#i just went on a mad dash to find fitting dragons but None of the babies i found are on the ah :(

[faerie-rosethorn]

anyways i just realized that i have a trio of ocs who would work perfectly as coli trainers bc their whole thing is that they were forced to fight in a colosseum

so i scryed them up & dressed them

i think im obsessed with them now (ltr Cleo, Maxwell, Mallory)

[transk0vsky]

Things I wrote back in December when I was thinking about 03 Casey wearing a dress propaganda this was before I figured out proper formatting for writing so it is kinda ughh to read but I tried to fix it it’s not like anyone reads my self ship fics anyway so like Goongala!

Casey told Leon as he held up a brightly colored red and purple striped tank top with a pair of ripped up orange shorts “Look good eh?” Casey asked as he tilted his head sideways,he was just joking around with Leon he didn’t actually want the outfit from hell he just wanted to tease his favorite psychic. Leon’s lip curled upwards in shock and horror “NO I’m pretty sure that fashion

Atrocity is grounds for divorce?” Leon remarked playfully in disgust as he continued to tap his boot against floor.

Casey threw up his arms and laughed as he placed the outfit back on the rack before he went to view more of the selection “Okay then mister fashionista how’s this?” casey asked Leon as he held up a pair of baggy blue jeans with a deep pocket “Hmm? this? less tacky?” Leon nodded softly not before he laughed a little at Casey’s remark “I think that would work…….it looks like something you’d wear!” Casey’s smiled happily as he got excited “Oh yeah?? You approve?!? This has the fashion experts approval?” Casey remarked as he looked at Leon with a playfully smile Leon nodded as he started to zone out while Casey looked around further Leon suddenly remembered something from earlier in during the couples trip.

“…..hey you were looking at like a flower dress earlier what was up with that?” Leon asked softly, Leon was a fairly observant person he could tell Casey was interested in that dress. Casey paused his search of the rack his face breaking out in a slight blush he looked down at the ground and to the side slightly embarrassed not that he thought Leon would judge him,fuck no Leon was his ride or die it…..Leon would definitely encourage casey to express his gender however he’d pleased it’s just casey felt a little silly liking a dress is all. “…..uuhhh….” Casey strutted trying to find the proper words he really liked that damn flower dress…..he wanted that dress.

Leon tilted his head slightly brown strands of hair and his ponytail bobbed along side his heads movements “……I thought it looked cute honestly though you’d probably need a larger size cause of your muscles” Leon said softly trying his hardest to encourage Casey,

Casey wasn’t shocked by Leon’s support but it made him happy none the less as he gained a wide smile “……. Ya? really think I could pull that off?” casey asked leaning down to his husband’s height with a big dumb grin Leon nodded excitedly as his hair bounced back and forth it looked like Leon was in the middle of a hurricane or something Leon shared a big smile on his face as he quickly rushed off into the store with a goal and mission on his mind…..if his husband wanted a dress he was gonna get his fucking dress! Leon thought to himself as he made the mad dash to make his beloved happy.

Casey shrugged as he decided to follow Leon’s lead he was the smart one in the relationship so Casey figured he knew what he was doing and Casey couldn’t help but feel more confident now “I can’t wait to try it on!” casey said excitedly as he followed leon like a puppy following it’s owner as Casey walked he he bounced on the balls of his feet. Leon quickly succeeded in his task and slammed the dress into the basket the couple had been using “if my husband wants a dress then by god he’s gonna get his fucking dress!” Leon exclaimed, Casey chuckled with that same dumb grin plastered on his face “Ahhh ha ha ha I like dat !” Casey said softly as he pulled Leon’s arm dragging him to the fitting rooms at this point Leon was particularly bouncing up and down.

“maybe ya could go out and fight some purple dragons in that dress!! Ya could be swinging your stick into mother fuckers while in the cutest freaking dress!” Leon said joyfully like he was a child on Christmas Day. Casey took a moment to think about the idea as he walked side by side with Leon “Oh man if I beat up some guys with a dress on their face’s would be priceless!” Casey smiled at the thought “yeah I think I like dat idea!” He said with a confident nod,

Leon smiled widely as he walked besides Casey looking at Casey as they walked “……you should do it!!! It be so fricking freaky fricking sick!!!” Leon said with a sudden vigor unlike his usual lack of energy. Casey smiled widely at seeing Leon’s burst of enthusiasm and also at the fact he’d get to wear the cutest dress ever and kick those purple scums asses, Casey had gotten so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t even realize they were at the fitting rooms until Leon nudged his shoulder slightly Casey grinned widely once he saw them “Alright here we go!” casey announced a bit louder than he might too feeling so excited that he was hopping just like a little bunny when he got to the door.

Leon nodded happily and gave Casey a kiss on the check which Leon had to go on his tiptoes in order “HELL YEAH!!!! You’re gonna look like a stunner Arnie!!” Leon said with a lovingly and sweet tone, Casey returned Leon’s kiss however he gave leon a kiss on the lips before he sighed “Alright I’m gonna try it on!” casey opened the door to the fitting room giving leon one final look before he shut the door. Leon stood outside the fitting room Casey was in like a bodyguard protecting a high profile celebrity leon hummed as he waited.

inside the fitting room Casey had gotten the dress on it was a beautiful red and purple color it fit him perfectly and he looked at his reflection and couldn’t help but become giddy after a few minutes Casey opened the door in order to show Leon his beautiful bright red and purple flower dress casey flipped his black hair over his shoulder “How do I look!!!” He asked Leon in a smug way.

Leon felt like his heart had stopped and exploded right out of his chest as a small pink flush spread over his face “…..you look beautiful……..” Leon’s breath hitched it was just like seeing Casey for the first time again Leon smiled softly as his heart beater rapidly casey blushed a bit upon hearing leons compliment he “I’m glad ya think so…..leonie” he said as he nervously fidgeted with the fabric on the dress as Casey looked side to side Leon hummed lowly as he looked up at Casey he softly brushed his thumb against Casey’s check “…….you look stunning…….absolutely stunning” leon cooed softly.

casey’s cheeks turned a bright red at the sugary sweet words “Doll yer gonna kill me if ya keep being si sweet ya know dat rich ” Casey remarked as he looked down at Leon but his voice quickly became a higher pitch voice as he started to speak a cheesy lovey dovey tone Leon nodded even more enthusiastically his hair bouncing around again “Then I gotta kill you then cause!!! Arnie……you’re so handsome you’re stunning your beautiful” Casey got a huge smiled at hearing his and his blush grew further “Sooo uhhh And uh ya think I could uh…. Fight in this?” casey asked as he kept the same cheesy lovey dovey tone of voice from a few seconds earlier.

Casey shifted Around his position while he tried to look confident and tough. Leon smiled up at Casey happily and nodded Leon’s eyes glowed Brighter than usual “fuck yeah!!! Casey!! I bet ya you could fight better than raph!!!” Leon replied as he hyped up his husband Casey got the largest most overconfident cocky and cheesy grin on his face as he spoke again “Hell yeah!!!! No one’s gonna even know what hit them when they see me with my hockey stick and my flower dress!” Leon nodded rapidly his hair bobbing around like he was a drink at a bar being shaken and Leon earned his own grin “YEAHHHHHHH!!! THE WORLD WONT KNOW WHAT HIT IT WHEN CASEY JONES COMES A CALLING!!!” Casey continued to grin his cocky grin as his voice dripped full of ego which no doubt Leon would help grow.

“AND WHEN THEY DO GET HIT THEYLL WISH THEY NEVER MESSED WITH THE FLOWER POWERED CASEY JONES!!!” casey said as he did the cheesy victory pose ever while he looked up and down in the most proud and arrogant way possible. Leon sighed softly as he smiled lovingly Yup that was his husband he looked great In that dress and Leon loved his goofball more then anything.

[teriwrites]

Swindler of Fortune

The coin wells were empty.

I stared dumbly into the cash register. They’d been full that morning, that much I was certain of. I myself had blindly emptied several rolls in my mad dash to open the store on time. 

What can I say? Even wizards sleep in sometimes.

But business had been slow, and even on heavy days, we usually didn’t get enough cash transactions to clear out the whole register. 

“Natalie?” I called, hoping she hadn’t left for the night.

I didn’t suspect her of stealing, of course, but she usually handled the front during weekdays. Thankfully, she was still in the back. I watched the doors swing open, and her bun bobbed just over the tops of shelves as she made her way over. 

“What’s up?” she asked as she reached the front, leaning down onto the counter to meet me at eye level. I rolled my eyes at the gesture.

“Did somebody exchange a large bill for coins?” I motioned towards the empty wells. “Because we’re all out.”

Natalie frowned as she pushed herself upright. “No. I actually had to empty a roll of quarters about an hour before closing. Why, have we been robbed?”

“If we were, it was by the dumbest thief alive.” As Natalie cocked an eyebrow, I went on. “All the bills are accounted for.”

For several moments, we puzzled over it, but it was late, and I think we both knew no questions were going to be answered without effort. And that wasn’t happening after closing. This was a problem for another day.

So I dumped a couple new rolls into the register and decided to call it a night.

The next day was a Friday, which meant more business. After a quick check to confirm that the coins were still in their place, I flipped the sign on the door to ‘Open’ and welcomed the start of a new day. 

Natalie was working inventory, so she hung in the back while I held down the front of the store. Rolling up the sleeves of my cardigan, I took in a deep breath and channeled my Manager alter ego - a mix of Customer Service feigned cheer with enough of an edge to hold some of the more entitled customers at bay. 

Our first customer rolled in around 9:30. My back was turned as the bell rang out, but the excitement emanating from Nathaniel as he ran laps around my back clued me into their identity.

I spun on my heel to see an old man wrapped up in dark furs and a matching cap step over the threshold. A green parrot sat on his shoulder, wearing its own tiny hat.

“Mike!” My Customer Service smile eased into a genuine grin as I greeted one of my favorite regulars.

“Ms. Kim, hello!” When Mike spoke, it was with his familiar, thick Russian accent. I wasn’t sure exactly when he had immigrated to Canada, but he’d been coming into the store as long as I could remember, back when I was just a kid helping my dad restock shelves. Even back then, he’d struck me as remarkably old. 

“I haven’t heard from you in awhile. I was beginning to fear the worst.” It was a half-joke, but before the mood could darken, I shook my head dramatically. “I thought you might’ve decided to turn to one of our competitors.”

Mike chuckled as he pulled his hat from his head, but his parrot cut in before he could protest. “Enough with the pleasantries! We’re here on business!”

Nathaniel had run down the length of my sleeve and was tugging it down my arm to press closer to the bird. I leaned forward onto the counter, and the parrot eyed my embroidered dragon cautiously.

“That’s a cute hat you got there, Charon.” I shot the parrot a wink and pushed myself back up. “What is it I can get for you today, Mike?”

“Do you have any tongue of frog in stock?” he asked as he brushed snow from his hat. 

I wasn’t sure, but I promised to check in with Natalie. As I made my way back to the storage room, I found her crouched in one of the aisles, gathering some nonalcoholic liquid courage to restock.

“Hey, do you have any tongue of frog marked up on there?”

The face Natalie made answered my question. “You actually stock frog tongues?”

“Spells, enchanted items, charms - ”

“Whatever your wandering, wayfaring wizard may need, I know,” she finished, nodding along dramatically. “But frog tongues?”

“If you heard all of the ingredients that go into those bottles” - I nudged my chin towards the liquid courage - “it’d make your hair curl. Not that it needs the help.”

Natalie smacked me with her clipboard before jutting her hand out for some help up. 

I had been working alongside Natalie for a few months now, but there were still areas of the store that I hadn’t acquainted her with. Some wizards would’ve scrunched up their noses at my more repellent products, so I was not keen to show them off to an unprepared Typic. 

Most potion ingredients sat in a medicine cabinet towards the front of the store, but it could hardly fit everything. The rest was tucked away into a side room - a pantry, really - hiding in the back corner. Pulling my keyring from my pocket, I shuffled through several before I landed on the right one.

Dust had collected on most of the shelves in the pantry. I had no excuse for its state; there simply wasn’t enough of a reason to come back here unless someone requested it. A single, flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling dimly lit the small space. 

I turned away from Natalie to fetch the jar labeled ‘tongue of frog’. After I’d snatched it up, I looked back to see her curiously scanning the shelves. Before I could say anything, her hand darted out and grabbed something. 

Holding it out to me, I could barely make out its label: newt eyes.

“Other friends of yours?” she joked.

I brushed past her as she replaced the jar on the shelf. “Of yours, actually.”

Carrying the jar back to the front, I watched as Mike perused some of the inventory up front with vague amusement. Charon was whispering something in his ear. Evidently it was something rude; Mike reprimanded the bird harshly in Russian.

