Surprise Weather (ao3)/ Exhibitionism (ao3)

Cosplay (ao3) / Roleplay (ao3)

Through the Years (ao3) / Free For All (*Follows Alternate Universe prompt*)

Mysme Halloweek 2018 SFW

Autumn: Harvest Reclaimed (Jaehee) ao3

Pumpkins: Fruitful Hunt (Elizabeth the 3rd) ao3

Childhood: For the Unseen (Zen) ao3

Sweets: Palate Cleansing (Saeran, Saeyoung) ao3

Supernatural: Chaos Stratagems (Vanderwood; 1 of 2) ao3

Fantasy AU: Chasing the Sky (Yoosung; expansion of premise here at the end) ao3

Horror Stories: Labyrinthine Salvation (Rika) ao3

Haunted: Winning Stratagems (Vanderwood, Mother Choi, 2 of 2) ao3

Decorations: Fragments of Tribute (V/Jihyun Kim) ao3

Halloween Party: Truce Signed in Paw Print (Jumin Han) ao3

Trick: Folly of Mischief (Saeyoung, Saeran) ao3

Mysme Halloweek 2018 Yoosmut

Treat: Recovering Appetite (Yoosung, 2 of 2) ao3 (retitledThe Unlucky Bite, extra chapters and scenes on ao3)

Yoosung Week 2019 Prompts (*Yoofluff / Yoosmut*)

Celebration / After Party

Secret / Anticipation

White Day / Starry Night

Cake Decor / Latte Art

Make a Wish / Unwrap

The First Step / The Next Morning

Bonus Christmas Yoosmut here!

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hollyethecurious · 6 years

Text

The Legend of Captain Killian Jones - Part One

CS Halloweek Day 3: Myths, Legends, and Fairytales The Legend of Captain Killian Jones - Part One

Beta’d by @kmomof4 / Amazing Artwork by @artistic-writer

Summary: Cursed three hundred years ago to take on ghost form and haunt his family estate, Killian Jones receives a reprieve once every hundred years to take on corporeal form in order to try and break his curse.

A renowned restorationist, Emma Swan takes on the project of bringing the three hundred year old Jones Manor back to its former glory. A manor that is reportedly haunted by the notorious Captain Killian Jones. Good thing Emma doesn’t believe in ghosts.

Rated M (for sexy times in Part 2) / Also available on ff.net and ao3 / Line breaks indicate a change of POV / scene

A/N: All thanks, flails, hugs, kisses, chocolate, ticker tape parades, baby animals, and my love to @kmomof4 and @artistic-writer. Without your enthusiasm and prompting (and art!!!), I never would have committed to actually writing this. (I know, @winterbaby89. You tried to have my back, and for that I am grateful! We both should have known better than to go up against momma...) Hope you all enjoy this Ghost/Cursed!Killian Two Shot!! Happy Halloween!

Part One

Dust filled the air as another heavy canvas was removed from the piece of furniture it had been tasked with protecting for many decades. Suppressing a cough, Emma Swan opened a few more windows in order to allow some fresh air in and let the staleness of the room out.

She was well accustomed to the stagnant and musty remnants of disuse in old homes. In fact, she made her livelihood off it. Well, restoring it, anyway. The homes, not the mustiness and decay. That would be weird.

Emma Swan was a sought after restorationist of historical homes and buildings. She loved history, and with the assistance of her handy brother and sister-in-law, she’d been able to turn her love of the past into a successful business that provided for her and her son’s present and future.

Her latest endeavor had brought them all the way to a small port town in England. Misthaven boasted a proud history tied to local lore of pirates and privateers, thanks to the grand three hundred year old manor house that sat upon the cliffs just outside the village that was once reportedly owned by a notorious sea captain.

Over the last several decades, the manor had fallen into disrepair due to its vacancy. Though it was still owned, in trust, by descendents of the original family who built the manor centuries ago, no one had actually lived there for nearly forty years. The family and local historical society wished to see it restored to its original splendor, hoping to draw in some tourism dollars with tours and activities, no doubt.

The manor’s curator, for lack of a better term, had led Emma and her team up to the attic where many of the original furnishings, artworks, and heirlooms resided. It was as good a place as any for Emma to begin her investigative work on the property. Research would have to be done in order to determine the course of decisions made about the restoration. Several remodels and renovations had occurred over the manor’s lifetime, and getting it back to its original state (with some modifications for modern convenience - hello electricity and running water) would take some sleuthing into historical records and references. The more Emma could learn about the manor and its original owners, the better.

Which made the attic’s contents a veritable gold mine of information. Furnishings, portraits, trinkets, knick-knacks, books, personal documents, it was like Christmas morning for Emma as she painstakingly uncovered each piece. Her excitement and intrigue sparked with each fresh discovery, but it was probably the large portrait she had located late in the day that had caught her interest the most.

Her son, Henry, had just arrived with Emma’s sister-in-law, Mary Margaret, telling her that they had picked up dinner, when she’d pulled the last heavy canvas from the framed artwork that was at least a foot taller than she was. Standing before her was the life sized rendering of an incredibly handsome man, garbed in full leather and braced at the helm of a ship. The bronze placard displayed on the ornate frame identified him as Captain Killian Jones.

“You’ve found our local legend, I see,” chirped the curator, a petite blonde woman with a tinkling voice and bubbly exuberance about her.

“Legend?” Emma inquired.

Though she preferred to ground her decisions about a project in fact, Emma knew that legends, tales, and folklore could hold valuable pieces of information as well. The stories had to have a basis of truth behind them somewhere, and those little nuggets could often lead her to revelations about a property and it’s history that records never could.

“Oh, yes,” the curator answered enthusiastically. “His story is well known around these parts. He’s part of the reason we’re eager to have the manor restored. The Legend of Captain Killian Jones is a big draw to the area, his family built the manor.”

“What makes his story so compelling?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Oh, probably the fact that he’s the ghost that haunts this place,” she quipped in reply.

“There’s a ghost?!” Henry exclaimed excitedly.

“There’s no such things as ghosts, kid.”

300 years ago…

Captain Killian Jones loved the sea. The freedom of the open horizon, the promise of adventure it offered while enticing you into uncharted and unknown circumstances that could result in great delight or peril. He never thought he’d find anything as satisfying as the smell of brine in his lungs or the salty spray against his face. Never thought anything could knock him off the perfectly honed balance he had cultivated during his many years on turbulent seas.

Not until he’d met her.

Now he knew better, for her rose scent and light kisses against his cheek were just as satisfying to his senses as that which the sea offered. After their first meeting in the tavern that fateful night he hadn’t been able to regain his bearings until he saw her again. Saw her and convinced her to run away with him, leaving her pathetic excuse of a husband and her lonely life behind. Which she did, happily.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t just left a marriage behind, but a child as well. A son. Too young to endure the trials and hardships of sea-faring, Killian had promised they’d come back for him one day when he was older. So far, that day had not come.

Over their many years together she had not once asked him to return for her son, and he selfishly never offered, too happy with the existence they currently shared, and too unwilling to raise another man’s child. A selfish pirate, indeed. He wanted a child of his own, not some surrogate, so when she confessed to suspecting she might be with child, he had insisted she stay behind at his family’s manor while he went on his latest venture.

Overdue on his return by a fortnight thanks to the garrison in Gibraltar (one country’s privateer is another country’s pirate), Killian was anxious to return and discover the answer to the question that had been plaguing him for five long weeks.

Was he to be a father?

As the lighthouse along the cliffs of his home shores came into view, Captain Jones gave the order to make port at the private dock on his family’s estate. Visions of reuniting with his love, her belly beginning to swell with the evidence of his child danced through his mind. He barely waited for them to dock the ship before barking out his last orders and making haste toward his manor on the clifftop; a sense that everything about his life was about to change surged through him.

