Ok ok ok… so let’s get nice and angsty.

Killian Jones, widower and single father, loves his little princess. 

Together they’ve travelled half way around the globe together chasing adventure after adventure.

Sadly, the call has come for Killian to fight in the oncoming war, being the upstanding Naval captain he is.

He entrusts the ‘Morgana home for girls’ in looking after his girl while he’s away.

Heartbroken to be separated, Alice puts on a brave face and knows in her heart that he’ll always come back for her.

Sadly, it’s not long before news arrives at the house to inform Alice that her father’s ship was sunk in battle. Her father is announced missing and presumed dead.

Once he’s gone, Morgana reveals her true colours.

“You’re not a little princess anymore.”

The woman is cruel, spiteful, envious of Alice’s love and attention she’s received and punishes the child with making her work as a slave for herself and the rest of the girls in the house. 

But Alice is brave and with a whole lifetime of stories from her father, she knows just how to get through her terrible time. 

She also knows that her father is a survivor and that he isn’t truly gone.

she feels it in her heart. He’s still out there. He’ll return for her. 

Every night she sits in the cold of the attic and carves chess pieces out of old candles and chalk, memorising each piece and how her and her father would play for hours, game after game. 

Morgana tries and tries but can never break Alice’s spirit.

A kind and mysterious old man lives in the large house next door.

“That’s Captain Nemo. His son Liam is also fighting in the war and he awaits his return.” 

She never speaks with the man but has spotted him watching her often, with a kind smile on his face. Oddly, it helps her lift her spirits.

Until the day she spies an ambulance transporting a man into Nemo’s house. It’s believed that his son has returned… but he’s injured.

Alice is hauling firewood into the house one day when she accidentally bumps into him.

Him.

Kilian Jones.

Her father.

“I’m sorry, lass, you must have me confused with someone else.”

“Papa it’s me! It’s Alice!”

Morgana is quick to drag her back to the house, apologising to the confused captain and ushering the girl in to be punished.

Killian Jones tried his hardest to save the young boy known as Liam Dakar, but sadly failed, and in doing so, lost his left hand and suffered a nasty blow to the head causing amnesia.

He doesn’t remember her.

He doesn’t remember himself.

Kind Nemo is helping him return to health in thanks for risking his life to try and save his son. 

Fearing the Captain will remember, Morgana puts a call in to have Alice transferred to the orphanage. 

It’s a night where the skies open and a storm erupts. 

Alice risks plunging to her death to try and escape Morgana’s house by climbing her way across to Nemo’s. She has to see her father again; to make him remember her.

Everyone watches as the desperate girl crawls across a nimble plank of wood to escape. It almost looks to be over when the wood, coated in rain, has her slipping, but she’s a strong girl and she makes it.

“Please! Papa please!” she pleads, crying, shaking him in distress.

“I’m so sorry… i don’t- I don’t know-” the captain struggles.

“We travelled to India, and Australia. We sailed to Italy and Brasil! You would call me your little princess! Papa you have to remember!”

The doors burst open and the police charge in, ready to haul poor Alice away.

“You have my rook! I have your knight!”

“Rook…” Something sparks in the captain’s memory.

Chess. 

As Alice is dragged out into the rain once again, ready to be thrown into the police carrier and transferred to the orphanage, Captain Killian Jones returns and screams at the top of his lungs.

“Alice!”

She surges forward, right into his waiting arms, and he holds her tight with all he has, right there in the downpour of the cold London rain. 

He remembers.

He remembers his little princess.

He came back for her.

She’s no longer alone.

So here’s this for your daily dose of pain:

Any canon explanation for Colin’s cheek scar (a la Josh’s chin scar) has to happen while Killian is a child slave.

summary: Imagine Killian came over with the first curse. Imagine Belle wasn’t locked away—that she actually had been Lacey that whole time. Imagine if they met. (Imagine if they did whole lot more than that.)

A/N: It’s time for Kaitlyn’s annual self-indulgent birthday fic! It’s not CS—not remotely—but I had a desire to see Killian x Lacey, and realized that I couldn’t do it within canon. So here’s some AU that’s bound to piss people off but I enjoy it so don’t come at me. Hope some of you like it, too!

rated M | 1.3k | AO3

Ian Jones didn’t bother to lock the door of his office as he left it. If anyone really wanted to mess with the harbormaster’s files and ancient PC, they were welcome to it. Besides, this was Storybrooke; he’d be so lucky if something that exciting happened. 