“One tongue of frog,” I announced as I stepped behind the counter. 

“You have new merchandise, Ms. Kim,” Mike pointed out as he dug through his pockets. “I didn’t even know there were spells for maintaining battery life.”

“Yeah, well, some companies intentionally provide weak batteries to make you replace your phone after a couple years. This cheat seems the lesser of the two evils.” I rested my elbows on the top of the register as I watched Mike stack the contents of his pocket onto the countertop. Books, empty potion bottles, a pair of gloves. After withdrawing a black notebook with an engraved monogram and a full-sized human skull, he finally pulled out his wallet.

I had to ask him what spell he used to get that kind of pocket space. 

“Working another case?” I nodded at the notebook as I rang up his order. “I thought you’d retired, Mike.”

“I owed an old colleague a favor,” Mike admitted gruffly. “The police asked him for assistance on a case, and he referred them to me.”

He sounded none too happy about it. 

Mike passed me cash, and I opened the register. As soon as the drawer sprung open, I realized with a jolt that the change was missing again. Surely, nobody could’ve snatched it up without being seen. I could’ve trusted Mike with the entire store while I was in the back, and Natalie had been with me the entire time. 

“Is there a problem?” Mike asked, straightening up to peer over the counter.

I unlocked the cupboard with extra change and fished out a roll of loonies. “No problem, just ran out of change.”

I handed over his change and the jar without a bag, knowing he wouldn’t need one. When he’d taken both from me, he simply slid them into his pockets. With a quick nod and a small lift of his cap, Mike stepped back out into the cold. 

Only after Mike had left did I notice Natalie crouching by the first row of shelves. She clutched her clipboard to her chest, staring in horror at the door the old man had just left through.

“Was that man carrying a human skull?”

I dismissed her concern with a wave of my hand. “Mike’s a necromancer. That’s pretty normal for him.”

My reassurance might’ve eased Natalie’s nerves, but they simply shifted from fear into disgust. “Aren’t those people supposed to raise the dead and all that? Gross.”

“It’s a little more delicate than that. There’s a whole structure of ethical guidelines in that field. Full revival is prohibited, so usually it’s just gathering details on how the person died. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, though. I’ve never had the stomach for that stuff.”

“So you’re telling me there’s a whole slew of magical careers out there, and I got stuck working for the shopkeep?” 

I rolled my eyes as I walked away, leaving Natalie laughing on the floor. 

Saturday morning, I arrived extra early at the store. I told myself it was to make up for the fact that Natalie only worked weekdays and I would be running everything myself. But really, the first thing I did when I arrived was beeline for the cash register.

Everything had been in place the night before. After Mike’s incident, nothing had gone missing, and the rest of the day ran smoothly. I was secretly hoping that the problem would go away on its own if I just refused to acknowledge it. But I could only lose so many more rolls before making another trip to the bank, and I’m pretty sure the teller I always ran into was a vampire. Either that or there was some other reason he always stared at my neck when I was making deposits. 

Either way, not an experience I was eager to have again.

My key slid into the lock for the register, and I made a silent wish as I twisted it open.

The coin wells were empty.

I let out a frustrated shout as I tore the key out of the lock. This couldn’t keep happening. My store did well - my spot in downtown Trelis earned me good foot traffic, and our regulars were loyal - but I couldn’t afford the constant losses. 

There was only one answer. I would have to investigate. If I kept a careful eye on the full register, the thief would have to reveal themselves eventually. 

To refill the coins, I opened up the cupboard, only to find that it, too, had been ransacked. Every roll of coins had been torn to shreds, with scraps of paper left littering the cabinet. 

I felt bad for texting Natalie on her day off, but I had no other choice. I couldn’t both look into a robbery and ring up transactions. So, whipping out my phone, I shot her a text asking if she’d be able to make it down the store, preferably before it opened.

Fifteen minutes later, Natalie was at the front door, rapping against the glass. I unlocked it for her.

“More was taken?” she asked, pulling her mittens from her hands.

“Both the register and the cupboard are empty.” I groaned, draping myself over the front counter. “I’m at a loss.”

What kind of thief was this, who would ignore the higher-value bills and waste time tearing through paper to get at the coins? Who could somehow get around the store without being seen? Were we dealing with an advanced invisibility spell? Some pocket portal that could reach directly into the register? A clever magpie?

I dragged myself over the counter, nearly hitting my head against the back cabinet as I clambered ungracefully down. Landing in a heap on the ground, I found myself staring closeup at a pencil shaving. I frowned; the only pencils we kept in the front were mechanical. 

Sitting up, I pinched the tiny shaving from the ground and ran it between my fingers. It was then that I realized my mistake. The scrap wasn’t a pencil shaving, it was one of the shreds of torn paper from the cabinet. 

Natalie yelped as I threw myself back to the ground, eyes close to the floor. A moment passed in silence as I scanned for more shreds of paper. Though Natalie kept quiet, I could feel her piecing together what I’d found. 

She found the next scrap, pointing to it with her foot. As we began to follow a small trail of torn paper, I scurried along at a crawl. Less inclined to make a fool of herself, Natalie chose to walk.

The paper led to the back of the store, into a small hole in the wall that I’d never noticed, half-hidden behind a shelf. I didn’t dare reach into it, but shining the flashlight from my phone revealed only a long tunnel. Something glinted from a distance, but it was too far to make anything out. Whatever was back there was hidden somewhere in the wall of the potion pantry. 

It took a minute to find the key for the pantry, and another several to scan along the wall. But I finally found what I was looking for. Really, I shouldn’t take the credit. Natalie found it, helping me push aside a cabinet to reveal the door to a crawl space I’d never seen before. 

It was easy to overlook, a tiny door tucked away into the back corner of a room I rarely entered. But I immediately recognized with some satisfaction that its lock seemed to match a key on my keyring. The only key I’d never found a use for. It had always been there, since my father had wielded the ring, but I’d never thought to ask him what it was for. 

Now, with certainty, I tugged the key loose and shoved it into the lock.

Sure enough, the key turned, and, with Natalie flashing her phone towards the crawl space, I tugged the door open.

Sitting inside, on a veritable mountain of spare change, was a dragon the size of a coffee mug. 

I froze, not exactly sure how to react. Behind me, Natalie dropped her phone, and the dim lighting in the room was only enough to catch a glimpse of its sleek scales. After a second to recover from the shock, I began to move.

I’ve faced my fair share of house pests, and this was no different. Throwing my arm behind me, I latched onto the handle of a broom that had collected more dust sitting in its corner than it had ever swept in its life. Keeping my eyes trained on the dragon, I brought it forwards and prodded lightly at the small reptile.

The dragon snapped at the broom, as I’d expected. Natalie was apparently less prepared; I could hear the jars clinking lightly as she backed into a cabinet. As the little pest’s jaw clenched down, I carefully lifted it from its hoard. 

“Get me an empty jar,” I whispered over my shoulder.

Natalie fetched one, and hurried out of the room as soon as I’d taken it. The jug was large enough to fit the dragon snugly, but it would hold the thing until I could find a place to let it loose.

Out in the light of the store, I inspected the little pest. He had dark, reddish-brown scales and golden eyes that shone with what I could’ve mistaken for intelligence. As I studied him, he seemed to be sizing me up as well.

Natalie, having overcome her shock and seeing that the dragon was contained, ran over. With wide eyes, she reached out and tapped a finger against the glass. The dragon turned to her, staring up with what I swear was feigned innocence.

“We should keep him!” 

It was just about the last thing I expected to come out of her mouth.

“You want to keep a dragon?” I needed to get my hearing checked. Wasn’t this the woman that had nearly screamed on spotting the little guy only a minute ago?

“He’s adorable!” she insisted, reaching out to take the jar from me. “I’ve never seen a real dragon before. I was always told they don’t exist.”

What else didn’t Typics know existed? Did they think pigeons were fake, too?

“We could keep him in the shop, and he could help guard the door!” Natalie suggested, beaming like she was holding a newborn puppy. She was already tenderly cradling the jar. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“Guard us from what?” I demanded. “The only thief I’ve had since I took over this store is him.”

But I knew from Natalie’s enraptured expression that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

I had heard of dragons being domesticated before. They were said to make excellent pets, given proper care. But there was no telling which breed this one was. Knowing my luck, he’d grow into a five-meter beast that’d fill up a whole aisle. 

“I’m calling him Midas,” Natalie announced.

And I knew any arguing was hopeless.

We now had a guard dragon.

[walviemort]

hidden blessing (5/?)

Summary: Killian thought the only thing he was left with after Milah’s death was a broken heart and a thirst for vengeance. It’s not until he gets to Storybrooke, after so many years spent in stasis, that he discovers something else: he’s carrying her child. How does this new, tiny blessing change his path? (Canon-divergent from 2x12.)

rated T | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | AO3 | 3.1k

a/n: Hope I didn’t keep y’all waiting too long on this! Not sure when the next chapter will go up but hopefully not as long :) We’re into Neverland now! and, as always, dedicated to the darling @sherlockianwhovian​

Splashing down in Neverland filled Killian with an array of emotions, few of them positive. They’d made it through the portal in one piece, thankfully, but just the sight of the cursed island looming on the horizon filled him with dread. Getting here had been the easy part; gods only knew what lay ahead.

“Is that it?” Emma called out once the ship had set itself to rights (Killian was mildly jealous of it; his stomach matched the churning sea below them).

“Aye,” he confirmed. “Neverland.”

He couldn’t see her face to read her expression, but the determined set of her shoulders told him everything: she was willing to risk all to save her son. He saw similar in the fierce expression Regina wore, even in the composed and precise manner of Snow and David. And yet again he wondered: was he really cut out for parenting? 

His life was dangerous. Hell, he himself was known to be. Yet again, he’d dragged his child to this timeless realm; how long would the babe’s growth be stalled now? What if something happened to him? What if Pan found a way to use it against them?

As if to calm him down, he felt a few strong kicks just behind his navel. Well, that was a good sign, he supposed. He let out a quiet sigh of relief and set to the task of navigating them to the island.

“Why are you slowing down?” Regina snapped, suddenly at his side. “In case you didn't know, my son's life is in danger.”

He bit back a huff, only because he knew her anger was a mask for her fear. “Oh, I know, my hot-headed Queen. The plan is to bring us to the far side of the island, link up with the widest part of the river, and.. then we sail right through, take him by surprise,” he explained. “The irony…” he muttered under his breath.

“What irony?” she asked, much more calmly.

“Oh, I spent more time than I care to remember trying to leave this place to kill Rumplestiltskin. And here I am, sailing right back into its heart with him as my guest of honor.” The man in question had disappeared below deck nearly as soon as they landed. “It's not quite the happy ending I was hoping for.”

Regina seemed oddly thoughtful. “Greg Mendell said something funny to me. He said I'm a villain, and that villains don't get happy endings. You believe that?”

Weeks ago, he would have concurred; but now… “I hope not, or we've wasted our lives.”

“I thought Henry was going to be mine,” she admitted quietly. “Little did I know he’d just be the start of another adventure.” Then she smiled at him. “You’ll know what I’m talking about soon enough.”

“Assuming we all make it out of this alive,” he tossed back, expressing his own realism as he overheard a tense bit of conversation between the Charming family that seemed to revolve around the inherent optimism Emma had not inherited. “Though, I have been meaning to ask—how could you tell?”

“That you were knocked up? Please; I’m Cora’s daughter. She taught me long ago how to look for any signs of weakness. And Hook? You’re practically glowing,” she told him, smirking.

He couldn't hold back his own smile at that; while logically, he knew that put him at risk to other enemies knowing, it was also kind of nice to know his own newfound source of joy showed in his demeanor. It had been well over a century since he’d even really had anything to be happy about.

Their attention was drawn to the deck by Snow’s insistent promise to Emma of, “We'll find Henry.” Well, that was the point, wasn't it?

“No, you won't.” From nowhere, the Dark One had appeared on the quarterdeck, his earlier instruments put away and now in garb typical of the Enchanted Forest. 

“Oh, that's a great use of our time—a wardrobe change,” Killian quipped, but if Gold heard, he didn’t acknowledge it—and instead went on to lecture the group on how they would not succeed in their endeavor.

“What makes you think I'm gonna fail?” Emma bit back, angry, and he didn’t blame her. (In fact, it was rather when he liked her best—passionate.)

“Well, how could you not?” Rumplestiltskin insisted. “You don't believe in your parents, or in magic, or even yourself.”

“I slayed a dragon. I think I believe.” Now that was a story Killian needed to hear.