He’d never been more right, and had never wished to be more wrong.

They’d started work in the east wing. Emma, Henry, David (Emma’s brother and the project foreman), and Mary Margaret (his wife and their business manager) usually preferred to live on site during their projects, and this one was no different. Though the west wing needed the most work in regards to stripping it back down to its original condition, it was actually the most conducive for comfort when it came to day-to-day living. It was already wired for electricity and had, somewhat, updated bathrooms, and a decent kitchen. So for the past seven weeks, they’d focused on restoring the east wing while making do in the west.

Those first days were like mini treasure hunts as Emma and her team explored the passage of time through layers of paint, wallpaper, flooring, and add-ons. David combed back decades, centuries even, trying to find the true origins of the grand estate through careful excavation of plaster and moldings while Emma scoured the artifacts stored away in the attic in an attempt to discover who and what had made it a home.

Henry delighted in the vastness. Exploring rooms that had been deemed safe, he lost himself to the more imaginative aspects of his ten-year-old nature as he questioned whether or not any hidden passages had been discovered or whether there was truly a ghost that haunted the house and grounds.

Which, of course, there wasn’t.

“There’s no such things as ghosts,” Emma kept affirming to her son. Every odd quirk and strange nuance about the manor could absolutely be explained logically - even if that logical explanation wasn’t completely apparent to her at the time of their occurrences.

Occurrences like the study door always being locked no matter how many times she had expressly stated that all doors needed to remain unlocked, or that the door’s key frequently went missing only to be discovered in the most random of locations. Locations where work had not even begun yet, and therefore had no reason for someone to be traipsing about misplacing keys.

Other strange things tickled the recesses of Emma’s mind and practicality as well. Things she hadn’t mentioned to anyone, and wondered if others had experienced them, too. Things like the faint sound of a piano playing at night. There was a piano in the house, but it looked as though it hadn’t been touched in years. There was also the humming she sometimes thought she heard along one particular corridor in the east wing. Humming that was always accompanied by an intoxicatingly masculine scent. A mixture of leather and sea and spice that she had caught a whiff of on several occasions throughout the manor, and had her covertly sniffing at the male members of the crew like a loon in order to try and identify its origin.

Then there was also the feeling that she was sometimes being watched. It didn’t unnerve her, per se, but it was definitely an acute awareness that times when she thought she was alone she felt as though she wasn’t. These moments usually culminated with a feeling that something might have brushed against her cheek or her hair, sending a shiver of wonder down her spine before the overwhelmingness of the experience vaporized and she was left assuredly alone once again.

Alone, and maybe even a tad lonely. Whatever she was experiencing was comforting, not frightening, which was another mark against the idea of a ghost. Which she absolutely did not believe in. Ghosts were supposed to scare and intimidate you with their presence, weren’t they? This was nothing like that.

Perhaps it was all just a working of her subconscious? Emma found herself feeling quite at home and at peace in the manor in a way she hadn’t experienced anywhere else. She was drawn to the history of the place and had spent many hours pouring over the personal effects and documents of its previous owners.

One owner in particular - one of the estate’s original owners, and the person whose legend was part and parcel the reason she was there in the first place - captivated her more than any other. Captain Killian Jones. While logging the possessions within the attic that first week, Emma had come across a trunk once belonging to the captain himself. Within it contained a number of journals, penned in his own hand, as well as a collection of letters he wrote to and received from the woman, legend said, he loved most dearly and lost so tragically. Milah.

The wife of another, she had left her marriage and a son in order to run off with the dashing sea captain. At times she had accompanied Captain Jones on his travels, and other times she’d remained behind at the manor when his mission was deemed too dangerous for her to accompany him. He was a privateer for England, but a pirate to other nations. A ruthless man by reputation, his name alone striking fear into the hearts of his enemies, to whom he rarely gave quarter or showed mercy, but Emma discovered within his personal journals and letters that Captain Killian Jones was a more complicated man than the legend gave him credit for.

Well… legends. Plural. Depending on who you asked within the small town of Misthaven, there were a few variations of the tale.

One legend spoke of a pirate with a black heart, whose dastardly deeds had earned him a fate worse than death. A man who murdered his lover when he discovered her infidelity, but not before being cursed by her as she lay dying on the rocky shores below the cliffs.

Another tale insisted that it was his infidelity that had caused the woman to fling herself from the cliffs of the estate. An action made even more grievous by the added detail that she may have been pregnant at the time.

Still another spoke of a tragic misunderstanding whereby the woman received word that her lover had been lost at sea, or hung by the garrison of an enemy nation for piracy, and in her despondency, she ended her life in order to reunite with him on the other side. Of course, he had not suffered either such fate and he’d actually arrived only moments later to find her broken body on the rocks.

Many added a spin of some sort of curse or evil spell befalling the captain as a punishment for his dark deeds and selfishness. A curse or spell that, some said, allowed him to become flesh every hundred years so he might have an opportunity to break it. A romantic and sentimental notion that usually had something to do with true love and not repeating mistakes from the past.

One detail remained the same in each tale, however. A detail that, by all accounts, held the merit of truth. The body of Captain Killian Jones had never been found or recovered. His place within the family mausoleum laid empty, further fueling the belief that he’d been cursed or fated to haunt the estate where he lost his love, for all eternity.

Actual historical records documented the return of Captain Jones’ ship in the fall of 1717, with the crew testifying to the fact that the captain had gone ashore at the private dock of the estate. The Jones’ butler had given an account that the captain had arrived at the manor, but then quickly left in search of his lady love. His lover’s body had been discovered the next morning upon the shores beneath the cliff and no one saw or heard from Captain Jones again.

Emma didn’t believe for one moment that the man had murdered his lover. His care, devotion, and love for her poured out through the ink he’d penned on the pages of his love letters. Captain Jones had wanted a future with Milah. Her name may have been lost to time within the recanting of the legend over the centuries, but it had been held with the highest regard and reverence on those yellowed pages where he had addressed her as his dearest or beloved Milah.

The man had wanted a family and a future. It was clear from his last journal entries that he was hopeful at the prospect that Milah might be with child, his eagerness to return to her and learn the truth jumping from the page. Not just that, but a fresh resolve as well. A resolve to set something right. Something he had become consumed with guilt and shame over, but hadn’t had courage enough to actually confess it within his leather bound logbook.

Killian burst through the large doors leading into the grand foyer of the manor.

“Milah?” he called out in happy anticipation.

“Captain? You’re back! How wonderful to see you, sir!” Mathers, the Jones’ butler, greeted.

“It’s good to be back, Mathers. Could you tell me where Ms. Milah is?”

“Certainly, sir. She went walking out by the cliffs. I’m surprised she hasn’t come back by now. Surely she would have seen you make port at the dock? Shall I have one of the servants go fetch her for you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Killian dismissed as he crossed through to the back of the house and made his way out onto the verandas.

He surveyed the sprawling back lawns for a glimpse of her silhouette in the moonlight, then made his way towards the lower lawn that edged the cliffs when he did not readily see her from the house. His pulse raced in anticipation, for as impatient as he was to hear the news of her condition, Killian had his own news to share. News of a decision he‘d made that would change things every bit as much as a babe. The decision to do the right thing.

Killian had spent many nights at sea contemplating fatherhood these past several weeks, and one such contemplation had dogged every moment of joy he’d allowed himself to feel over the prospect. The knowledge that he had left a child utterly abandoned by its mother. He’d come to consider the possibility that perhaps Milah had wanted to return to her son, but had never pressed him to do so because she thought he would refuse, or would make her choose. His love or her son’s.