(Besides—the real valuables were hidden…offshore, so to speak. His extracurricular activities were not necessarily above board but the only thing that made his mundane existence bearable. Just don’t tell the new sheriff that.)

Anyways. He left the docks, taking the familiar side streets and alleys that led to the Rabbit Hole. It was a Monday, so it’d be quiet there—well, save for the regulars, like himself. He wasn’t sure exactly when it became tradition to end a shift with a celebratory drink, and some might find flaw with the frequency in which he stopped into the watering hole, but those people thankfully kept their opinions to themselves.

No one spared a glance when he entered the dimly-lit dive, and no one ever did. He slid onto his usual stool at the bar and ordered his usual rum, then settled in for a usual night of drinking and casual, empty conversation.

(He never said his nights here were fulfilling; perhaps they were as banal as his days. But he liked it well enough to not seek out a change. He was familiar with the stir of restlessness, but it wasn’t telling him to do anything—yet.)

He glanced around the half-empty bar; billiards tables took up one side of the large space, where a couple dusty miners were making bets that everyone knew they wouldn’t honor; a couple was attempting to have a private rendezvous in one dark corner, oblivious to the fact that they were actually on full display; and a fight was about to break out at the jukebox over whether they should play Van Halen or Guns N Roses, if his hearing was right.

Actually, that caught his attention; bar fights didn’t happen often but were always entertaining. But more importantly, he’d never before seen this dark-haired lass, who was trying to take on a much-larger man. 

It wasn’t often strangers showed up in town, so anyone new was a break in the monotony. (That included the new sheriff, though he hadn’t had occasion to meet her yet…and he was rather hoping to hold off on that encounter as long as possible given his less-than-legal side hustle.)

And, though this (rather attractive) woman seemed capable of holding her own in a fight, neither party was the most sober and her foe was easily twice her size. Ian was nothing if not a gentleman (when he felt like it), and it’d be bad form to let her lose this battle, as she was sure to do—she wasn’t as steady on her stilettos as she thought she was.

He strode over as casually as he could and told the man to, “Leave the lady alone.” 

The brute was nearly bent over, trying to get into the woman’s face, but rose to his full height at Ian’s arrival. “Or what?” he sneered, then shoved Ian’s shoulder—specifically the left one, the arm of which quite obviously ended in a prosthetic hook.

Ian was well aware of his lack of appendage, and if there was one thing he hated, it was when others tried to use it against him. “Well,” he snarled, but rather than finish his sentence, swung back and clocked the man with his right fist. The asshole fell against the jukebox head-first, then slid to the floor, knocked out cold. 

The bar had gone silent at the scene, but a few moments later, the opening strains of “Runin’ With The Devil” began, and the hum of conversation resumed. One of the guy’s friends came to tend to him, but Ian had already turned around, headed back to his stool to finish his drink (and hopefully get some ice for his aching knuckles).

“Wait,” the lass said, reaching out for his forearm. “You’re just gonna walk away without letting me say thank you?”

Weiterlesen

Summary: Inspired by this yak: “My roommate just told me to stop growing my beard because if I get any more handsome, he’s gonna have to fuck me, but what he doesn’t know is that I want that.” David grows a beard to protect himself from bitter Maine winters; his roommate, Killian, notices.

A/N: Yes, it’s another beard fic from me. But I haven’t dabbled a ton in Romantic Captain Charming, and I saw this prompt and had to. Hope you like it! thanks to @optomisticgirl for looking it over!!!

rated T | 2k words | AO3

January in Maine was cold. Bitingly so. And David knew it better than anyone, working for the humane society—specifically, being the person that takes calls about animals running wild in the great outdoors. An outdoors that was presently covered in snow and several degrees below freezing.

So if he skipped a day shaving, in a possibly vain attempt at protecting his face from the elements, would anyone blame him? It seemed to work for his roommate.

Granted, that was another story entirely. Killian Jones, expat engineer, probably the hottest guy David had ever met while simultaneously the nerdiest. Neat to a fault, excellent cook, perfect gentleman—perfect roommate. Owner of one prosthetic hand, a pair of eyes that matched the Atlantic, and most importantly (or at least, most relevant): a carefully manicured beard that seemed to help him brave their frigid winters.