“Only what was shown to you. When have you ever taken a real leap of faith? You know, the kind where there's absolutely no proof?” The Dark One continued his diatribe, but Killian’s gaze was fixed on Emma—and the way he could see the doubts and fear beginning to cloud her mind.

“I'll do whatever it takes,” she insisted, but he could tell she was trying to convince herself as much as Gold.

“Well, you just need someone to tell you what that is. Sorry, dearie, our foe is too fearsome for hand-holding.” That, unfortunately, was accurate. “Neverland is a place where imagination runs wild. And, sadly, yours doesn't.” And then the bastard disappeared. Alas, it was just as well. Plus, the man was starting to make Killian nauseous.

Or perhaps that was just the babe; he’d never been one to be seasick but considering everything, he was definitely feeling a bit green. He used the silence that followed the Dark One’s departure to make sure they were set on the right course, but once that was set, he asked the Charmings to hold the helm while he sought out the ginger drops he knew were hiding in his cabin.

He was only slightly surprised to find Emma had beaten him down there, and was practicing pullups on a bar in the room. She paused when she heard his footsteps.

“Oh, don't stop on my account,” he said, admiring the view as he walked past. Her form-fitting trousers were stirring other sorts of feelings in him; goodness, these hormones were going to give him whiplash.

“Wouldn't think of it,” she replied, pretending to ignore him, and went back to it.

He easily located the drops, sitting in a pouch on his desk. “What are you doing?” he had to ask.

“Getting ready for a fight,” she bit back, pulling herself up and then landing back on the platform.

“Well, I've never known you to need to get ready for a fight. I thought it was a natural state,” he teased as he grabbed the bag, then reapproached her. “Don't let Rumplestiltskin get you down, love.”

She jumped down from the ledge and leveled a glare at him. “Why did you come down here? What is that?” she demanded, nodding at the bag in his hand.

“Ginger drops,” he said, then quickly realized he wasn’t ready to divulge his need of them. “They help with seasickness; Her Highness was looking a bit green around the gills.”

That got a bit of a smile out of her, and thankfully she bought the lie. Although, when he glanced at the shelf to the left of them, he remembered something hidden inside—something that might boost her morale. 

“Might you permit me to give you something?” he asked, not wanting to offend her. She nodded.

He pocketed the drops and fished out a key from another pocket. “You know, Baelfire and I once spent a lot of time together,” he started to explain as he unlocked a compartment built into the shelf.

“He was always Neal to me,” she replied, albeit morosely.

“Yeah. Right,” he acknowledged, then grabbed the object hidden behind the small door. “This was his.”

It was a sword—a small cutlass he had once used to teach the lad how to fight, and damn near took his own head off when things went sour. Gingerly, Emma took it from him with both hands.

“I didn't realize you were sentimental,” she said as she assessed it.

“I'm not,” he lied again, and saw another useful item sitting on the shelf. “I just thought you could use it where we're going. You know, to fight.” And then he handed her the shot glass.

“Thanks,” she said as he filled it with rum from his flask, which he then offered up in a toast.

“To Neal.” (He knew what all the books said about drinking during pregnancy, but given the current stasis, one shot likely couldn’t hurt.)

“To Neal,” she answered, and clinked the glass against the flask before downing the shot. (Guilt got the better of him, and he only had a small sip.) 

After a brief, but not uncomfortable silence, Emma asked, “How long was he with you?”

“Long enough for me to know that I miss him, too,” he answered, this time truthfully. As surreptitiously as he could, he rested his hand on his belt—because he could feel the sudden intense flutters within, as if the child somehow knew they were talking about their sibling—or perhaps was encouraging him to do something else.

Emma had shown utmost trust in him in undertaking this journey. And if they were going to get through this and achieve their goal, then that was going to have to go all directions. It would be fair of him to show he trusted her by revealing his condition, wouldn’t it?

He swallowed and was about to tell her, but the small peace they’d had was interrupted by a loud bang against the hull and sudden groaning and creaking of the ship.

“What was that?” Emma blurted out, and they quickly dashed up to the deck to see what was amiss.

Emma’s parents were struggling to hold the wheel steady, and the waves were tossing the ship about like it was a toy. Only he quickly realized—this was no natural storm, and a glance over the railing confirmed his fears.

HIs nausea would have to wait, lest none of them survive. He made a mad dash for the helm to try to wrest control of it. “Prepare for attack!”

“Be more specific,” Regina demanded, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation.

“If you've got a weapon, then grab it,” he called out as he fought against the wheel.

“What's out there? A shark? A whale?” Emma guessed; if only she’d guessed right.

“A kraken?” her father added.

“Worse.” An unholy screeching filled the air. “Mermaids.”

The next—gods, he wasn’t even sure how long—fell into a blur of panic and anger as the vile creatures mounted their attack and his passengers made the idiotic mistake of not only bringing one on board, but angering her even more (and possibly killing her). Which of course brought on a violent storm and even more vicious emotions; it was all he could do to keep the prince’s fists away from Killian’s abdomen (again). 

And then Emma leapt into the sea, taking his stomach with her. They managed to save her but it left him with an uncomfortable amount of adrenaline in his system, even if their cooperation ended up dissipating the storm. Bloody Neverland and its odd magic.

Despite a breach in the hull, he managed to get the Roger to land, although not where he had planned. And it would need repairs before they could attempt to leave the realm. But at least they’d made it this far.

And to think—this would likely be the easy part.

To his shock, Regina voiced her support of his original plan once they made landfall, but even he knew that a sneak attack was unlikely to happen at this point; there was no way Pan didn’t know they were there, not after what had just happened on the sea. There was an aggravating omniscience about that boy.

“It's time we stop running,” Emma lectured. “Gold was right. This land is run on belief. All of us have been too busy being at each other's throat to be believers. I was as wrong as anyone else. It's time for all of us to believe. Not in magic, but in each other.”

“You want to be friends? After everything that's happened between all of us?” As inclined as he was to agree with Emma, Regina had a point; he had not one but two sore spots on his face from David.

“I don't want or expect that. I know there's a lot of history here, a lot of hate,” Emma countered.

“Actually, I quite fancy you from time to time, when you're not yelling at me,” Killian quipped in a lame attempt to lighten the mood. And then immediately regretted it; gods, did pregnancy brain also mean he blurted out his every thought? He’d need to sharpen that, and quickly.

“We don't need to be friends. What we need now is the only way to get Henry back, which is cooperation.”

“With her? With him?” the prince protested, gesturing Killian’s way. “No, Emma. We have to do this the right way.” Killian did manage to bite back a comment on the prince’s self-righteousness.

“No, we don't. We just need to succeed. And the way we do that is by just being who we are—a hero, a villain, a pirate.” He had to admit the slight thrill it gave him when Emma’s gaze lingered on him. “It doesn't matter which, because we're going to need all those skills, whether we can stomach them or not.”

“And what's your skill, Savior?” Regina tossed back.

“I'm a mother. And now I'm also your leader. So either help me get my son back or get out of the way.” And without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and headed towards the jungle. 

Gods, he loved it when she was fired up like that.

Snow was quick to follow Emma, as was David, who cast an oddly inviting look Killian’s way, as if challenging him to turn back now. Which, of course, he wouldn’t. 

Killian didn’t hesitate to fall in line, but not before throwing a glance at Regina; she was still put out, it seemed, by Emma’s take charge attitude. Someone had to, though. And Henry was her son, too.

She wasn’t far behind him.

It quickly became apparent that, as the only one who had any idea where they were, Killian should lead; he knew there was a ridge not far up that would give them a decent view of the island and hopefully reveal Pan’s hiding spot. Regina balked at the idea of hiking, but was convinced otherwise when they reminded her of the dangers at every turn.

“He’s right,” Emma told her. “Hook's lived here before. If he says hiking up is the best way, then we listen.” He wasn’t expecting the vote of confidence, but it was nice to have; he wasn’t naive enough to think that perhaps his attraction was reciprocated, but it was an extra reminder that he had Emma’s trust—which wasn’t easy to come by.

But of course, the wriggling thing in his belly was a reminder that he needed to place equal trust in her.

At least—after he saved the idiot next to him from slashing his way to death.

He saw the vines before he saw David swing back to slice at them and was able to shout a warning and get his hook around the man’s bicep before he could make contact.

The prince shook him off angrily. “I can handle a couple of thorns.”

“That's dreamshade,” Killian explained, nodding toward the demonic plant. “It's not the thorns you have to worry about. It's the poison they inject you with. This plant is the source of the toxins I used on the Dark One.”

They were all familiar, it seemed, with his failed assassination attempt—but were aware of its potency, and seemed to take his message about its effects to heart. Killian wasn’t about to lose another ally to that venom, even if they weren’t exactly on friendly terms.

“I suggest we go this way,” he directed, nodding down the path to the right of the bush.

David glanced at it, then looked the other direction. “We'll go this way.” Bloody obstinate arse. But Snow followed him, and then it was Regina’s turn to throw a wry glance his way.

Emma came up behind her and he fell into step with her. “Your father's a distrustful fellow,” he observed.

“He's just not used to working with the bad guys.”

“I can assure you, on this island, I am not the bad guy.”

“Yeah, well, Pan's not supposed to be one either,” she countered.

“What possibly gave you that idea?” The concept of that demon be considered remotely good turned his stomach (unless that was just the usual nausea stirring up again).

“Every story I ever heard as a child,” she explained, oblivious to his discomfort.

“Well, they got it all wrong. Pan is the most treacherous villain I've ever faced.” He tried to swallow down the bile that was churning inside, and decided to change the subject slightly. “Tell me something, love. In these stories...what was I like? Other than a villain. Handsome, I gather?”

She smirked, but not necessarily in a good way. “If waxed mustaches and perms are your thing.”

Sometimes, it felt like they were speaking different languages. “I take it by your tone, perms are bad?”

She just laughed a bit as they continued on, but they didn’t get much farther before the contents of his stomach came up with little warning. He managed to bite out an “excuse me” before ducking alongside a tree and retching. Ugh, he’d hoped with things in stasis, this part of pregnancy would be on pause, too; apparently not.

“Woah, Hook—are you okay?” Emma asked, hovering near his side. “You’re not hungover or something, are you?”

It took a moment to catch his breath. “Far from it,” he replied.

“Did you catch some rare Neverland stomach bug or something? Is that something else we need to worry about?”

He chuckled humorlessly. “I suppose you could call it that, but it has nothing to do with Neverland.”

He straightened from his hunched-over position to find her staring at him with her brow furrowed, both assessing him and confused at the same time. “What is going on, then? It’s going to be hard for you to guide us if you’re not 100%.”

Well, it looked like she was going to force his hand. “If you must know,” he started, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

------------------------

thanks for reading! tagging  @cocohook38​​​​ @wyntereyez​​​​ @jennjenn615​​​​ @superadam54​​​​ @ashley-knightingale​​​​ @justsomewhump​ (let me know if you want a tag!)

[7deadlycinderellas]

If the summer of our lives could just come again, ch33

AO3 link

 Dragonstone

Tyrion knows it was wise for him to stay on Dragonstone with Varys when Danaerys flew north. That didn’t stop him from feeling like he was twiddling his thumbs the whole time.

He passes the time listening for gossip. He hears of the tragic fall of the house of Arryn, now headed by a weak-willed lordling. He hears of his brother’s disappearance from King’s Landing, and with each day his hope is dashed that that meant he would come to follow him, He hears of his nephew, the increasingly unstable king.

He, of course, has his part in what the maesters have discussed calling “the great visions” and he hears the smallfolk whispers of “winter madness”.

He almost dares not believe his vision. He dares not believe the image of himself, with a heavy beard, but the burden of many of his vices lifted. He almost dares not believe the pride in his chest, the memory of being trusted, and respected.

And the memory of Sansa’s face, trusting and open. He had seen that face before, and he knew it to be real.

The haze his mind is in in the days following is interrupted by the arrival of a single ship from the north.

It should bring more panic, the sign of the Baratheon banners, returning home to their appropriated castle. But the handful of men just seem ecstatic to see other human beings.

After a rushed conversation that tells that they have all been seized by these strange visions, the captain quickly asks to be lead to the castle.

“It’s the Lady Baratheon.  Since we were all overcome by this madness, she has twice attempted to take her own life. We need to keep her under constant supervision.”

Tyrion watches as the sailors off board, surrounding the thin, wane form of Selyse Baratheon. He would have barely recognized her as a person beforehand. He wonders what she saw.

Over the next weeks, at loss for anything else to do, Tyrion sits with her, reading. She wakes, and seems to recognize him, but will usually just roll over and return to her fitful slumber.

One morning, for some reason, when she rouses, she turns to him and speaks.

“What did you see?”

Tyrion chuckles. Those may be the words spoken to nearly the whole of Westeros over the coming years.