He would have gone for the boy if she’d asked, but he’d been content to leave things as they were, so he’d never offered. He’d selfishly wanted her all to himself, and had allowed an innocent boy to suffer the consequences of that self-centeredness. A wrong he aimed to set right, which was why, during his hold over in Gibraltar, he’d sent word to the boy and his father requesting they come to Misthaven. He’d made provision for their passage, and expected they might arrive any day, should they have accepted the offer. He hoped to surprise Milah with the news, and celebrate with her the increase of their family.

If he ever found her, that is. Where could she have gone?

Let’s see her find it this time, Killian challenged silently to himself as he left the key to his study in a long forgotten drawer in the butler’s pantry, a sly smile pulling at his lips as he swept from the room.

When the Swan girl and her team had arrived, Killian had determined to simply stay out of their way. He’d had to contend with the living on and off for the last three hundred years, and the manor provided ample space for avoidance. Usually. This time things were different. These weren’t people attempting to carve out a cozy living space within the vast number of rooms and floors. No. They were there for an altogether different purpose. Restoration.

A project his brother’s descendants, through the family trust, and the local community had spearheaded in order to combat the wasting decay that had befallen the manor in recent decades. A mission to bring back the splendor that had once been prevalent throughout the estate. A splendor Killian felt could never be fully restored, seeing as how a curse held the entire property within its holding. The curse of him - Captain Killian Jones, the legendary ghost of Misthaven that had haunted the Jones Manor for nearly three centuries.

Three centuries of existing just out of step with the living around him.

It had nearly driven him mad those first few decades, watching his brother live out his life with a wife and children at his side. Liam had returned to Misthaven from his station in London after his little brother had gone missing, refusing to give up the search for some sign of Killian’s whereabouts. Killian had yet to acquire the skill of object manipulation, and attempting to communicate with his brother had been useless. No one could see or hear him. He was damned to the audience of his brother’s grief, and then tormented by the life Liam had the privilege to enjoy as he raised a family and experienced the love of the same woman until he took his last breath.

Killian had hoped that when the moment of Liam’s passing came he might have the opportunity to be reunited with him, but his curse made it impossible. Killian realized then that he did not exist on the same plane as the living or the dead. He was isolated. Alone. Forever cursed to walk the halls and grounds of the place where he had lost everything.

In the centuries since, Killian sequestered himself to the parts of the manor far removed from its living occupants. A feat made easier over time as modern conveniences and societal norms called for less servants and less use of rooms deemed outdated in their purpose. In the boredom of his existence he’d learned how to interact with the world around him in limited measure, but drew a line at engaging with actual people. Oh, he’d certainly made his presence known from time to time with his late night compositions at the piano, or his insistence that his study door remained locked, which had vexed a great number of inhabitants over the years. None as entertainingly as the current inhabitant, however.

Killian wasn’t sure what it was about this Emma Swan woman, but her presence within his home had compelled him to emerge into those spaces he’d long since reserved for the living, or had abandoned to the uselessness of the past. At first it had been simple curiosity. He’d watched from the dusty corners of the attic the first day of her arrival as she pulled back the tarps and coverings that had buried the evidence of his life for centuries. Captivated by her intense focus and reverent response to those things he had once held most dear, and transfixed by the gentle and thoughtful nature in which she applied her discoveries to the project at hand, Killian found himself drawn to her in a way he had not been pulled to any other living person.

He tried to tell himself that it was because he’d been alone within the manor for so long. Argued that it was simply her stunning looks and beguiling figure that had him so enthralled. After all, he may be a ghost of a man, but a man he remained. A man that could still appreciate a lovely lass, though a base appreciation didn’t explain the compulsion to always be at her side.

He’d followed her around like some lost puppy that first week. Observed the plans she and her brother had constructed regarding the manor and marveled at her staunch refusal to settle for less than perfect accuracy in its restoration. Touched by her dedication and slightly unnerved by her tenacity, he wasn’t sure what to make of her discovery of his trunk. At first he’d considered hiding away the more damning, or private items contained within its depths, but couldn’t shake the longing he felt at having someone truly know him after all this time.

He knew what the legends said about him, and although many of them held kernels of truth, none of them gave a full accounting of Captain Killian Jones. It was important to him that she would know the truth, though he could not say why.

He did not make it a habit of entering her private rooms. Scoundrel and pirate may have been his reputation, but he had always believed in good form and strived to be a gentleman. The few times he had taken to visiting her rooms he’d found her pouring over his personal effects. Though he warred with the idea that she would be privy to his private thoughts, her response of quiet acceptance and understanding at each passage soothed him. When she reached some of his more heartfelt or heartbreaking entries he could not help but stroke her cheek as unchecked tears fell upon them. An action he tried to quell many times over without much success.

His fingers itched to run through her tresses. His arms longed to hold her. The floral scent of her hair and skin taunted him, as did her radiant smile. She was a tough lass, her authoritative role over the teams of men and women laboring within the manor stirring an appreciation of camaraderie within him as one who was accustomed to command might have for another. Her care and consideration for those within her employ and love displayed for her family stirred his heart. The fire and passion that sparked from her enthusiasm or temper stirred… other things.

Killian let go a long suffering sigh as he moved down the long corridor. Why was he torturing himself with thoughts of this woman? And not just thoughts, but actual attempts at interaction? The key to his study had become a sort of game between them, though she was not fully aware of her participation. He couldn’t deny how enjoyable it was to see her so vexed by it, the way her cheeks would flush with irritation when she was barred from entering the room. Her fists balled up at her sides as she huffed her frustration, demanding to know who had locked the door and where the key was. Some days it only took her a few moments to locate it, other times days would go by before it was discovered.

She may not have been fully cognizant of the game, but it didn’t stop a self-satisfied and slightly victorious smirk from playing at her lips when she was finally able to insert the key into the lock and gain entrance to the room once again. He knew it was childish, but it didn’t stop him from pilfering the key from her every few days only to begin their game again.

Childish.

The reference wiped the smile from Killian’s features.

She had a child. A son.

A precocious lad full of innocence and wonder. A nature not unlike his mother’s that stirred another sense of longing within Killian, but this longing had compelled him away from interactions, not towards. His guilt and shame regarding another boy long since gone from the world keeping him shackled to the burden of his cursed state, and unwilling to cause the lad any sense of discomfort he might feel at Killian’s ghostly presence. Resigning himself to watch from distant vantage points as the boy explored and played within halls that had not seen such vestiges of life in many long years.

Halls like the one Killian was currently haunting.

Rounding the corner that led back toward the main stairs, Killian spied the lad studying the old portraits hanging along the corridor. His smile renewed at the object of lad’s attention; a rendering of he and Liam as children, resplendent in finery that had made them itch and chafe, their wiggles causing no end of frustration to the artist. Killian gave a soft chuckle at the memory and looked down to see what the lad might make of the image, only to find the boy facing him as if he were looking right at him.

Impossible.

Believing the lad might just be sensing his presence, Killian took a step back with the intention of moving on as to not submit the boy to any feelings of dread when his brown gaze followed the movement causing Killian to freeze. He cocked his head sideways to assess the lad only to have the action mirrored back to him. If he’d had a pulse, Killian was sure it would have been racing in his veins in that moment. He swallowed thickly - an exercise in muscle memory over actual need, but one that naturally applied itself to his apprehensive state - then cleared his throat; a sound that had the lad’s eyes widening with an excited sparkle.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” the boy chimed.

Killian spun around to look behind him, certain that someone else must be present within that hallway. Someone actually alive and visible.

“Captain Jones?” Killian heard the boy question, forcing him to shoot the lad an incredulous look.

“You can see me?”

“Well… yeah. I’ve seen you a couple of times now, actually,” the boy confessed. Killian’s shocked confusion must have been evident as the boy continued, “Do people not normally see you?”

“No one has seen me in this form for three hundred years, lad. Nor do they usually hear me. You can hear me, aye?”

