Well, I attempted Sleeping Hook. It didn't work out the way I wanted it to, not even from the start - this four-shot was conceived as a drabble - but I tried, so you guys feel free to go ahead and take a shot at reading it. Enjoy!
Flax. Aurora has only time to incredulously think that one thing, A splinter of flax has gotten stuck in her finger, and because of this she is doomed to sleep for a hundred years.
Ah, but her comes her father, barely recognizable as the darkness closes in on her vision. Surely he will help her…
But King Stefan finds that he cannot, and feeling brokenly helpless, he can bear to do no more than prop his beloved, sleeping daughter up in his throne and flee forever.
Ninety-nine years later
The castle is dilapidated from the outside, yes, but it's shelter from the storm outside – the one preventing him from leaving port until the morning – and so Killian will take it.
In this situation, he doesn't expect to find decent food or a bed that isn't rotting. But he does. It makes him curious, and so he goes exploring, eventually deciding that there must be an enchantment upon this place as he wonders what else he'll find.
He's ready for anything, yet he can't say he expects to find a beautiful, sleeping young woman sitting in the throne room. But find her he does.
And it's worth mentioning at this point that he's slightly – very well, incredibly – drunk from the liquid courage he's consumed in this creepy house that's outwardly falling apart but pristine on the inside. And he's a man… and she's a beautiful woman. So he does something he'll probably regret in the morning, and when morning comes, he drags his hung-over self onto his ship and sails away from the odd experience.
Ten months later
Consciousness, cold and uncomfortable, meets the two squirming red bodies in an unwelcome embrace, and they scream their objections. This isn't right, it's not at all like the cozy cavern in their mother's body to which they are accustomed, and even now a new sensation is clenching their stomachs. Hunger – and for the sating of this feeling, they instinctively turn to their mother.
One of the twins, the girl, gets lucky. Eyes closed as she squirms, mouth floundering for something, she stumbles upon her mother's finger – and begins to suck. But this isn't right either – it isn't working, her hunger isn't waning.
And then it gets worse! Suddenly, it hurts! There's something inside of her mouth that she doesn't like; it doesn't belong there, and she screams again – thoroughly drowning out the noises made by her suddenly stirring mother.
Consciousness. Bright and strange and surprisingly loud – it comes back to Aurora in a slow trickle as she awakes. First, she sees, turns her head slowly, looking around at eyelevel. Then she hears. Then she really sees – and then she panics. She panics because there is a baby boy wriggling helplessly on the floor at the foot of the throne in which she's seated, and there's another one, a girl, half in her lap, half ready to fall onto the floor as well. Her first instinct is to scramble away from the two of them, and she belatedly realizes that her body's already trying that all on its own, But then the infant girl teeters dangerously, and Aurora finds her hands snapping out to rescue the child from her perilous position and pull her to her chest.
The baby's head lands just above Aurora's heartbeat and they both calm for a minute, giving the princess time to think. She reaches down and scoops the fallen baby boy up with her free arm, checks to make sure that they are unharmed, and stares down at them before she notices something else that's horribly startling. The three of them are covered in blood.
But why? Yes, her own body is in agony, but wouldn't it be, after a hundred years in the same position? And how does that explain the infants?
And then she realizes, begins to piece together in her still-waking mind what must have happened. She's given birth. At the tail end of her dreadful sleeping curse, after who knew who had come into her castle and done who knew what – gods, what they'd had to have done to her – she's given birth to twins!
Panic is at the edges of her mind again as the truth starts to sink in. And then comes a strange, warm feeling that she wasn't expecting. She's just birthed these children, these are her twins, she is their mother, and – strange as the truth is – she loves them already.
Eight months later
It's been a year and a half since Killian's been in this kingdom or thought of that anything-but-forgettable princess – for that's what he's come to decide she must be – but he's back and so are the thoughts of her. He feels at best curious and at worst compelled by something-that-might-be-regret – but that would mean that he cares, and he doesn't right? – to return to that castle.
He wants to know what he'll find there now. Will the place have fallen apart at the seams, as the exterior already suggests it has? Will the princess have awakened? Died, maybe? He doesn't know, but he wants to, so he goes. He slips away from his rowdy, drunken crew, leaving them and the pub for the night in favor of satisfying his curiosity – because that's all that it is. Mere curiosity, and maybe a hint of desire – of course a bloody pirate could admit to that – but nothing else.
Yet, when he gets there, what he finds is once again nothing like what he expects. When he pushes open the palace door, the previously dark, damp hall is alive with light, laughter, and… shrieking? All of it is pouring from the sitting room off the hallway, and Killian is drawn to it like a sailor to a siren – which is the perfect analogy, he muses, creeping forward on silent feet.
This place has come alive in his absence, he decides, and what's more, he realizes, peering through the crack between the door and doorjamb, into the sitting room… so has the princess. Because there she is, sitting on the floor in front of the fire, wearing the world's biggest, most beautiful smile as she looks down at… two babies?
At the sight of them – obviously twins, with their identical age and black hair – Killian's mind is instantly moving, putting numbers and sequences and possibilities – ye gods, the possibilities – together quicker than he'd known he was capable of. And then he came to the inevitable conclusion.