“A vision of a man others have told me I am but I can scarcely believe.”

Selyse chuckles mirthlessly, before rolling onto her back.

“I saw something that if asked before, I would have said it was a good thing,” Tyrion notes that she still does not say what it is, “But seeing it horrified me to the bone, and feeling that made me realize how incredibly wrong I had been about so very many things.”

Selyse returns to silence. When it breaks again, her words are gravelly. She’s not telling him exactly what she saw that day, but she is still saying so much.

“I haven’t seen my daughter in so long. I wonder if I would even recognize her.”

Tyrion thinks.

“Last I heard she was when your husband went north to aid the Night’s Watch. She was under Lord Stark’s protection, her sworn shield by her side.”

There’s a decent chance Shireen could be fine, he thinks.

Selyse rolls away from his gaze.

“Alive and well,” she whispers, “No thanks to me.”

Tyrion lets her stay with her thoughts after that.

 The Kingsroad

The guilt Jamie felt over leading his men north now befuddled him. They were soldiers after all, they should know that death is a possibility.

If any of them were as taken by the visions as him, they should know what they might be facing.

North of Moat Cailin, the ground is solid and wide. That’s where they are when the dead lunge for the men at the head of the company.

As Jamie realizes they have no weapons effective against the dead, no Valyrian steel, no dragonglass, despair begins to set in. They build fires, but he doubts it will be enough. The ground is open on all sides, they could attack from any direction. And there are not enough of them to be sure none get past and go further south.

He doesn’t know how many days they’ve been fighting. Long enough that no one paid attention when the sky opened up.

Everyone paid attention when the dragon swooped down from the heavens and burned a line along the countryside.

Jamie can barely hear his own voice over the wind and screaming when calls out to the rider.

“Our weapons won’t work on them!”

“Drive them into piles and ditches,” her voice calls out, “I’ll burn as many as I can!”

Jamie nods, and amidst the chaos, he lifts his sword and fights.

 Winterfell

Ned trusts Maester Luwin’s opinion, but he still can’t wrap his mind around the words.

“Are you sure?”

The older man nods solemnly.

“The bits of the broken sword are still inside your chest. As you continue to move, they will too, and I believe from the position, that they will eventually cause bleeding inside or damage to your lungs, and there will be nothing that can be done.”

“You can’t remove them?”

“Attempting to do that risks both the same things.”

Ned sighs, resting his head in his hands. Things have finally begun to slow. The sun has returned, the wounded are beginning to heal, the hungry to be fed. And this.

“How long?”

Maester Luwin shakes his head.

“No way to tell. It could be two days, or two moons, or two years. You don’t seem to be in pain now, which is encouraging.”

Ned’s eyes make their way over the rest of the Great Hall, the injured. It’s night now, and most are sleeping, or trying to.

Robb has finally regained enough strength to leave and join the others in trying to plan strategy to take out the rest of the wights. He had been privy to part of the conversation between him and Val when he had finally come out of the haze.

Robb had stared vacantly at the space where his arm had been for a good long while before breaking the silence.

“You cut off my arm,” he tells her, voice disbelieving.

“If you had preferred I just slit your throat, let me know, I can still do it.”

“No,” Robb had told her softly, and his eyes were serene. The next time Val had come, she had motioned for him to stand and pushed an axe into his remaining hand.

Arya and Gendry had spent too many nights sleeping in here, trying to outrun the wounds they both refused to acknowledge. Luwin had had to take two of Gendry’s toes which had become frostbitten. Regaining his balance had taken time that the lad did not have patience for, eager to regain the others outside.

As for Arya, she had woken fitfully the first several nights, complaining of the buzzing. Luwin had said the explosion had ruptured one of her eardrums, and that while the buzzing might fade, he doubted she would ever regain full hearing in that ear.

But after several days, she had seemed to be able to fight through it, to force herself to ignore it. There were fewer archers needed, but more fires to put out, bodies to burn, debris to clear, rebuilding to begin.

Even Ygritte had ended up down here, loathe to admit that ever since she had taken the arrow, she hadn’t been able to feel two of her fingers. Luwin had bowed his head when he told her it was likely permanent. She had rolled her eyes and muttered something about how at least it was only her bow arm and not her drawing arm.

Ned watches one by one as his children leave the Great Hall and he remains. Ned had not seen any sign of Rickon.

Rickon was outside when Arya and Gendry woke and stepped outside the Great Hall. He doesn’t say a word, merely nods. He’s covered in blood, in varying stages of drying, but doesn’t move like any of it’s his.

The two of them eventually find Jon and Brienne, still holding their heads high.

“The first scouting parties are going out tomorrow morning. It shouldn’t be too intense, since it seems like we’re just cleaning up.”

Arya nods, forcing herself to ignore the buzzing.

“Will the two of you be with us?” Brienne asks.

Arya and Gendry exchange a gaze.

“What time are we riding?” Gendry asks.

“First light,” Jon replies.

They exchange another look.

“We’ll see.”

They stagger off, still leaning on each other. Eventually they find solitude in what used to be a stable. The horses still in Winterfell all have riders, or else stand about waiting for a new one, thin and wane.

If pushed, both of them would say a pile of straw and a horse blanket are marginally better than a pile of grain sacks.

They’re scarred and filthy and somehow still exhausted, but somehow their hands still reach for one another. Gendry rests his weight on his arms and loves her with what little strength he can find, not letting himself go until her sighs and groans rise to a peak twice, writhing underneath him and her hands grasping at his shoulders.

Afterwards, he still clings to her.

“Helping save the world has made you greedy,” Arya whispers idly, playing with his hair, grown out long now.

He squeezes her tighter.

“I can’t help it, It’s been...gods, months, since I’ve touched you.”

Arya hums softly in response, and he continues.

“I remember how I felt last time, when I found you after in the springs. We thought it was all over, Davos said something about Danaerys meaning to give me my father’s name...I wanted to get down on one knee right there, ask you to be my lady-”

“Thank you for not, I would have run and screamed if you’d phrased it like that.”

“Didn’t get a chance now did I?” Gendry rubs his cheek against her shoulder.

Arya shifts underneath him,

“Months since we’ve bathed too,” she starts, remembering the last months of only buckets of wet snow, “Want to go and find one of the hot springs?”

Gendry shrugs, and they stand.

Walking through Winterfell is like walking through a corpse. Walls stand broken down, pathways littered with debris, the ever present smell of fire and rotted flesh. She’s grateful when they follow a staircase down and the hot springs under the Great Keep appear the same as always, as immovable as the mountains.

It takes longer than before to wash the muck from their bodies, and Arya is grateful too that the water seems to be no different for it. The warmth is making her sleepy, but she forces her eyes to open. She swims over, and presser her chin against Gendry’s back, wrapping her arms around him.

“Will we be at the gates tomorrow?” she asks.

There’s a pause.

“Ask me in the morning, once we sleep.”

 Bear Island

The sky was clear as it hadn’t been in ages. One could see straight through the water to the bottom on a day as clear as this.

Which is why Osha has no words when she stares out over the sea at the lumbering bodies that walk straight into the sea and keep going.

Panic rises in her throat, but she finds no words. Confused, Gilly walks up beside her. When she looks out, Osha can see her stiffen.

“Start a bonfire,” she tells Osha with an unusual amount of authority, “The biggest you can. I’ll go and get the others. Lyra and Lyanna are good enough with their weapons.”

Osha can barely move for the fear, the wood begins to pile. It looks pitifully small until the large stable boy comes up near her holding an armful that looks like it could warm a whole castle in itself.

He turns towards Osha and meets her eyes.

“Hodor,” he says, softly, and Osha feels her eyes prickle with tears, much in the way she had in that day of the strange dreams.

“I’ll try, sweet giant.”

By the time they are ready to light the fire, Gilly returns to the beach with the rest of the ladies in the keep.

Hodor lifts two of the smallest children under each arm, and another climbs on his back. The children are silent, staring.

Lyra puts her hand to her brow to stare across the sea. Osha can hear crying and whimpering from the group behind her and tries to steel herself.

Lyanna’s voice rings out.

“Light more fires, at least enough to line the beach. If they think they will find us an easy fight, they have something else coming.”

 Greywater Watch

The debate over names had gone back and forth a thousand times.

The debate was still going one morning when a group of them were going out scouting to see if there was enough thaw to the bogs for Greywater Watch to move safely. It had been in one place unusually long. Near everyone in the keep were being packed into rowboats to go on ahead and signal the new destination, lightening the load and making the crannog's movement easier.

Bran was sitting in a canoe, waiting for the others, and holding his daughter. He touches her forehead for a moment.

“Arra,” he says, turning his head to look at Meera, who’s climbed into the canoe with him. She sits gingerly, despite having exclaimed happily three days ago that she finally seemed to have stopped oozing blood, and she was starting to feel like herself again, “What do you think?”

Arra was a Stark name, the first wife of Cregan Stark, the old man of the north. And very close to another.

“Well it will definitely get your sister off our backs when we see her again.”

There’s another of those words that catches between them, “when”. With a cough, Bran turns their words back.

“Maybe she’ll be blessed to be like her then. Brave, fierce.”

“Willing and able to fight us every step,” Meera adds with a smirk. She picks up an oar.

“Do you want the baby or the oars?”

Considering it, Bran nods. He’ll keep Arra.

After several minutes of rowing, Meera replies.

“Arra works for me. We could only hope her to be as fierce as her aunt.”

She would need to be that fierce, if the world continues on the way it is. She remains silent as Bran holds her, watching the scenery of the swamps go by. It’s still winter cold, but the sun has shined brightly for nearly a whole moon’s turn, the fog only lingering in the very early mornings. The fishermen and trappers seem almost confused at being able to see so far out in front of their noses.

Everything feels alive here, he thinks. Everything moving and drifting, as if the whole world, plants, animals and people alike, were just a single organism, moving autonomously, but parts of a larger whole.

They pass a patch of water marked with a flag with a black “x” upon it. In one of the other boats, one packed with more people, Bran can hear Jojen whispering to Shireen. He’d heard it before too, that patches of the swamp would have so many piles of dead and decaying things in spots that gas would build up. Swimmers would get choked or intoxicated by it, so they marked them when they were found.

“Also, that’s where we try to dump waste,” Jojen adds, “So you definitely want a warning not to swim, or fish, or drink in areas marked with black flags.”

After three-quarters of an hour or so of rowing, they pause. They’re further out towards the sea, the water is deeper and hardly any is frozen. Meera speaks to several of the other men in the boats, and then nods.

“This is a good spot, send word back.”

The process of moving Greywater Watch is still so alien to watch, to see the whole keep float along the water as if it weighed nothing. Even the process of it being anchored still feels almost magical. But Bran watches it done, trying to acclimate himself, trying to remember that he will come to call this place home.

When everyone’s getting out of the canoes, and tying them back, another one that hadn’t been with them approaches the keep. Howland and Jyana are inside fixing the anchor, so Meera approaches to speak to the men in the boats.

Jojen is just whispering to Shireen about how the crannogmen can always find Greywater Watch, wherever it is, when Meera whirls around violently, and raises her voice.

“Everyone! Get any weapons you can and get to higher ground!”

In Bran’s arms, Arra begins to cry hearing her mother yell. When the others around him begin rushing, Bran rushes to meet her.

“What’s happened?”

“The dead are coming south. And it appears they can now cross water.”

Bran’s chest tightens. Meera reaches and takes Arra, who is still wailing.

“Get my mother and father and get to the top of the keep. I’ll find my bow and meet you.”

When Bran tries to rush after her words, he hears her telling the men in the boats to spread the word, but to use the trees if they can, since the waterways won’t be safe.

“And tell them to use fire.”

It’s a mess, trying to gather the weapons, flint, anything that might possibly be flammable. By the time Bran follows Howland and Jyana up the steps, his bad leg is aching and throbbing, about to give out.

When he finally lets out a breath, Sansa roughly grabs his hand and drags him to a crate so he can sit.

Sansa’s clutching her bow, the one Meera and Arya made for her all those years ago.

“Aren’t you glad you brought it anyway?” Bran asks her.

Sansa nods, her face pale. Her lips move silently, and Bran realizes she’s praying.

Everyone spreads out so that all directions are covered, just in case. Bran feels his throat tighten, at all the people they led down here to keep them safe from the wights, and now they were here anyway. Greywater Watch doesn’t have much of a household, but there are enough bows running around each side. Spears won’t be of much use here.

Bran takes his place next to Meera, who has her bow in one hand and Arra on her back, in the sling Sansa had helped her sew out of fishnets while she was healing so the babe could be carried with her hands free.

Arra’s fussing, but not crying openly. Bran moves to kiss her head, and run his fingers over the strands of her thin reddish hair. Tully red, he realizes grimly. Meera meets his eye, and he can see the fear that she will never speak.