“Yeah, I can hear you,” he shrugged, as if standing in a darkened hallway with the ghost of a three hundred year old pirate, er… privateer, was some sort of everyday, normal occurrence. “How come I’m the only one that can see you?” the lad asked.

“I’ve no bloody idea,” Killian answered honestly, scratching behind his ear as he pondered this new development.

“You look just like your portrait,” the lad stated as his soft and curious gaze swept over Killian’s form. “Is that a sword?”

The corners of Killian’s mouth ticked up at the boy’s wide-eyed enthusiasm over his weapon. “Aye. I was wearing it when I... “ Killian paused, unsure of how to explain, or if he should explain, the circumstances which had led him to his current state. “All the bloody good it does me,” he grumbled as he fingered the hilt. “It’s not as if I need it now.”

“Can you teach me how to use it? Or, you know, how to fight with one?”

Killian contemplated the boy and his question for a long moment. Curious as he was as to how it was possible that this boy could see him when no one else ever had while he was in his ghostly state, Killian wasn’t about to question the good fortune he’d found in finally having someone, anyone, to engage with.

Before Killian could reply, another voice sounded from the end of the hall.

“Henry?” Swan’s inquest echoed down the corridor. “There you are! What are you doing up here?” she questioned as she made her way towards her boy, completely unaware of the additional company.

“Talking with Captain Jones,” the boy answered honestly.

“Captain Jones?” she questioned with a heaping dose of skepticism and raised brow. “Like, the ghost?”

“Yeah. He’s right there,” the lad pointed.

Killian offered the boy a soft, sympathetic smile before he reminded, “She can’t see or hear me, lad.”

“Right…” his mother replied. “Do you talk with Captain Jones often?”

Killian could see she was merely humoring the boy, as could the lad, but it wasn’t in a patronizing sort of way. She seemed to want to encourage his beliefs and imagination, perhaps wishing to stay the coming years of transition from boyhood to manhood for as long as possible. Killian’s smile grew at that realization, and his affection for the woman swelled a bit more.

“No,” the boy shook his head in reply. “We’ve never spoken before, but I’ve seen him plenty of times.”

“Like when?”

“He’s the one that plays the piano in the ballroom. Sometimes I watch him from the upper balcony at night.” That news startled Killian every bit as much as it did the boy’s mother. He knew that there were times when his music carried from whatever state of being he existed into the realm of the living, but he’d had no idea that the lad had been watching him play. “Sometimes I see him watching from the corner of a room, or upper levels of the house.”

“Watching what?”

“Well… you mostly. He seems to like watching you.”

If Killian didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the lad’s revelation had caused him to blush. Surely that wasn’t possible without blood actually coursing through his veins. It didn’t stop him from ducking his head with a sense of bashfulness at being caught admiring the boy’s mother, though.

Killian glanced over at her to gauge her response to the boy’s observation, and found a beguiling blush tinting her cheeks with her bottom lip pulled between her teeth, attempting to suppress a smile. His brow quirked at her reaction and when he turned his attention to the lad he saw a smirk upon the boy’s lips that he was sure matched his own.

“Okay, kid,” she redirected, drawing the conversation back towards her original purpose. “Enough flights of fancy for one day. It’s time for bed.”

She slung an arm over the boy’s shoulders and started leading him back down the hall. After a few steps the lad called out, “Goodnight, Captain Jones!” over his shoulder, pulling a giggle from his mother as she copied her boy with a, “Goodnight, Captain,” of her own.

Killian watched the pair retreat back to their rooms for the evening, a warmth spreading through his chest he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced - living or otherwise. His grin remained as he considered the lad’s request of sparring lessons, and though Killian had little experience with children, the prospect of spending time with Swan’s boy filled him with a sense of worth he hadn’t experience in centuries.

Killian noticed the silhouette of something small next to the cliff’s edge in his periphery. His stomach dropped as he approached, recognizing it as one of Milah’s slippers. Picking it up from the ground, Killian spun around to look back toward the manor as he continued to frantically call out her name.

“Milah! Milah!”

Panic coursed through him as he tried to tamp down the instinct that told him to look over the cliff’s edge.

No. No, she couldn’t…

Killian fell to his knees at the sight below. His beloved. His dearest Milah lay upon the rocky shore.

It seemed to take hours to reach her. Sobs choked him as tears blurred his vision. Finally at her side, Killian gathered her broken, lifeless body into his arms and poured out his anguish into her blood soaked hair.

“She didn’t even ask about him,” a voice oiled over the sound of the surf, momentarily pulling Killian from his grief as he looked up to see who had spoken.

“Wha-? You?!” Standing before him was the man Milah had deserted in order to run away with him. The man he’d invited to come to Misthaven with their son. Her husband.

“She only demanded to know why I was here,” the man continued as if the woman with whom they had both shared a special bond wasn’t lying dead between them. “She never even asked about our son,” he sneered.

Their son. Was he here, too? He couldn’t… he shouldn’t see...

“The boy? Where is he?” Killian inquired frantically. “He shouldn’t see his mother like this. Don’t let him see her like this,” he pleaded.

“He’s dead,” the man stated hollowly.

“What?” Killian gasped, his heart dropping once more in torn agony.

“Dead,” the man repeated. “Died last spring. He went down in a storm with the ship he was on. He’d run off to go and find his mother, and perished in his pursuit. She didn’t even ask about him.”

Killian’s eyes fell shut with grief and guilt. He’d been too late. He’d meant to set his mistake right, but he’d been too late. The boy had perished, and his Milah… his Milah…

“What did you do?” Killian seethed as the full realization of how Milah had ended up at the bottom of the cliff settled over him.

“I avenged my son,” the man hissed. “He’d still be alive if it weren’t for you. If Milah had just stayed where she belonged, my son would not have gone to sea trying to find her!”

“Well, what are you waiting for, then?” Killian shouted. “Go on. Kill me!”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s not in the cards for you sonny boy,” the man mocked. “I want you to suffer, as I have suffered. And I’ve brought someone with me to see that you do.”

Killian’s attention was pulled past the man as someone emerged from the shadows of the cliff wall. The cloaked figure made their way to stand beside the vile man where they slowly lifted the hood from their head, revealing themselves. Killian sucked in a startled breath of recognition.

The Witch of Misthaven.

Emma watched as Henry swung his wooden sword through the air, leaping and dancing about the front lawn, much as he’d done most days over the warm summer months. If he wasn’t honing his sword fighting skills, then he was practicing the little tune he’d started playing on the piano (thank goodness they’d finally gotten it tuned), or challenging members of the work crew to some dice game he’d invented, and usually won, or was simply whiling away the school free days of the season, exploring the grounds of the estate as Emma and her team continued the restoration of the manor.

Five months into the project and Emma could see a light at the end of the plaster coated, revarnished, historically accurate tunnel. To say that it had been a labor of love would have been an understatement. With only two months left before the restoration would be complete, Emma was starting to feel overwhelmed at the prospect of leaving. As ostentatious as the manor was, it had begun to feel like home, and not just to her, but to Henry as well.

She’d always considered Henry to be a happy and energetic child, but their months in Misthaven had unearthed a completely new level of exuberance and joy she’d never before witnessed in him. She supposed she had Captain Killian Jones to thank for that, for ever since that evening when she found Henry talking with the captain, his already overactive imagination had propelled him into a world of all things pirate. Including his current obsession of pretending to sword fight with the legendary captain himself.

At first it had been kind of sweet, but now Emma was starting to wonder if Henry’s imagination was getting a little out of hand.

“Do you think ten is too old to have an imaginary friend?” Emma asked Mary Margaret as the pixie haired woman came up beside her to observe Henry’s antics.

“Henry has an imaginary friend?”

“Yeah. Captain Killian Jones.”

“The ghost?” her brother, David, called out as he joined them.