At least, he’d never heard any complaints. And Killian did spend a lot of time on the water with his sailboat (did David mention the color of his eyes? Because holy hell did the ocean bring them out) so he would know. Hell, he let it fill in a bit in the winter, too.

So yeah. It was time for David to give this beard thing a shot. Because he was tired of wrapping up in scarves and/or risking frostbite every time someone thought they saw a stray cat in the woods but it turned out to be a raccoon.

However, he was rather disappointed to learn it was not something one grew overnight. It took three days for even patchy stubble to make an appearance. And where Killian’s styled scruff made him look immaculately disheveled, David merely looked hungover.

“Did you drop your razor behind the toilet or something?” Killian teased while making breakfast. “Or was that pint too much last night?” While he had enjoyed a brew the night before while watching Liverpool clean the field with Man U—Killian’s favorite team—it had hardly left him buzzed.

“As much as you think I’m a lightweight, no; I’m giving this beard thing a try.”

Killian arched an eyebrow, apparently amused at the idea. “I have to say—I’m interested to see how that goes.” As encouraging as it sounded, it was also laced with humor.

“What, you don’t think I can do it?”

Killian chuckled and went back to cooking eggs. “It took years for me to perfect the art of facial hair; I don’t see how you’re going to master it in a handful of weeks.

David bit into a piece of bacon, rather than into any kind of retort, but honestly, that just made him more motivated to make this work.

A week later, it didn’t look a whole lot better (and there was far more white and gray mixed in with the strawberry blond than he’d like to admit) but—it was doing its job. The wind didn’t scrape across his face quite as hard, and his scarf was starting to stay around his neck more. 

Killian remained unimpressed.

Weiterlesen

Happy Birthday, my dear fellow wench apirateslass! This is for you, and maybe it can be a little inspiration for… you know.

(also on ff.net and ao3)

Tinkerbell woke up from the thudding sound of heavy footsteps climbing up the entrance to her tree house. In the blink of an eye, she was on her feet and moved through the darkness, catlike and silently, her knife in her hand. She rounded the intruder elegantly, grabbed of his hair from behind as soon as he was visible and yanked his head back, holding her knife against his throat.

The tall figure stumbled a little, and she heard the squeaking of leather and the hoarsely muttered curse: “Bloody hell!”

“Hook?” she blurted out in disbelief and let go of him, taking a few steps back again. Quickly, she lit her lamp. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

Weiterlesen

Adrenaline.

His heart is beating faster than it ever has before. A surge of confidence fills his chest and his muscles stop their shaking as they grow stronger.

Solid. Rooting him to the floor as his feet become sturdier; no longer urging him to run.

The shock of standing up to someone- to fighting in a duel and winning rushes over him and he feels something new.

Pride.

He’s powerful now. 

He sees Emma in the distance smiling back at him as he confronts the evil Queen, so sure in himself now that he’s beaten her prince. 

It’s all so new and yet the tiniest spark inside him tells him it feels right.

He feels like he could be someone. 

He feels like he could make a difference.

He feels like a hero.

“What about you, your majesty?” he asks as he circles the queen, basking in every drop of bravery that fills him by the second, “shall I make quick work-”

Pain rips through his chest just as Emma’s horrified cry hits his ears.

Red hot burning fills him.

He can’t speak.

He can’t move.

Blood rushes in his ears so much so he can barely register the venom being whispered to him from behind. 

His body is frozen, shocked- the burning soon turns him cold as he sees Emma’s face… all he sees is Emma’s face.

This is the end. He can feel it.

But then…

He sees flashes. Swift images of another life.

He sees himself.

A captain. A ship and crew of his own. He’s respected. He’s feared. He’s brave.

A friend. He has people. He’s happy. He’s welcome. He belongs.

A lover. He’s wanted. He’s embraced. He’s cared for.

He’s found home. He’s found family. He’s found peace.

He’s loved.

They were telling the truth. In another life… he was someone.

Then he sees nothing but white light. His vision fails him as the blade is yanked from his back. He feels his face crumble as his legs- legs that were strong and firm moments ago, now collapse beneath him. 

He feels his body shut down as he plummets to the ground, eyes long fallen heavy and closed.

He feels cold. He feels numb.

His essence leaves just as he hits the stone.

He feels no more. 

He is no more.