Jojen finds them, and hands Bran his own bow, still a bit dusty from where it’s sat with years of disuse..

“We don’t have enough pitch and oil to waste this on myself, I’m such a sorry shot.”

They are as ready as they can be, and all they can do is wait.

The first one appears before sundown, lurching through the waters and rushes. When the mud does what it can to stick it, someone takes the first shot, and the body burns.

And they keep waiting. Another comes, two more.

Night falls. Bran has persuaded Meera to sit down by his crate and try and sleep after feeding Arra. She has claimed waking every few hours to feed a crying infant is nothing compared to running through the snow being pursued by dead men, but her eyes betray her. Bran has tired to share her burden when he can, and he’s spent much of these weeks more tired than he can remember.

But Bran can’t sleep, his eyes are still peeled on the horizon.

At some point, pacing and weapon-less, Shireen passes behind him. There have been no signs of wights since the sun has left the sky.

Tired, she mutters.

“Maybe now that the sun has come out, they can see there’s solid ground underneath the water.”

Bran can’t even make himself consider that, and he hopes Shireen doesn’t think on it too hard.

After a few hours, Arra wakes again, and once she’s fed, Meera tugs on Bran’s hand until he’s seated beside her, and idly rubs the back of his neck until he feels himself drifting.

“It’s been quiet,” she murmurs, half gone, “Sleep.”

The sun comes again, and they wake to a shout and another shot taken.

Later that day, when the food is being passed around haphazardly, Sansa quietly mentions.

“I think Shireen’s right. None came at night.”

With the sky tilting towards night again, Bran has an epiphany.

He steps a bit to the side and nudges Sansa.

“We left the wolves near Moat Cailin right?”

Sansa nods softly, thinking.

“That was the last we saw them, since they don’t much care for marshes. “

“If we can warg them, we could use them to drive the wights closer, so we can get them more easily, and they won’t attack places that aren’t armed.”

Sansa’s face is uncertain.

“I don’t know if I can warg Lady from this far away.”

“Sansa,” he implores, “Try. Try it with me.”

Sansa inhales roughly, before nodding. Bran grips her hand before shutting his eyes tightly.

Summer’s mind is easy to recognize, even now. He begins in the dry areas close to Moat Cailin and then runs south.

The swamp he begins to run through smells of a thousand things at once, wet and green and rotted. His own scent isn’t remaining, and Bran doesn’t think a trail would be easy for Summer to follow.

The dead are easy to find though. They don’t smell right. Not alive, not rotting. Cold, even in the sun.

They move aimlessly, no longer having a leader commanding them. They do seem to be avoiding Bran’s howls and barks, his plan is working. He pushes them together. It’s only Bran’s vague knowledge of where Greywater Watch is that tells him Summer’s herding them in the right direction.

The smell shifts suddenly, becoming reminiscent of bad eggs, overly rich and vile. Summer whines at it, and the sudden heat.

When Bran pulls himself off, he stares off through the horizon, at the black flags along the water.

He pats Sansa’s shoulder again.

“Any luck?”

“Some”.

He points.

“Guide them to the bits there. Once night comes, they’ll stick.”

Sansa nods, still unsure, but her eyes turn white like his. Staggering a bit, stiff in his own skin, Bran stands to go and tell his plan to the others.

Dusk comes, and with a gasp, Bran returns to his skin. There’s two dozen creeping, that’s all they could find, with the wolves and the ravens searching as well as they can.

He picks up his bow, and joins his spot in line between Sansa and Meera.

There’s twelve of them here armed. Twelve bows, with cloth wrapped arrows dipped in pitch, lit.

Twelve arrows sail through the sky at twilight, into the clearing filled with swamp gas, already smothering several underground fires.

And at twilight, twelve wights are violently ignited.

[coneygoil]

The Home We Built Together, part 16

Two young Vikings. An arranged marriage. Hiccup always wanted to win the girl of his dreams, but not like this. Now he and Astrid must learn to live together and maybe one day, learn to love…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9| Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

“Hey Gobber,” Hiccup’s voice called from the arena floor, standing by casually as a Deadly Nadder chased the other teens in training. “I noticed the book had nothing on Night Furies. Is there another book? A sequel? Maybe a Night Fury pamphlet?”

A blast suddenly scorched the wall beside him. Astrid resisted the urge to not jump down through the chained roof and shake her husband back to his senses.

“Focus, Hiccup!” Gobber yelled, “you’re not even trying!”

Hiccup seized up as the Deadly Nadder spotted him and made a mad dash his way. He looked almost comical as he sped off this way and that before choosing a path through the maze.

“How’s your hand, lass?” Gobber’s question shook Astrid from her focus on Hiccup and his lack of trying to fight the Deadly Nadder tearing through the maze.

“Better,” she replied, distantly. She flexed her right hand, the sting not as sharp as it had been. “I think I’ll be ready to return tomorrow.”

Gobber’s students raced around the maze like trapped mice with Hiccup trailing behind them. The Nadder cornered the twins, both trying to fit in its blind spot but failing. Hiccup slowed right under where Gobber and Astrid were observing.

“Hey, how would one sneak up on a Night Fury?”

Gobber did not look amused. “One has never seen a Night Fury and lived to tell the tale.” He stabbed a finger through the air. “Now get in there!”

Astrid rolled her eyes. It was strange, she mused. Ever since the whole Night Fury fiasco, Hiccup had become overly interested in the elusive dragon species. It was almost like the incident changed his perspective.

Fishleg ran by screaming as the Nadder threw spikes at him, the deadly objects penetrating his shield.

Gobber sighed in frustration and rubbed his aching head. “I fear for our tribe’s survival with this lot.” His hammer prosthetic gestured toward Astrid. “You’re the only one that has any sense around here.”

“I don’t think Hiccup will ever be ready for battle,” Astrid pointed out. She’d been adamantly against his involvement in dragon training, but the Chief had spoken and there was no going back on his order.

“None of these knuckleheads are,” Gobber flung an appendage out toward the arena floor, “so he fits right in!”

As if on cue, Snotlout threw his hammer at the Nadder missing it by a mile. “The sun was in my eyes!”

The lame excuse made Astrid roll her eyes. Gobber was right. These knuckleheads weren’t fit for battle. She itched to get in there and show them how it was done.

The Nadder hopped onto the top of the maze walls, it’s weight no match for the wooden structure and it began to topple like a domino effect.

Hiccup was back again, standing under them. “Has anyone ever seen one in person?” he asked, paying absolutely no mind to the other teens running in terror right passed him.

“Hiccup!” Gobber pointed to the Nadder practically surfing upon the wooden walls as they collapsed.

“Idiot!” Astrid hissed through gritted teeth. She ducked underneath the rails, unsheathing her axe from her back as she leapt down without a thought for her own safety.

She toppled upon Hiccup and they both hit the dusty floor. She shook the stars from her vision, her face incredibly close to her husband’s. She tried untangling herself from him, but he ramblings and struggling weren’t helping.

“Oooo…love on the battlefield,” neither was Tuffnut’s remark.

The impact of her jump had caused her axe to embed in Hiccup’s shield. She tugged with all her strength to dislodge it, but it wouldn’t budge. She gasps at the Nadder came barreling toward them. It took several yanks, but she finally dislodged the shield from Hiccup’s grip and smashed it on the Nadder’s head just in the nick of time. The dragon retreated, shaking its spiky head.

Adrenaline had taken over in that critical moment. Astrid’s hand throbbed and she curled it into itself, ignoring the sharp sting. So much for returning to training tomorrow. Her breathing began to calm, and she spun around to find her husband curled up on the ground.

“Is this some kind of joke to you?” she spat at him, pointing her axe that still had a chunk of broken shield stuck to it. “At least try to do something, Hiccup! Anything besides paying no attention to the death machine coming at you!”

Astrid pivoted toward the arena entrance and stormed off, her anger lingering in the air. She wanted so badly to keep him safe, but he was making that rather difficult when he freely put himself in the path of danger.

***

It was passed sunset when the front door creaked open. Hiccup had run off – again – and stayed gone practically the entire day. Gobber was fit to be tied that his apprentice was slacking on the job for a second day in the row.

Astrid was waiting for him, arms crossed over her chest and a scowl that could spoil milk. “Where were you this time?”

Hiccup froze still holding the door handle. He looked positively stunned and guilty. He swallowed hard then threw on a quirky attitude that was fooling no one. “I went for another walk in the forest. Had to clear my head after training.”

Astrid narrowed her eyes. “Should I be jealous of the forest? It seems you two have been spending way too much time together.”

Hiccup took her hand and rested it over his heart. “My heart only belongs to you, milady.”

Astrid huffed then gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the little tingle in her chest. She was supposed to be mad at him! For what happened in training and slacking on his duties! He’d fallen back into his irresponsible behavior ever since the dragon raid. His unexpected fascination with Night Furies was becoming a distraction.

But somehow, he’d softened her like butter sitting on a windowsill.

Astrid glared for an extended moment, causing Hiccup’s cheesy smile to droop. His hand was still atop hers over his heart, and she twisted her wrist to grab his.

“Come on.”

“Where’re we going?” nervousness tinged his voice as she dragged him out the door.

“To eat,” she replied, moving to grip his hand instead. “Gobber and the rest of the gang are eating around a fire atop the lookout pillar. We’re joining them.”

It was hard enough being in training with the other teens. “I really don’t—”

Astrid gave his arm a quick tug. “Oh, you are.”

She heard him groan. There was no escaping this time. After the last few days of screw ups, she was through treating him gently (as gentle as she could manage) as she had been the first few weeks of marriage.

They trekked along in silence for a couple minutes, their footfalls the only sound. Darkness had fallen over Berk and most individuals were either at home or in the Great Hall. She felt Hiccup finally relax in her grip. She focused on his hand in hers. They’d never held hands this long, and it was another little intimate gesture that Astrid could learn to enjoy.

“Y’know,” she cut through the quiet of the evening, her recent contemplations manifesting into words, “I bet you and Fishlegs would get along. You’re both huge geeks, and Fishlegs knows a hel of a lot about dragons.”

“I don’t know.” The hefty boy was usually projecting the stink eye at Hiccup. “He seems to look down on me.”

Astrid glanced over her shoulder, flashing a grin that was caught in the passing torch light. “That’s because he’s taller than you.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes. “Har har, Astrid.”

Astrid laugh rang out as she playfully gave his arm another yank. “But really, I think you two would make good friends.”

“Maybe—” Hiccup mumbled, unconvinced.

They arrived at the lookout tower, firelight glowing bright from the top. Astrid inwardly lamented releasing Hiccup’s hand as they began to climb the stairs. The haughty voice of Snotlout then Gobber’s knowledgeable lilt filled the night air. Already a rollicking conversation was in full swing.

“You two made it!” Gobber smiled as they approached the deck. His wrath must have been dissolved – at least, until morning – by a few drinks already in his gullet. “Grab a stick and your choice of meat.” He waved at the two buckets of raw chicken and fish.

Astrid glanced at Hiccup, noticing his posture was less than confident. His head hung and an arm was secured across his torso as if to shield himself. In training, he seemed fine around the other teens. There was (loose) structure in training and he wasn’t put on the spot to socialize with the others. In this situation though, there was more chance of interacting.

She promised him she’d take care of him in situations like this, so Astrid reached for his hand once more. Hiccup snapped up his gaze to meet her encouraging smile that she hoped to show him that they were in this together.

Astrid chose the chicken while Hiccup chose a fish. They skewered their meats on the sticks provided and sat down on the bench near the stairs.

It was a perfect night. A full moon illuminated the sea, the gentle churn of the water rippling its light. The fire’s heat was just right, driving away the night’s chill. The conversation was…lively to say the least. Fishlegs brought up an outrageous thought about if a you could still control your hand after a dragon swallows it. Snotlout, in all his thick-witted glory, proclaimed he’d chop off the legs of any dragon he found…with his face. Yep, he said that.

Astrid shook her head. No wonder why this group was doing so poorly in dragon training. She looked at Hiccup as he listlessly picked at his fish. She softly bumped his shoulder with hers grabbing his attention to exchange small smiles.

“It’s the tails and wings you want,” Gobber corrected, ripping off a wing from the whole chicken carcass he planned to eat. “A downed dragon is a dead dragon.”

A rustle beside her drew Astrid’s attention. Hiccup had gotten to his feet and was setting his half-eaten fish dinner down. “Where’re you going?”

Hiccup gestured for her to join him on the stairs so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice over the boisterous conversation taking place. “I just thought of something I really need to get done at the forge.”

“Do you want some company?”