“There is no ghost,” Emma scoffed. “It’s just his imagination.”

“Of course. Yes. Absolutely,” David teased. “And his imaginary friend is the ghost of Captain Jones?”

Emma sighed. This was why she hadn’t mentioned it before. David got as much of a kick out the idea of a ghost haunting the manor as Henry did. She wouldn’t put it past him to be the one behind the locked study door and endless key search.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Emma. Henry’s just making do the best he knows how. It isn’t as if there are a lot of kids close by he can play with,” Mary Margaret offered supportively, probably sensing Emma’s growing concern with her son’s preoccupation with a ghost story.

“I know,” Emma replied, “but when I suggest making a play date with some of the friends he made during the school year he refuses and says he has plans with Killian.”

“Killian?” David chortled. “The pirate captain lets him call him by his first name? Impressive. I figured he’d be made to walk the plank for such a presumption.”

“Ha. Ha,” Emma retorted while giving David a withering side eye.

“Henry’s fine, Emma,” David offered with light-hearted confidence. “I’m sure once school starts up again, and he has more time with kids his own age, all this Captain Jones stuff will be forgotten.”

Emma wasn’t so sure about that.

Emma couldn’t really fault Henry for getting caught up in the fantasy and mystery of Captain Killian Jones, not when she’d been guilty of it herself over the past several months. Of course, her interest in the man was purely out of research for the project.

Yeah… she knew that was a load of crap.

There was just something about the man. He had a fascinating personal history of military service and then less than above the board activities that had lent themselves to his becoming a privateer. Personal documents and correspondence testified to a close, and just shy of hero-worshipping, relationship with his older brother, Liam Jones. And, of course, he’d been a man of great passions, willing to risk everything for the love of a woman.

It had been quite scandalous, his taking up with a married woman, living with her, and traveling with her, outside the bonds of marriage. His letters made it clear that he hadn’t given a wit as to what others had thought. Letters that Emma continually poured over most nights.

Emma Swan did not swoon, but oh, boy. Those letters. Even the man’s handwriting was romantic and sexy, and the words he’d penned ranged from the purest of love to the purest of sin. She’d never admit to it, aloud or otherwise, but sometimes she imagined that his words were written to or about her. Why she was concocting this crazy fantasy about a man who lived and died three hundred years ago, she’ll never know.

It didn’t help that Henry kept alluding to the ghost’s infatuation with her, or that she probably stared at his portrait every single day marveling over his incredibly handsome features.

Yeah, she had a serious problem, swooning over a man she could never have. Which was probably another thing that made him so appealing. He wasn’t real. It was easy to fall in love with the idea of someone who would never be able to let you down. Let your son down. Less than a zero percent chance of ever getting hurt.

Except that it did hurt.

After all her months of research Emma felt like she really knew Captain Killian Jones, and she’d be lying if she said her heart didn’t ache just a little bit at the thought of never meeting him in person. Which was stupid. The man died centuries ago. But that knowledge, and the fact that she absolutely did not believe in ghosts, didn’t keep her from sometimes imagining that the tingling sensations she continued to feel on her cheeks or in her hair was the loving caress of his hand.

Yeah… she had it bad. For a ghost of a man, no less. Literal or otherwise.

The ballroom was finally done. It had probably been their most extensive project within the manor, and Emma was relieved to have it completed. She took in the magnificent space around her with a sense of pride and then focused her attention on the crew that was getting ready to hang the last of the chandeliers. The finishing touch that would make the space one hundred percent complete.

As she made her way over to the workmen, Emma saw Henry moving about next to the piano. He knew he wasn’t suppose to hang out in work zones, they could be dangerous.

“What are you doing, kid?”

“Dancing.”

“Okay…” she replied, studying his movements with a more purposeful eye. Huh… it does kind of looks like dance steps.

“Dance with me, Mom,” Henry invited enthusiastically, holding out his hand for her.

“Sorry, kid. I don’t dance.”

“Killian says all you need is a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“Well, since that’s neither you nor I, I guess we’re out of luck,” she deflected before she put her mom face on and led him back toward the stairs at the end of the ballroom. “Let’s go, kid. You’re not suppose to be in here.”

The men had begun hoisting the final chandelier in place when Emma noticed that the safety line wasn’t secured to wall. She had just stopped to bring it to David’s attention, and didn’t realize that Henry had kept going, when she heard the frantic yells and the sound of thousands of crystals jostling together. Emma watched in slow motioned horror as the massive chandelier began plummeting right on top of where Henry stood. Before she could scream out her son’s name, a miracle happened.

The chandelier just stopped.

Stopped in midair no more than two feet above Henry’s head.

Everyone stood transfixed at the sight before one of the workers shouted, “Thank God we had the safety line tied off!”

Emma ran to her son and wrapped him in her arms, thanking every god she could name that he was safe.

But how?

She knew that line hadn’t been tied off. Had been about to tell David that it wasn’t tied off. How could it have been loose one second and tied firm the next? No one would have had the strength to grab the line, stop a plummeting chandelier mid-fall, and then tie it off securely. It wasn’t possible.

“It was Killian,” Henry said with muffled words against her chest.

“What?”

“It was Killian. Captain Jones. He jumped from the balcony to the safety line and stopped the chandelier from falling.”

“Henry,” Emma exasperated lightly.

“Really, Mom! It was him. Look at the knot if you don’t believe me!”

Henry was clearly in shock. Hell. Emma was in shock. They were all in shock!

“Okay, Henry,” Emma soothed. “Everything’s okay now. Why don’t we get out of the crew’s way and let them finish. Okay?”

She wasn’t quite sure how she made it up the ballroom staircase on such shaky legs, or how her heart hadn’t managed to pound right out of her chest yet, or why she wasn’t more shocked to learn that the knot used to secure the safety line had been the type sailors commonly used to tie off rigging, and that no one owned up to having been the one to do it. What she was sure of, was that the incident had absolutely nothing to do with ghosts.

A certainty she kept repeating over and over in her mind long into the evening and night, and one she felt compelled to announce to an empty ballroom in the wee hours of the morning after she’d laid in bed listening to the sounds of that blasted piano music again.

No one was there when she entered the room, yet she couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t alone. Which only made her more determined to express her certainty.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she stated emphatically to the nothingness surrounding her. “I trust in what my eyes can see. What I can feel and touch.”

She began pacing the length of the room, shaking out her hands in an attempt to expel the tension and strain pooling within her chest. A tightness that had been gripping at her heart and lungs and gut for hours.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” she repeated into the darkness. “Everything that’s happened around here has a perfectly logical explanation.” Her pace back and forth over the parquet floor quickened even as her strides became shorter and more purposed. “What happened today… there’s a rational explanation. That line had to have been secured beforehand, right? Maybe… maybe I didn’t get as good of a look as I’d thought when it seemed the line wasn’t tied off before it... Maybe-”

Her throat began to tighten up again, breaths coming in shallow bursts as the reality of what could have happened to her son hit her once more. Emma wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed tightly, willing the haunting visions of her son crushed by the massive chandelier to flee her mind.

After drawing in a shaky breath, Emma exhaled a quiet, “Thank you.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, but just in case… thank you. For Henry. He’s my… he’s my everything, and if I ever lost...” Hot tears made their way down her cheeks, and the emotional dam she’d been fortifying all afternoon and evening finally burst as sobs wracked her body.

She sat down at the piano bench and spent her tears into her hands as they came up to cover her face. After several long moments she wiped her cheeks with the end of her sleeve, her worst nightmare finally laying itself to rest within the far reaches of her mind. She sniffed and sat up, allowing the peace and quiet of the room to soothe her.

