based off a ficlet she got

Dream-Peridot takes Dream-Pearls’ hands in her own and lightly tugs her into an embrace. It’s a bold, smooth move that the real Peridot would never be able to pull off with a straight face. It makes Pearl smile.  


I got new colored pencils so I whipped up this little doodle based off my latest Pearldot ficlet.

31 Days of Positivity: Day Twenty Seven: Home

This is slightly more positive than yesterdays. Also I’m a bit drunk. Apologies.

Emma’s got four sleepless nights behind her, her hair a riotous tangle from the tossing and turning she’d done in the latest grimy motel room, her body shattered but her mind whirring insistently into the early hours. Eventually she gave up on the possibility of sleep that wouldn’t come, the bug pulling off the rain-slicked motel parking lot hours before dawn with a growl made of over revs and fear.

She shouldn’t be driving - shouldn’t even be able to stand in all honesty - but this whole trip has been a wash out, and if she knows Rumplestiltskin at all, she knows he wouldn’t send her on a wild goose chase for nothing.

No, he would have had a plan. And what’s the only thing standing between the Dark One and his very estranged pregnant wife?

An old wooden ship, and a man with no magic that holds her heart in the palm of his only hand.

She shouldn’t be driving. But she does twice the speed limit anyway.

There’s a brief rush of relief when the town sign appears looming out of the darkness - at least the town itself is still in the right realm, and she can’t take anything for granted around here - but it fades into nothingness as the bug crawls past her house, the dark, blank windows staring out at her accusingly.

She swallows the incessant fear that nags at her as she drives on, taking a short detour to Regina’s to check for lamplight in Henry’s bedroom window (and when she sees it glowing reassuringly through the crack in the curtains, she’s too relieved to be mad that he’s still up), before finally making it to the docks.

She leaves the bug’s lights running despite the strain on the elderly battery, because she likes the way the Jolly looks, all lit up and rising out of the sea like some sort of beacon, the welcoming creak of her wood as she bobs at anchor soothing the nerves that still have hold of her heart.

“Ahoy!” she calls, exhaustion making her silly, “Permission to come aboard?”

It’s the dead of night, that 3am hour when the late night revellers from The Rabbit Hole have long since gone to bed and the early wakers haven’t yet crawled from their beds, but she knows that if he’s here, if he’s safe, he’ll answer.

It takes a moment - just long enough for fear to kick back in and for magic to tingle in her fingertips - but then there’s the sound of a scuffle and a muffled curse, and he appears at the top of the gangplank, hair ruffled and clothes in disarray, but with his sword still at his side and the hard glint in his eye that assures her that he hasn’t left his self-imposed duty post since the moment she kissed him goodbye.

He holds his hand up to protect his eyes from the headlights glare, and she can’t help herself, running full pelt up the gangplank to throw her arms around him, knocking him almost off his feet just so she can bury her face into his warm chest.

“All right?” he asks, his voice scratchy enough that she wonders if he’s slept as little as she has since they’ve been apart, “What’s happened, Swan?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles, which is a fact on several levels but she hasn’t the energy to talk about that now, “I’m just glad to be home.”