He shook his head. “Nah, I’ll probably work late. You stay here and enjoy the nice evening and,” he glanced around her, “fascinating conversation.”

“Okay.” Astrid couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed that she couldn’t join him, “I’ll see at home.”

Hiccup leaned up to press a kiss to her cheek. Astrid fingertips touched where his lips had just been, shook by how much a simple kiss on the cheek could affect her. She watched him disappear down the spiraling stairs then made her way back to the circle.

She felt someone’s gaze on her and looked over to find Ruffnut nodding her head and gawking. The other girl waggled her eyebrows suggestively. All Astrid could do was roll her eyes and go back to roasting her chicken leg, tucking away one more weird behavior from her husband in the past few days.

***

She’d fallen asleep with her arm draped over his pillow waiting for him to come home. Hiccup was burning the midnight oil at the forge. How Hiccup could live off a few hours of sleep was a mystery to her.

After weeks and weeks of awaking to his charcoal pencil scratching over parchment, she was in tune to listening for him. She was roused from slumber at a noise of metal thudding on wood. Astrid opened her eyes, blinking away the blur of sleep.

Hiccup had set his lantern down on his desk, his back to her. He pulled off his tunic, exposing his skinny form. Astrid watched entranced by finally catching a glimpse of the skin underneath his usually fully covered body.

She’d become comfortable removing her clothing in front of him. Though Hiccup had not seen her front half completely nude, he’d seen her bare back multiple times. During those times, she could sense his gaze upon her. It was a bit unsettling at first with a boy catching a glimpse of a state that only her mother had seen in recent years. But now that she was used to it, his gaze sent lovely little shivers along her skin without even a single touch.

She continued to watch, the fur blanket tucked under her chin, as Hiccup covered himself with his white nightshirt and removed his tights. He turned and gave a comical double take at finding her staring at him.

“Were in waiting for me?” he asked in a whisper as if speaking any louder would be wrong.

“I tried, but dozed off.”

A warm ball of contentment rested in her chest as she watched him join her in bed. It was strange how the haze of sleepiness could affect your way of thinking. All Astrid wanted right there was to be close to her husband, and that same sleepy haze gave her fortitude to be forward about it.

She sidled over to Hiccup, lifted his arm, and cuddled up against his side with her head resting on his chest. She barely noticed the hesitancy of his arm wrapping around her as she snuggled her head to find the most comfortable place on his bony chest. She finally settled on his right breast.

A comfortable warmth radiated from him that seeped into Astrid’s skin. His palm idly rubbed across her back. This was what she had been craving.

“I’m happy your home,” she murmured into his nightshirt.

She vaguely registered his cheek pressing gently onto the crown of her head. “Me too.”

Tags: @martabm90 @chiefhiccstrid @lauracalabresi 

***

Writer’s note: I'd been wanting to have Hiccup and Astrid cuddle for a while now! I wasn't sure if they were at that point in their relationship, but it felt like this was a good spot to put it. AND Stef (@chiefhiccstrid) convinced me that it was time for them to cuddle :D Thank you Stef for the input!! <3 

Hope yall enjoyed this chapter! It's moving along at a nice, steady pace!

[got-dances-with-dragons]

In the End It Appears that D & D Had Little Understanding of What Drew So Many Fans to the GOT Characters and Story

David Benioff and D.B. Weiss demonstrated so far this season that they had little idea what drew so many of the show’s fans to the GOT characters and story.

FANS BECOME INVESTED IN UNDERDOGS

First of all, D & D don’t seem to fully appreciate the human tendency to root for the underdog. For many fans Daenerys was that underdog who overcame countless obstacles to try to see her vision of justice and equality materialize.

So it was very exciting for the audience to see Dany finally come to Westeros and appear to be ready to take her throne.

Jon Snow was also the underdog who was viewed as a lowly “bastard” but whom we all knew was a true prince of a man. 

So it was thrilling for the audience to have their suspicions that Jon was indeed Aegon Targaryen affirmed.

And it was a dream come true for countless fans when Daenerys and Jon fell in love. The hope for many was that they would sit the Iron Throne together as King and Queen.

But D & D dashed all those hopes that so many fans had for these two characters in the last couple of episodes.

SO MUCH FOR PROPHECY

D & D also apparently don’t understand how fascinated fans actually were in trying to figure out the various prophecies. Who were the three heads of the dragon? Who was The Prince or Princess That Was Promised? Who was Azor Ahai reborn? Who was the “valonqar” who would choke Cersei to death? 

In retrospect, it now appears that none of the prophecies really mattered. 

Arya didn’t really fit with any of the prophecies and yet she was the one who delivered the blow that killed the Night King and ended the advance of the darkness.

Dany’s descent into vengeful madness suggests she was never the Princess That Was Promised or Azor Ahai reborn. 

Maybe Jon is Azor Ahai and the Prince but in the last episode he was completely ineffective in curbing Dany’s worst instincts. I suppose he is being set up to be the one who  ends the “darkness” that has become Dany but it also seems like even if he is the one who does so (and it isn’t Arya again) that his honor after killing the woman he loves won’t allow him to take the Iron Throne and to be the great ruler that he could be. I’m fully expecting him to take the black in penance and return to what remains of the Wall in the North.

Furthermore, it turns out that neither Tyrion nor Jamie (the “valonqars”)  choked their big sister Cersei to death (although they were both unwittingly instrumental in getting her to the depths of the Red Keep where she was eventually crushed to death by falling debris).

[See more under the cut.]

SO MUCH FOR THE “LOVE” STORIES

Yes, there was a lot of investment in fans in Jon and Dany finding love together. Many fans were happy when they finally came together. But now a happy ending for them has been dashed.  (And for those fans rooting for Jon and Sansa, I sincerely doubt they will get together. I still believe that Jon will take the black again in the end--or die, but no happy endings for him. I hope I am wrong about this but given how the last few episodes went, I’m afraid to hope that Jon’s story has a happier ending.)

And then there was Jamie and Brienne. It seems that D & D didn’t understand how invested certain fans were in Jamie’s reform and apparent love for Brienne coming to fruition. They threw the fans a few crumbs by allowing Jamie and Brienne to drunkenly consummate their love. But after Jamie learned that Cersei was in danger, he decided to return to her. We had to watch Brienne reduce herself to begging Jamie to stay. But Jamie couldn’t even soften the blow with words of how much he had cherished Brienne. Instead, he told Brienne that he was just as “hateful” as Cersei. With those words the hoped for happy ending of Jamie and Brienne vanished. 

D & D DIDN’T EVEN SEEM TO UNDERSTAND THE IMPORTANCE OF THE DIREWOLVES TO FANS!

I knew we were in trouble when Jon didn’t bid Ghost the sort of farewell that he deserved. If D & D didn’t understand the importance to fans of the bonding of the Stark children and their direwolves, it was clear they were not going to “get” a lot of the importance of other elements of the story for fans.

WAY TO RUIN THE FASCINATION WITH DRAGONS

Many fans also became fascinated with the dragons having watched them grow from babies who were devoted to their “mother” to combatants against oppressive slavers and evil White Walkers. 

We cried when Viserion and Rhaegal were killed. 

But then Dany turned her favorite dragon, Drogon, into an instrument of terror to thousands of innocent people in King’s Landing. 

Just the other day I did a positive POST about the dragons. It was way too late to make this post but I had a feeling that it would be impossible to do so after episode 805, so I took the time to make a tribute to them, and to the more positive aspects of Dany as the “Mother of Dragons.” 

It saddens me now to think of how Dany used Drogon to kill so many innocents. For the first time I’m kind of glad Rhaegal and Viserion didn’t survive because Dany would have used them in the service of revenge as well.

MAYBE THE LAST EPISODE WILL HAVE SOME REDEEMING VALUE BUT I’M NOT HOLDING MY BREATH

I understand the show runners have filmed different endings for the last episode. I hope D & D take into account just how unhappy most fans have been with the show’s direction this season and will select the best possible ending out of those that were filmed--so that fans will have some small satisfaction with how the series ends.

But then again, I don’t know if D & D even understand what the “best possible ending” might be.  

[zydrateacademy]

Review - Rage 2

I have little to no experience with the first Rage. I have about two hours on it, last played five years ago. I remember a lot of brown, and I think I immediately quit because it didn’t engage me very much. To the surprise of everyone, last year we get a teaser trailer set to Andrew WK’s “Ready to Die” in a semi live action setpiece telling everyone that Rage has returned, and it’s gonna be wacky! In practice, it’s just a very colorful shooter. A fairly decent one, but it lacks the general humor that Borderlands has, which yields a common comparison. Indeed, Rage 2 feels like a union between Mad Max (the driving), Borderlands (the environment), and DOOM (the gunplay). This review will have several comparisons to all three, but I’ll try to explain the systems so my readers won’t require previous knowledge of other games. I’ll start with the game’s main selling point, the zany gunplay and abilities. You play as Walker, gender of your choice but you cannot customize them as they both essentially exist as their own beings in this world. You are some kind of military trainee in a fairly safe and stable stronghold that gets annihilated in the first fifteen minutes of the game by an organization called “The Authority”. You put on a suit of armor of a now-extinct sect of “Rangers”, you being the last one in an impromptu promotion. This armor facilitates all of your guns and abilities. Even the guns are acquired through ARKS dotted around the land that are specifically designed for rangers and their suits, so right off the bat you’re more or less more equipped than every bandit in the wasteland.

Other than some odd key bindings to start with, the abilities and guns feel very good. One of the first you acquire is imminently useful, as it was designed to shatter armor of the enemies (and the ability is in fact called “Shatter”). This is also very satisfying as you play through the game, whether you use that ability or shoot it all off, you can actually see mob’s armor plating fly off as you whittle them down. It’s a good signifier as any that they’re ready to be killed outright. Considering the game shares much more with DOOM than with Borderlands, enemies are not at all bullet sponges. Most enemies can be taken out in just a couple shots, or a single headshot. The armor is what makes them spongey, but you’re very quickly given the tools to deal with it. Other abilities include a bullet barrier, a ground slam, a super sprint, a dash, a vortex that pulls enemies in and detonates, an overdrive, and a few others. Considering that DOOM developers have worked on this, this is not a cover shooter. Everything is designed to keep you moving and shooting and the set of abilities you acquire serve this goal incredibly well, and the gunplay is very fun. However, like Mad Max (from Avalanche Studios, which also served as developers here) strongholds don’t tend to respawn which leaves my usual fare of sandboxing starting to dry up just 11 hours into the game. I’m starting to get the feeling that the game is rather short, and I wish it took a similar idea from recent Far Cry games to reset the strongholds, maybe add some extra difficulty to it, and let us play it all again. I do not believe there is a New Game Plus at this time, so when I’m done, I’m done. This is essentially a twenty to thirty hour game it feels, so take that as you will.

Everything can be upgraded as well, DOOM-style. This is not Borderlands, and you will be staring at the same guns throughout your experience. There are about ten of them though (two from the preorder bonus, or potential DLC) and you can change their capabilities, level them up, and add extra mag sizes, reload speeds, and so on. They’ll function differently as you see fit but I find myself defaulting to the assault rifle you acquire, upgradable with armor piercing rounds which really tear through most enemies.

Returning from Mad Max are the convoys, one of my favorite mechanics from that game. There were only a handful there, and this game serves many more and they’re certainly more engaging in their own way. They boast an entire caravan with a War-Rig like truck that serves as its own boss (complete with a health bar), where you must wipe out the allies and then hit “weak points” that pop out periodically. I’m not sure if they constantly spawn or are as temporary as the strongholds, but I do enjoy them.

So the gunplay is good, the environment is interesting to look at. There’s plenty of lights, colorful characters, and even trees and wildlife in certain zones. The writing leaves something to be desired. For example you get a Borderlandsy splash screen introducing a few characters, one of which was “enjoys manipulating others, and once tortured a guy just to get his approval”. Meeting him just screamed “This guy is going to betray the fuck out of you”. Sure enough...

So let’s move on to some points I have “mixed” feelings about.

As I alluded to with the guns, this isn’t really a Loot-N-Shooter. It’s just a shooter. Everywhere there are chests to get “feltrite”, the main upgrade currency. You also get money, which also helps buy upgrades outright as well as ammo for you and your vehicle. There’s even an upgrade just to help you triangulate and find these chests so you don’t abandon every stronghold at 3/4 chests found because it’s hiding in a tiny alcove somewhere, but sometimes I do it anyway because it kind of kills too much time when you’re running around for a while. The gameplay encourages constant moving, shooting, and ground-slamming, but after a while you actually run out of things to do all of that with. To the game’s credit, it doesn’t make Anthem’s mistake of “go here, kill everything”. Sometimes you defend a pylon, sometimes you shoot fuel tanks, sometimes you destroy a power silo. All of which involves a lot of shooting but none of this respawns or comes back.