Before she could make a move to stand and head back upstairs, a tingling sensation bloomed along her cheeks as if someone were cupping her face in their hands. Emma closed her eyes at the comforting feeling that thought gave her, and felt the sensation spread to her lips. She drew in a sharp breath and was overwhelmed by the now familiar masculine scent filling her senses. As she opened her eyes the tingling sensations vanished. Emma pressed her fingertips to her lips and swallowed.

“Thank you.”

Killian looked on as workers struggled with the oversized portrait that contained his likeness. Work in the grand foyer was now complete, and member’s of the Jones Family Trust, as well as the Misthaven Historical Society, felt the finishing touch ought to be the portrait of Captain Killian Jones on prominent display as soon as one entered the manor. Several poor, unfortunate souls had been tasked with the job of carting the life-sized artwork from the attic down to the first level for hanging, and Killian chuckled at the relieved looks the men gave when their foreman declared they’d break for lunch before proceeding.

As it usually happened whenever he found himself in Swan’s presence, Killian couldn’t take his eyes off the woman as she stepped forward to appraise his image set upon canvas. The past several months had been a type of sweet torture, and he’d found himself spending more and more time within her company. Indeed, it seemed that if he wasn’t occupying himself with her boy and his ever enthusiastic desire to spar, play dice, practice the simplified tune he’d taught him on the piano, or a vast number of other things the lad talked him into, then he was at Swan’s side tormenting himself with longing. Tormented by the fact that despite all of Henry’s protestations that he was, in fact, real, Emma refused to believe in his existence.

That was until that night in the ballroom.

Killian was certain that if he’d had a heart beating within his chest it would have stopped at the sight of that chandelier crashing down towards Henry before he’d been able to stop it. If he’d been capable of producing tears Killian would have expended them alongside Emma as she sat upon the piano bench that night. All he’d been capable of was to try and offer some measure of comfort. He’d taken her face in his hands and placed a kiss upon her lips, and if he’d had breath in his lungs, he would have lost it when she seemed to look right at him as she whispered her thank you.

The same look she was giving him now. Well, not him, she still couldn’t see or hear him, but the rendering of him framed before her. Killian watched in awe as she stared at his portrait with a smile on her lips and brought her hand up to brush her fingers along his painted cheek. Killian watched the action with great yearning and placed his hand against his own face, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could feel the sensation of her touch.

The workmen made their way back and his portrait was hung in its place of honor, with Emma overseeing the entire affair. As the crews departed once more, she remained appreciating the finished room and his likeness in its proper place. Drawn to her smile and the glint of pride sparkling in her eyes, Killian stood beside her as she took in the fruit of her labors. He was startled to hear her, once again, speak into the seemingly empty room.

“I hope you’re happy with the work we’ve accomplished on your home, Captain,” she whispered softly, and Killian could not stop himself from placing a kiss upon her cheek in response.

Emma smiled and tugged her bottom lip between her teeth as she reached up and caressed the spot his lips had whispered across. She shook off her reaction a moment later, tsking at herself as she made her way toward the main hall. Watching her go, still firmly set in her belief that he couldn’t possibly exist, Killian set firm the resolve he’d determined within himself months ago.

He was going to break his bloody curse, no matter what it took.

“What are you going to do?” Killian asked with trepidation.

“Me?” the man questioned. “Why, I’m not going to do anything. I’ve made a deal, you see. The witch has agreed to curse you for the evil you’ve done. A curse that will ensure you can never tear apart another family again.”

“Please,” Killian pleaded with the woman. The witch he recognized from the village. A petite woman, with wisps of blonde hair framing her face, giving her a fairy like quality that masked her rumored nature of dark magic. “I tried to make it right. I didn’t know about the boy’s fate. When Milah told me she might be with child, I-”

“She was with child?” the witch questioned Killian sharply.

“I don’t know,” he answered, more tears of anguish pooling in his eyes. “She suspected so before I left. I was hoping for her confirmation when I returned. I realized how selfish I’d been. That’s why I invited you and your son here,” he expressed to the man imploringly. “I wanted to try and make it right.”

“Too late for that now, Dearie,” the man spat.

“I know,” Killian responded with weary acceptance. He’d been too late. The boy was dead. Milah had suffered this terrible fate because of him. He deserved whatever the witch was about to do to him.

“Well?” the man prompted, and Killian looked up to face the woman whose hands his fate rested. “What are you waiting for?”

“This man is not who you said he was,” she replied.

“Of course he is! A selfish pirate. The man who stole my wife, and kept her from our son. He’s a villain, undeserving of a happy ending.”

“No,” she stated firmly. “I don’t think he’s truly the villain here.” Her pointed look at the man made Killian’s blood run cold, but the evil little imp seemed impervious to her steely gaze.

“What you think doesn’t matter,” he sneered. “We made a deal. A deal that you are obligated to uphold due to the constraints of your magic.”

The witch narrowed her eyes at the man as she questioned, “How would you know that?”

“Do you really think I hadn’t done my research? I’m not in the business of making deals where I could come out the fool.”

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” she asked with a look of fresh understanding within her eyes. “It isn’t about your wife, or your son, though I can see that her betrayal and his loss have grieved you. It’s about your wounded pride. You don’t hate this man for loving your wife, or sending for your son too late. You hate him because he made you feel like a fool.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he seethed. “We have a deal, and you will honor it.”

The witch sighed and turned back to face Killian, still cradling his love in his arms.

“He’s right. I do have to honor the deal,” she admitted sadly.

Killian’s eyes fell shut at her words and he steeled himself for what was to come next.

“I may be forced to curse you, but,” she said, pausing until he met her gaze once more. “I believe you deserve a second chance. You will be placed under a curse to haunt these grounds and the manor upon it, but every one hundred years you’ll take on a form of flesh and blood so that you might have a chance to find the way to break it.”

Killian swallowed back the bile rising in his throat to ask, “How? How do I break the curse?”

“You don’t,” she replied. “But this will help guide you to the answer.”

She extended her palm and within it appeared a golden compass.

The enraged man beside her snatched it from her grasp and thundered, “This was not part of our deal!”

“Our deal was for me to place a curse on him so he could never again tear apart another family. The curse will ensure that, and it will only be broken if that assurance can remain should he become flesh and blood once more. Now, do you want him cursed or not? I can not break our deal, but you can. It isn’t too late to change your mind.”

“No,” the man scorned. “I won’t change my mind. He deserves to suffer. I want to see him suffer.”

“Very well,” she said. “Give me the compass.”

He placed the artifact back into her outstretched hand and Killian held his breath as the witch waved her other hand over it, causing it to glow. Several things happened at once as Killian began to feel a transformation come over him. He could no longer sustain the weight of Milah’s body, and she passed through his arms to the craggy shore beneath him as her husband began to howl in pain and screamed at the witch, demanding to know what she’d done.

“Do you think it a simple thing to merely curse another?” she mocked. “It seems you made a deal you did not fully understand after all. Spells are alive, you see. They take energy to create. Your energy, in this case. Your life will give this curse its existence.” The compass glowed brighter still, absorbing the very nature of the man within its essence until nothing remained of him.

After the glow of newly birthed magic faded, the witch handed the compass to Killian who despaired at the now translucent quality of his appearance.

“What do I do now?” he asked despondently.

“Nothing,” she replied. “But when the time comes, the compass will guide you.”

One week. One week and Killian would become flesh and blood again, able to enter the world of the living once more. Every one hundred years he was granted corporeal form for a fortnight before turning back into his ghostly self.

The first time it had happened, he’d had to hide away from the family and servants residing within the manor at the time. He learned that even though he was within a tangible body, he was still tied to the manor and grounds of the estate. Unable to leave, and unable to remain in the house undetected, he’d camped out in the woods and spent his time mourning Milah and Liam and everything else lost to him.

The second time the manor stood vacant due to the Great War raging across Europe. With the men away to fight, the house had been closed up. The estate had been in danger of being sold off bit by bit due to the high cost of managing it and the perishing of the way of life that had sustained it for centuries. Killian had been able, through correspondence, the use of the newly installed telephone, and the cache of treasure he’d long ago hidden away on the property, to secure the estate within a trust that would ensure its legacy within the Jones family for perpetuity. For he had no idea what would become of him should the estate be divided or the manor torn down.

He had given little thought to the compass during either of those reprieves from his cursed state. The first time he’d been too consumed with grief and self pity to try and work out the riddle of its breaking, the second time he’d had more pressing matters and no one to confide in.

But this time…

This time he had a reason for wanting it broken other than so he could simply die and be reunited with his loved ones. This time he wanted it broken so that he might have a future. A future with the woman who had stolen his heart and the boy who made him long to be a father.

This time it would be different, because this time he’d have help.

Killian retrieved the compass from its long standing hiding place below the floorboards of his study and made his way to Henry’s room where the lad was waiting for him. Handing over the compass, Killian poured out the entire tale, every detail that led him to his cursed state, culminating with the fact that the compass was supposedly the guide to breaking it.

“I need your help, Henry my boy,” Killian beseeched as he watched the lad turn the compass over in his hands. “I haven’t the faintest bloody idea how to break this curse except that it has something to do with that compass and the riddle etched upon its casing. You’re a clever lad. The cleverest I’ve ever seen. Surely, between the two of us we can work out the riddle. What do you say?”

Henry beamed at his friend as he excitedly answered, “Of course!” and then turned his attention to the engraving upon the compass’ shining surface.

A cursed man needs a guide, the answer inside the compass I’ll hide.

For when the needle starts to spin, your quest for love and life shall begin.

Find a woman that makes you complete, but be careful the past does not repeat.

Life will be restored. Should she choose to trade her truest love for his displayed.

Simply place the compass within her hold, and watch as all your dues unfold.

Henry sat with furrowed brow as he read over the riddle again and again while Killian lost himself in his own ponderings of it. Moments later Killian was pulled from his frustrated musings by Henry’s shaky question.

“Um… Killian? Has it ever done that before?”

Killian looked down at the compass and saw an astonishing sight.

“Bloody hell.”

The needle had begun to spin.

End Part One / Part Two

Tagging those who I think I might be interested, or who asked. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged for Part Two!

@kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @artistic-writer @ashar663 @yayimallamaagain @teamhook @ilovemesomekillianjones @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 @owlways-and-forever @tomeandflickcorner @juliakaze @lenfaz

#cs halloweek #cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan fan fiction #words by hollye #myths legends fairytales #ghost killian #cursed killian #killian jones #emma swan #henry mills #captain cobra #LoCKJ

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artistic-writer · 6 years

Text

CS Halloweek :: Between Now and Nether :: Chapter 2

Title: Between Now and Nether by @artistic-writer [full res fanart]

Summary: On their way to a Nolan Charity Gala, tragedy befalls Emma and Killian who is given just seven days to set things right. Can he make Emma believe and escape the Nether before he is lost forever?

Rating: T+

Chapters: [1] - [2]

A/N: I am posting this early to set everyone’s anxiety at rest - and because I made the fanart yesterday. Thanks to @rouhn for noticing my little issue with it before i posted it! This was written for CS Halloweek : Spirits & Traditions.

Future updates will be for Friday (providing I can get the art made in time)

Huge thanks to @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @rouhn and @wordsmith-storyweaver for your advice and suggestions. This fic would just be so much worse without you guys! <3

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The last thing Killian remembered before he was blinded by a white light was the warmth enveloping his body. He had felt so cold, shivering on the pavement outside of his house as his life force left him, Emma’s wails filling his ears. And then nothing. Silence. Not even the tinnitus ringing in his ears. Just nothing.

The pain was gone now too and Killian looked around himself with a frown. It was suddenly easier to breathe and his suit was pristine once more, the exit wound in his abdomen also mysteriously gone when he ran his hands over the cumberband of his tuxedo. Killian patted his suit jacket quickly realising that the velveteen box was missing and he looked around him only to discover that he could see nothing but white. And only that. He couldn’t even see his feet through the fog surrounding him and he began to panic a little.

“Emma?” He called out softly when he heard footsteps approaching him. A figure cut through the mist in front of him and Killian frowned when the shadow of a man appeared before him.

“Not quite, brother,” A voice called out, breaking the silence around them.

Killian’s eyes went wide with confusion. “Liam?” he croaked, his voice breaking with a mixture of joy and realisation. Liam was dead and the only way he would be here with him is if he was dead too. “Am I…?”

Liam stood before him with a kind, serene smile on his face. His hands were behind his back, his fingers tied together to hold them there and he blinked slowly. Liam was wearing the same clothes he was the day he had died, the irony of his brother also being gunned down not lost on Killian. “Of sorts,” he said softly.

Killian gulped hard and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “And Emma?”

Liam moved his arms until they were in front on him, his fingertips pressed together. “She is okay,” he said slowly.

A sob of relief escaped Killian’s lips and he quickly covered his mouth to muffle his cry. Realisation was a harsh mistress and she had just hit him with a ton of very hard, very heavy bricks. If it was possible for his chest to hurt, Killian was sure his heart would have been breaking in two. “Will she be okay?” Killian lifted his watery eyes to look at his brother once more, the light behind Liam somewhat brighter than before.

“She will,” he nodded once and smiled again. “I am here to help you transition,” Liam said softly, holding out his hand to Killian, the white ambient light around him bathing Killian in a warmth he had never felt before.

Killian shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Where am I?” he gulped. “How do I get back?”

“Killian, brother, this is the Nether,” Liam soothed, his words flowing over Killian’s anxiety and washing it away instantly. Killian calmed his breathing and straightening his body, taking in his brother’s appearance with more scrutiny.

“Are you an Angel?” Killian asked confused.

“Of sorts,” Liam smiled again and Killian scoffed with a little frustration.

“How cryptic of you, brother.”

“I have been sent to guide you,” Liam retracted his hand once more and tucked both behind his back again.

“To where?” Killian swallowed hard.

“That depends on where you want to go,” Liam said and Killian could swear his voice was much more calming than it had ever been.

“I want to go home,” Kilian’s voice cracked slightly. “I want to go back to Emma.”

Liam bowed his head, eyes pinched closed and stood in silence. Killian frowned, watching his brother intently, the only noise between them the sound of his own ragged breathing. Finally, before he had time to prompt him, Liam lifted his gaze back to Killian and the warm smile across his features calmed him instantly.

“You have been granted one chance,” Liam said stoically, his voice firm but never filled with an ounce of anger or force. “You may return, and if you can convince Emma you are still alive, you can stay.”

“By who? Who has the power to do this?” Killian demanded.

“The details are not important, brother. Except one.”

Killian narrowed his eyes at the being in front of him in the guise of his brother. It looked like Liam, had the same face as his brother, even the same stupidly curly hair that Killian was glad he had never inherited, but it wasn’t Liam. Killian could tell.

“Who are you?” He asked timidly.

“I am whoever people need me to be at this time.”

“Are you God?” Killian mumbled, almost afraid to know the answer. Ethereal Liam cracked another wide smile and shook his head.

“Then who are you?” Killian asked more confidently, shifted his weight from side to side.

“Most people do not normally ask so many questions,” Liam said with a light chuckle.

“I am not most people,” Killian sighed with his lack of answers.

“This is true. Which is why you are being offered this second chance, Killian.”

“Second chance? To convince Emma I am alive, so I can return to her?” The eagerness in Killian’s voice was too evident.

Liam inhaled hard but Killian suspected he had no actual need for breath. “You have done real good in the world, Killian. It has not gone unnoticed. You can return to Emma, and you will both live out the rest of your lives happily if you can…”

“...If I can show her I am alive,” Killian interrupted and Liam nodded. “So, am I alive?”