In relation, the map does feel a bit small. After gaining reputation with a certain main character, you’re awarded the Icarus, which is a flight vehicle. No weapon capabilities and it’s made out of paper but it’s very useful for transit. I’d almost recommend not using it at all, but it does help nab a few points of interest that you wouldn’t necessarily drive past on wheels, as some things you need to actively search for rather than drive by. As I said before, after 11 hours it feels as though I’ve complete most of the side-stuff already. Side missions can be picked up in towns but they’re much simpler and less interesting than the main story itself, and there’s little reason to do them.

The game is also very buggy. I suffer a crash to desktop (no error message or anything) every couple of hours. Much more often the game will freeze on me for an extended period of time (forty-five seconds or more) before coming back to me. I was on a “clear out the bandits” objective and one of the enemies was clipped into a building. Thankfully the “Shatter” ability has some AoE capabilities that got through the wall and I got him eventually. Those are the main three I’ve suffered but if you read around, you’ll no doubt find much more. These aren’t the usual funny “dragons flying backwards” Bethesda bugs, these are actually game breaking and rage inducing.

Oh, Bethesda. What has happened to you? It felt like it’s just been a couple years since you were the gaming community’s golden boy. It really all went downhill with Fallout 76 (which I’m still waiting on single player and modding capabilities) and has never really recovered. Yes, their new fare of “microtransactions” are here. I don’t normally have a hate-on for cosmetic shops like the community as a whole does but in Rage 2 it’s particularly pointless. It has some gun skins, both of which can be acquired in game. The golden skins are 10,000 dollars in certain shops (which is a lot, mind you) and the other ones can be acquired by farming the Mutant Bash TV enough. I enjoy the mutant-killing arena but I find it’s far too damn easy, and it really needed extra difficulty levels attached. Those skins cost 2500 MBTV tokens and you can get ~1500 every run you do. Considering how easy it is, I earned most of them in like, an hour. Now let’s get to some of the things I actively hate.

I don’t like the driving. Not nearly as much in Mad Max, anyway. The convoys are indeed still fun and more rewarding than Max’s were. To Max’s credit, that entire game was built around the car being a major mechanic and hell, even plot point and Max’s entire motivation. In Rage 2 it’s more of a sideshow. The cars don’t feel like they have much weight to them (at least, not until you spin them out and try to push yourself out of a ditch, which I often do) and when I was given the flying Icarus, I felt little point in returning to the sassy-AI that hosted the Phoenix, the only car you can upgrade and customize.

To wit, I actually quite despise the driving in certain contexts. Early in the story you have to impress someone enough to enter his suite. To do so you must play through the Mutant Bash TV (fun, but easy) and... a race. You enter the race and the NPC there tells you that you’re starting on the bottom. Now, in other games this means they usually give you idiots for AI. The first race in GTA5 was laughable, and even in Mad Max their one main “race” was actually just a deathmatch with a six minute timer. This newbie race in Rage 2 actually made me Rage-Quit the night the game was released. They give you their own car, every other racer has the same one and they actually match your speed. At any given point I always had two to four other racers ahead of me at all times. You know what bots and AI don’t do? Make mistakes. They never spun out, rammed into each other, or hit a wall unless you yourself did all that to them. After getting a night’s sleep and three tries in the morning later, my only strategy was to ignore the other drivers and concentrate harder than I ever have in a game. I basically had to do a perfect run, not hitting anything. I did so well and ALMOST lost the ENTIRE race to one single spinout near the end of the track. When I won, I could hear one or two car engines right on my tailpipe. They never lost traction like I did, and that’s just garbage.

I hated it. I do not look forward to dealing with this required mission in future playthroughs. By the way, it’s required to unlock an entire upgrade tree.

One final point of annoyance before I summarize my thoughts ultimately. This one is much more minor but it actually irritates me more than the driving does because this one is a constant threat. Every time you clear an objective, no matter how quick or small, you get an unskippable popup announcing your victory and rewards, as well as the reputation gain. This could have so easily been put on the side, like they do their radio-bound dialogues. Instead it completely stops the show and I find myself slamming the enter key so I can skip it the very split second it allows me to do so. In a game that wants you to keep moving, in a very successful and fun way, this thing is just a complete show stopper and I don’t know how their beta testers weren’t yelling “Come on, let me PLAY!” constantly. Ultimately, I do feel like there’s a good game to be had here. The cosmetic store is easily ignored and beyond that, you’ll have to deal with some bugs, janky driving, and bullshit “OBJECTIVE COMPLETE” popups. If you can deal with that, you’re left with some excellent gunplay and skillfully crafted environments. It’s not as long as I had hoped, and I really expected more to justify an eighty dollar preorder but I have not at all hated the experience.

[drabbleitout]

Chapter 5: The Eye

Beginning | Previous

Kee followed at a distance.

Myghal had yet to tell how Ira knew she had a fake leg. She didn't limp, drag, or hobble. Up and down from the horse she leapt like a spry adolescent. If she were still following them, Ira had been right.

"So, tell me about the uprisings." He saddled up beside Ira. The trees had gotten thick near the base of the mountains. Tall ever greens that seemed to stretch the closer they got to the base trail. He worried not even the full moon would guide them beneath such thick canopies.

"They were what they sounded like. What do you want to know?" Ira shrugged.

"You said they were to remove foreigners."

"Yes. The Emperor blamed anyone from outside of the Empire. If they weren't born here, soldiers were sent to root them out and ship them across the borders." He shrugged and looked over. "You're lucky. It wasn't until a few years ago that he lifted the ban on foreigners."

"Without warning? He didn't even try to discover who was responsible?" Ira stared, a smile growing across his face, tart and sarcastic.

"Myghal, we're talking about the Emperor. When the Empress died his reign of madness began. Passionate Imperialists applauded him for removing foreigners. They consider this a golden age. Of course, they weren't affected by the hundreds of orphans that were left to the street. Just like garbage. That's all they were after all." 

"Were you an orphan? Were your parents foreigners that were taken off?"

"That would make a good story, wouldn't it?" Ira chuckled shaking his head. "No, I'm an Imperial street rat. Several generations deep. Sadly." His face went serious. "If it were up to me, I'd hail from anywhere but here." 

Entering the trees brought dusk upon them earlier. They found a wide gulley to fit camp in. They ate over a fire, listening and waiting for any sign of a dragon. He assumed it was because of Kee that Ira had taken his dinner away from camp. She brought a small instrument from her pack, wooden with strings, which she strummed and plucked a variety of tunes.

Once she started singing, however, Ira excused himself.

Kee's voice wasn't bad. If anything, he was surprised she wasn't a court entertainer rather than a smuggler. Lounged against her pack, she had her metal leg crossed over at the knee, giving view to it's extravagant, vining etchings. Not seeming to care that Ira had dismissed himself, she remained lost in the twanging pluck of her instrument, fingers dancing up and down its neck with a smooth tune.

Myghal pretended to check on the horses, squinting out into the dark for Ira. Up the hill, where the trees cleared for the mountain's rocky base, a shadow sat against the full moon sky. Kee continued to play. He crept up the hill until he figured he was out of earshot and joined Ira on the hill.

He didn't turn, didn't even look, arms tossed over his knees with his face tilted up to the sky. There was only the faint hum of Kee's playing, no wind or crackle of the fire. Myghal sat beside him, stretching his legs down the slope to rub at. "Hear any dragons?"

"I doubt I'll be able to with all that wailing." His usually deadpan mumble made Myghal laugh. "She's probably scared it off."

"It's not that bad." He noticed Ira's hands, his gloves were off, slender and clean fingers that wrung in his lap. "Nervous?" Myghal asked, and couldn't blame him. He was nervous himself. Ira lowered his face from the sky and looked at him.

"Yeah." It was a deep sound, fearful and honest. "Are you?" Myghal nodded.

"You would think not, right? That's what soldiers do, fight."

"Fighting Northmen is different than a dragon." Ira shifted with a shrug, "besides, that's what keeps you alive, right?"

A ground shaking roar cut through the night. It sounded as if the sky were being torn open, clattering off the mountain and threatening to rain stars down on them. Both of them twisted, gawking up into the shadow of the mountain that they couldn't see.

Kee's playing went silent.

The roar echoed into a ringing hush but none of them moved. Something crashed, a crackling hiss of a tree falling, and Myghal had to fight the urge to get to his feet, to be ready to run. As if sensing this, Ira grabbed his arm and whispered, "don't move."

Everything went still until Ira tilted his head back, pointing straight up. Myghal looked too, even his breath held as he watched giant wings of shadow streak across the sky. It had a long neck, a long tail, but a thick body in the middle. Another roar faded as it flew off, glinting silver in the distance as it banked.

"Yep, that's a dragon." Kee called. There was a pause, and her strumming started again. 

"Ok, yeah. I don't feel any bit bad about being afraid of that thing." Myghal eventually whispered, neither of them taking their stare from the sky. He also noticed Ira’s grip had yet to leave his arm. He was nervous. “We could always find something else, you know, besides a dragon.”

“There isn’t anything else. This is the only chance I’ve got.” Something about it sounded off, unsettling, and sad.

“Was this your idea?” Myghal asked.

“No,” he scowled finally looking away from the sky. He noticed his hand then, pulling it away with an awkward shift. “You were there. Mirth told us this is what we needed.”

“Not that. The Foul, the magic, killing the Emperor.”

“Killing the Emperor was entirely my idea, yes.” He went back to wringing his hands, gaze focused on his feet. “What about you?”

“What?”

“You, why are you doing this? You don’t have to be here.” Ira turned his head to look at him. “The curse is I follow you, not the other way around.”

“Let’s call it less following and more helping,” it was Myghal’s turn to look away. “Besides, I told you I would help. I wouldn’t be much of anything if I didn’t stick to my word.”

“I’m a thief, Myghal. Not anyone of value.”

He threw his shoulders. “You’re also trying to do the right thing. I mean, maybe not murder. Murder isn’t the right thing. But you’re trying to do something to make things right. If war happens it won’t benefit anyone besides the Empire.” He caught himself combing the ends of his hair. “If you can prevent that war, it doesn’t matter who you are, if you’re a thief, if you’re a soldier, if you’re a metal-legged bard,” he thumbed back at Kee.

They both laughed.

“I really hope she stops playing,” Ira sighed, hands gone still. “I won’t be able to get any sleep like this.”

“Glad it’s that and not the giant dragon.”

Myghal sat on the ledge, leaned forwards on his knees as he fought for air. They had climbed the cliffside of basalt over the course of hours. He had almost given up. Any higher and he would have slipped from the hold and fell to a rocky death below. Ira fared better –barely.

"Not much for climbing are you?" Ira took pause, breath heavy between each word. "And here I thought the arctic mountains did you some good."

"Nope," Myghal squinted up at him. "Why climb them when you can just go around them?" With a deep breath, he scooted back and grunted to his feet. His arms were tired, weak, and hands aching. "So, where is it?"

"Probably sleeping," Ira hushed, turning to survey the flat ledge. It was large. A few buildings could comfortably sit between the walls of basalt columns that rose around it. In the orange light of the evening sun, it was hard to make out caverns from dips in the uneven walls. Ira crept about, easing across the platue as if it could be laid with traps. Pausing mid step his hood turned, studying something on the ground. He lifted a foot, placing it on a rock to slide out from a shadow. It was part of an Ox’s skull, massive and cracked, “Maybe out hunting.” Myghal eased after him, squinting in the twilight recognizing other animal remains. Big animals like elk, buffalo, and bear.

A stretched shadow moved, something Myghal thought was a trick of light. He peered across the ledge, towards the back wall that rose up towards the peak. The form stretched and turned, taking shape like something's long, arched neck. "Ira?"

"What?" He huffed with a turn. Myghal pointed up to the shadow only to drop the hand as he realized it wasn't a neck. It was a limb, the end of a massive, fleshy wing. The ground shook as claws emerged over a mass of basalt. Digging in, cracking stone, it lifted the giant, scaly face of smoking nostrils and wide, violent eyes. Myghal grabbed Ira’s arm pulling him back a step.

“Alright,” Myghal slowly reached for his staff, continuing to back away. “That is not an Ophtenka.”

“That’s because it’s a dragon,” Ira grumbled. It stood taller, another claw pressing itself up, growl rolling in its throat.

“Ok, it’s big, it’s mean, so I say we get the eye and run. To do that,” he continued over Ira’s scoff, “I'll distract it down here if you think you can get on its back and to it’s face.”