“Of sorts,” Liam said again and Killian scoffed. Even if this being wasn’t his brother he was a pain in the arse just like him. “The Nether is a place below the world of man, but neither Heaven or Hell,” Liam said finally. “It is a place very few people experience before they rise or fall.”

“You mean…” Killian gulped, stepping towards the figure before him with real concern in his eyes.

“Killian, if you fail, you will be judged accordingly.”

“If I fail?” Killian frowned, shaking his head a little.

“There are limitations. Not everyone offered a second chance will make it in time.”

“In time?” Killian pleaded, stepping towards Liam’s figure and instantly feeling the warmth from his glowing body.

Liam nodded slowly, a calming smile spreading over his features once more. “Brother, you have seven days to convince Emma, and only Emma, that you are alive.”

“So, I am not dead yet?” Killian asked hopefully.

“In body, you are dead,” Liam sighed. “In spirit, you are here.”

“What does that mean?” Killian spat, his patience for riddles waning. “Tell me how I get home!” He growled.

“That, dear brother, is something you must figure out yourself,” Liam smiled and with a snap of his white, glowing fingers, Killian’s world went black.

When he peeled his eyes open again, Killian was standing outside of their house, the blood stain on the pavement still clearly visible at his feet, even though attempts had clearly been made to try and wash it away. Killian’s suit was gone, replaced with his casual clothes he would wear in his downtime, jeans and a blue t-shirt that hugged his body. Despite the fact it was October and most people were wearing some sort of jacket, Killian wasn’t cold in the slightest.

He looked around quickly, the street they lived on quite this time of day. Emma’s car was in the driveway, his parked in front of it. As if he had thought it, David’s car pulled into the space behind them and the engine rattled to a stop, ceasing as soon as Dave put the car in park. Emma’s older brother was the kindest soul he had ever known, and he was glad he was here. He would know what to do.

David headed around his car, striding for the steps to the house as Killian made his way towards him. He looked sad, his head turning away from the patch of crimson on the pavement in disgust. Killian thought he looked more tired than usual, even with a young child at home, Dave looked like he had the weight of the world coming down on top of him. His eyes were red, slightly puffy and if Killian didn’t know better, he would say Dave had been crying.

“Dave, mate, so glad you are here…” Killian began almost apologetically, but his words were cut off instantly when David Nolan walked right through him. Literally. He’d sidestepped the blood on the concrete and breezed through Killian’s body, sending an unearthly quaking through his being that had him frozen in place for a second and then determinedly climbed the steps and letting himself into the house without saying a word.

Killian jumped back, eyes wide with shock and disbelief at what had just transpired. His soon to be brother in law, future best man, and current best friend had not seen or heard him, instead walking right into him and out the other side like he wasn’t even there. Because he wasn’t, and Killian growled to himself at his own stupidity.

“Oh bloody hell,” he rolled his eyes and ascended the stairs after David, walking straight through the front door.

Killian heard the sobbing first, followed by the gentle shushing of his best friend. A quick glance around the open plan lounge told him that his funeral had probably already happened, the mantelpiece above their open log fire covered in sympathy cards. Some of them had remained sealed and Killian’s bottom lip quivered at the pain Emma was probably going through because of him.

He should have noticed the gunman. He should have fought harder to stay with her. He should have ignored the light and gentle pull of warmth as he had felt his fingers slip from hers and if nothing else, Emma’s pained screams should have pulled him right back to her. But they hadn’t, and Killian hated whoever was in charge for all of this.

Killian followed the sounds of Emma’s wails, climbing the stairs but not making a single sound, even when he set his foot onto the second to last step of the staircase that always creaked so loudly. Emma was in their bedroom, the door open just a crack after David had gone to his sister’s bedside, his huge warm palm rubbing gently over her shoulders as she cried.

Killian pushed at the door but nothing happened, his hand sliding through the wood. He sighed. He would never get used to this, and with any luck, he wouldn’t need to. Walking the rest of the way through the door, Killian noticed Emma stop her sobbing for just a second, shooting a glance towards the door.

“Emma,” Killian’s smile was wide and excited and he inhaled hard through his open mouth, his arms widening automatically, ready to receive the shape of her body in his arms. But nothing happened. Emma remained where she was and her wide, expectant eyes dulled once more.

“Are you okay?” David soothed, stilling his hand on her shoulder before pulling the blanket over her legs up higher to make sure she didn’t get cold.

Emma looked back to her brother, her eyes swollen and red from her grief. She had cried for ten days straight, retired to her bedroom and had not come out since. Despite her family’s pleas, she had also neglected to eat a single thing offered to her, instead sustaining herself on sweet teas and the odd half slice of toast. “It’s been ten days,” she sobbed, her words catching in her throat.

“Ten days? But I…”

“I’m sorry,” David looked down at his feet. “I know you are not, and that’s okay, but please Emma, you have to eat something.”

Killian moved towards them, another known creaky floorboard staying silent under his feet. “Emma, I’m here,” he breathed her name but no reaction came from the woman he loved.

“Please, Emma,” David begged, leaning forward towards the white bag at his feet. He had bought her something and even though he could not smell it, Killian recognised the plastic blue lid of the tupperware that Mary Margaret always used to share her cooking with them. It looked like soup and Emma grimaced at the pot, her lips curling in disgust.

“You love Mary Margaret’s soup,” David coaxed gently, pulling the lid off and offering her the spoon in his hand.

“Aye, love, you do…”

“Not anymore,” Emma said sadly, hugging the pillow next to her tighter and burying her face into the downy softness.

“Emma, please,” David repeated, setting the soup down on the bedside table and replacing the lid. “Killian wouldn’t want this.”

“Exactly right, mate.”

“He’s gone, Dave,” Emma snapped, blinking away another tear at his name. “He died, and he left us.”

“Us? Wait, what?”

David sighed and licked his lips, swallowing hard. He had dealt with Emma’s grief before, when their parents had died, but this was different. Somehow, fuelled by her hormones, she was entering so many stages of grief he was having a hard time keeping up. One day she was happier, and then the next day she would be a crumbling mess once more. She was all over the place, emotionally wrecked from losing the one thing in her life that she held most dear.

Emma’s sobs wracked her body as a new wave of tears began to flow from her eyelids. “I didn’t have time to tell him,” she was back to being distraught, her fleeting fit of anger having passed quicker than a nanosecond. “Now he will never know.”

“Know what? I’m here, Emma, tell me now.” Killian moved around the bed quicker than he could ever have in solid form, pressing his knee into the mattress behind her and settling himself behind her. The bed didn’t move, the comforter didn’t ripple and Emma made no attempt to nudge herself back into him like she always did.

“I know,” David soothed, patting her leg with a heavy sigh.

“I miss him,” Emma bawled, her fingers gripping harder at the pillow that had become a substitute for Killian over the last week.

“I miss you too, Emma. So much.” Killian’s voice cracked a little and he tried to bury his face into the crook of her neck. He wrapped a strong arm around Emma and brushed his ghostly thumb over the skin of her wrist as she held the pillow tight.

“I know,” David said again, his heart splitting for his sister.

“I can’t do this alone,” Emma cried, her entire body shaking with each fresh wave of tears. They burned her eyes and soaked the pillow but she didn’t care.

“You’re not alone,” David said softly. “Mary Margaret and I are here for you.”

“And I am here, love. Whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone, Emma.”

“I can’t have a baby on my own, Dave. We were supposed to be a family!”

Killian stopped breathing, his ghostly body only doing so because of muscles memory anyway.

“Oh bloody hell.”

#cs halloweek #between now and nether #chapter 2 #cs fanfic #cs ff #cs au #emma swan #killian jones #liam jones #angsty

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