“You’re plan to a slash and dash is to look it in the face and distract it?” Ira made an angry noise, something like a laugh or a huff. “It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

“Can you get to the eye?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then, go!” Myghal bolted opposite of Ira, staff dragging behind him making sure the dragon took his noisy bait. It growled, mouth opening to spew a breathtaking, clear fluid. Fire soon followed. Not an Ophtenka! He kept ahead of the trail, moving further out of reach to lure it down from the wall.

For its size it was fast. Wings causing gusts of wind that nearly took him off his feet. It made a lunge, sharp teeth crashing like falling trees. He ducked beneath it, rolling over a shoulder giving it’s jaw a slap with his staff for good measure.

Its screech made his vision blur, ears ringing as if filled with fluid. But it chased. It lunged with each snap, teeth clacking shut inches from his face. He could smell its breath, the fluid in its saliva, the death in its belly. Myghal slammed his staff up to its nose, rolling back over a shoulder to avoid another snap.

Scrambling to his feet he caught sight of Ira climbing a tower basalt, arm over arm like a cat in a tree. Myghal ran to the other side, drawing the dragon around as he slid for one of its clawed feet. Cracking the staff across its knuckles he earned another ear ringing scream and another snap. This one caught his sleeve, teeth tearing into the leather pauldron and yanking him off the ground.

Dropping his staff, he was heaved up into the air. Gripping at the strap of his pauldron unsure if he rather be eaten or fall from such a height. It growled into his back, slinging its head one way and then another. He could smell the fluid, dripping from the dragon’s nose, soaking into his clothes. It was going to burn him alive.

“Hold on!” Ira yelled.

The dragon opened its mouth with a bellowing roar, sharp in pain, slinging Myghal through the air. He lost his bearings, head over heels, plummeting towards the stone ground. It met his shoulder, jarring him into a slide. Throwing himself to his knees he slid, scraping his hands in a turn to lunge to his feet.

Ira hung on its face, handclaws in its brow, dagger prying into its eye. The dragon reared back, wings opening as its neck twisted one way and then another. As its feet came down to thunder against the mountain it whipped its long neck in a twist, screaming and slinging Ira off. Myghal cursed, charging in hopes of catching him before he could hit the ground. He was too slow. Ira landed in a roll, graceless over a shoulder. The eye bounced with a wet plap, the dragon’s roar shaking the ground.

Ira rolled into a column but didn't get up.

"Hey!" Myghal screamed, trying to draw the dragon's attention as it turned towards Ira. It snarled, flashing needle sharp teeth. A mist of its flammable saliva shot from its nose ready to roast Ira alive. Myghal made it then. He swung his staff against its teeth, breaking the tip of one. It drew back hissing and snarling giving Myghal enough time to get to Ira. He stood over him, gripping the staff that refused to break.

The dragon opened its mouth with a huff of air, lifting its wings in a threatening display. Myghal shifted his weight, locking stares with the remaining eye. Dragons were smart. Like any predator it knew to go after the wounded. Myghal could tell, if he tried luring it away from Ira, it wouldn’t follow. Not again.

Between his feet Ira shifted, grunting with his movement.

"Stay where you are," Myghal warned, staring down the dragon as it leaned side to side sizing him up. "Don't. Move."

It roared in a snap, jaws clamping for Myghal. Twisting the staff, he wedged it between its jaws, shoved as it pushed forward. Jerking back, its roar went weak, becoming a sad howl. The staff remained true, refusing to bend or break. The dragon slung upwards, side to side as if shaking something dead. It didn't budge. Ira fumbled to his feet, rushing to Myghal and seizing him by the rear of his shirt. Dragging them behind a pillar he stood over Myghal as fire burst around them. The heat was almost too much, Myghal clamping his hands to his head to protect his hair.

Two raspy calls broke from the dragon, sharp and desperate. Myghal leaned around just in time to see it slam it mouth to the ground. The jaw slammed shut, teeth met, and the staff shot out through the roof of its mouth. Shaking its head in a retreat, the dragon beat its massive wings, barely getting into the air before staggering over the edge of the cliff.

Neither of them moved even after it was gone.

Ira laughed; a small, timid chuckle that pried Myghal's stare from the sky. Edges of his cloak were singed, dirt and soot smeared across his cheek, a bruise forming on his brow from a gash. But he was bright. He was alive. And, gods, he was handsome.

"Shit!" His eyes went wide, locked on something behind Myghal. As he took off, Myghal turned, horrified to find the eye in flames. "No, no!" Ira tore off his cloak, whipping it on and off the eye trying to stop it. It was the size of a small campfire, continuing to grow with little regard to the beating. Ira slapped sparks from his cloak, submitting to the fact it was no mere fire. He stood there, only able to watch.

“Why?!" He threw the cloak to the wind, letting it flutter to the ground. "Why does everything have to be so difficult?" He screamed at the fire, angry and echoing. "I want to kill one Emperor. Just one! Is that too much to ask?!"

Myghal got up, releasing a long sigh as he ambled over to his staff. It wasn't cracked or broken, slick with blood but unharmed.

"Now there's only one eye and we'll be lucky to get another,” Ira sank in a crouch, arms wrapped over his head becoming surprisingly small. As Myghal approached, he peered out from under one arm. “You just stared down a dragon for nothing, aren't you angry?"

"I mean, you're alright. So it's not too bad." Myghal waved his staff at him, "We're not dead –that's a good day." Ira clamped the arm back, bowing his head with a strand of foreign, sharp words. Myghal watched the eye shrink from the size of a melon into a grapefruit. The flames were dying around the charred husk, lines of ember wrapping around it. They almost looked like letters. Like a spiral of words.

He nudged Ira.

"What?" He mumbled.

"Does that... look like words?" Ira’s hands sank away, glancing up before following Myghal’s pointed finger. The fire extinguished into smoke, leaving behind shimmering letters. Ira strained up on toes and tipped forwards on his hands to get closer.

“They’re runes!” another youthful laugh, a sign of hope, and a hiss as he quickly dropped the smoldering eye.

"Careful, it's hot." Myghal grinned, leaning on his staff. Ira shook out his hands, prodding at the eye to roll around in study.

"This is it. This is it!" He laughed again, "We actually got one."

"And you thought it would be hard," Myghal watched as Ira untied a sash from his hip, rolling the eye into it to tie up. "Shouldn't we let it cool?

"Not unless you want to wait for that dragon to come back." Ira let it hang from his hip, small whips of smoke still coming off it. "Don't forget we still have to repel back down the mountain." Myghal dropped his shoulders, groaning. "Come on, we’re not getting any farther standing here."

Myghal groaned as he flopped down on his bedroll. He stayed oddly crumpled. Ira watched him, blindly prodding at the fire. "Are you alright?" He asked when Myghal still hadn't moved. An assuring hum made him laugh. It had been a long day, not one of the easier ones, and Myghal had done exceptionally well in keeping them out of harm.

"I'm exhausted," he finally mumbled, straightening himself out.

"Then rest," Ira pulled the small pot over, dropping rabbit meat in. Pouring from his canteen he gave them just enough water to boil in, setting it over the fire to cook. "You did more than enough today."

"Should've been better bait."

"Well, you more than made up for it beating it away."

"You're being nice," Myghal gave the words tune, smiling through them. "Usually you're scolding me for something."

"Didn't see anything to scold," Ira grinned as he looked over. Myghal was on his side, eyes closed with a sleepy smile. "You really showed off today."

"Glad you noticed." They were casual words, half conscious, but Ira couldn't ignore how they made his chest squeeze, quickly looking away as if Myghal were watching. Ira busied himself with dinner, trying to keep his attention on the woods around them than his thoughts. The way Myghal moved, his style, the way he adapted around Ira's strategy–as if they had done this for years. 

But Myghal had done this for years. Years fighting with strangers, adapting to their customs and styles.

"I should've taken you home," Ira blurted, taking in a breath as if his own voice startled him. Myghal responded with a quiet hum. "Before all of this," Ira turned to him, "I should've taken you home to check on your family." Myghal didn't move and Ira considered he had gone back to sleep.

"I thought about that," he eventually answered. "But, I don't think it would be such a good idea."

"Why not? You worry about them, don't you?"

"Always will."

"Then why not go back? You need to check on them."

"Hard to explain," his brow scrunched, drew in a deep breath, and opened his eyes. "I think, after this long, they would've replaced me."

"That sounds like something my family would do, not yours."

"That's why I say it's hard to explain," he grunted as he sat up, carefully touching his head. "In the south we don't have a King, or an Emperor, or a Warmaster. We have a number of Sects, and in those Sects are tribes. There isn't really one person over each Sect, but rather tribe leaders who create something like a court, which is mediated by a leader known as a chief." Myghal shrugged as he said this, taking down his hair to rub at his scalp.

"The chief is picked by the things they do, how they care for their family, tribe, and Sects. If they provide and protect, see clearly and without bias, capable of keeping a level head without a greed for power they're chosen as chief. It isn't like the Empire or a kingdom, where one is born into it, and it isn't like the Warclans in the north where it's fought over. It's a choice." 

"Myghal," Ira squinted as if he were attempting to clear a knot from fishing line in the dark, and then, all of the sudden, someone flipped the lights on. "Are you saying... were you a chief?"

"No! No, not yet. I was really just a soldier—"

"Not yet?" Ira rose to his feet feeling odd, as if he had made a mistake, like when climbing stairs and expecting one more step when there wasn't. Almost like falling. Almost fear. "You were going to be chief?"

"Maybe," Myghal lifted his shoulders sticking out his bottom lip like a shy school boy. "It wasn't definite, and I've been away for so long, if I did go back now it would only cause problems." He scratched idly at his head staring at the ground. "Someone else has probably been picked and I don't want to stir up any indifference. If they were chosen, they're good for it."

"And what about your family?"

"I'll see them again," Myghal smiled, looking up then. "I'm happy where I am. I want to finish this first." Ira tried to calm himself down, to look normal. He had stolen countless things in his life: jewels, antiques, horses, and food, but never a person.

He felt sick. It was his fault Myghal wasn't home, a chief of a people, a leader. Worst of all, Ira knew he would be exceptional at it.

No, instead he was shackled to an ostracized thief.

“Hey, hey. Was I right, or was I right?” Kee's call was like nails on a chalk board. Ira couldn’t turn and look, too angry with himself. Too ashamed.

“You were right.” Myghal laughed, lazily pushing hair from his face. “We got it.” Kee gave out a cheer, clamping an arm around Ira’s shoulders.

“How about that, Rook? You wanted a dragon –I got you a dragon.”

“Don’t touch me.” He pried himself free, circling the fire. He couldn’t sit still. Even exhausted, his mind raced and wrung.

“Ira?”

“Yeah, where are you going? You owe me something, don’t you?” Kee followed, bold now and loud.

“Felmire,” Ira reached Berma, digging into his saddle bag. He yanked out the necklace Darts had given him. Slinging it to her he made sure to bare teeth. “There’s an enchantress in Felmire. Show her that, tell her I sent you, and she can help you.”

“Ira, that’s for—”

“Now get out of my hair. I don’t want to see you again.”

[breaktimewritings]

Warmth II Chapter One

Admitting to Jefferson that he’d never felt the warmth of a woman was not the worst thing Gold could have done...

(( I have no idea where this came from but it’s 1am and it didn’t leave me alone until I wrote it so here’s the first chapter out of two or three most likely. This chapter is rated M. Next chapter will be E. ))

AO3

“No.”

“You were the one who--”

“Absolutely not.”

Mr. Gold’s tone was firm, giving no room for argument. The other man only chuckled as he leaned against the display counter in the pawn shop. Really, he should have known to expect this sort of push back, but Jefferson Hatter was often considered mad, and so he continued to press despite the most powerful man in town glaring at him from across the counter.

“I thought you’d be interested is all.” Jefferson said, sliding the business card he’d produced back towards Gold. “You were the one who mentioned it the other night at the bar.”

“After four glasses of scotch and three shots of whiskey.” Gold shot back. “I’m not interested in prostitutes, Jeff.”

“When I told you I knew some girls I didn’t mean like that. She’s not a prostitute.” Jefferson defended. “She’s just part of the group I know. They all use pseudonyms to keep things simple and worry-free so they don’t have to deal with the judgemental stares. There’s even a contract they write up if that makes you feel better. No strings ever attached. She’s just a girl who would rather remain anonymous and enjoys--”

“Absolutely not.”

Jefferson sighed, giving his signature top hat a twirl in his hand before shrugging. “Alright, Gold. Suit yourself.” He slid the business card closer to the other man, though. “In case you change your mind. I think she’s be a good fit for you.”

The bell above the door rang, bidding Jefferson farewell in a much more cheerful tone than Gold’s venomous glare. He groaned, running his hand through his hair as he all but collapsed into the small chair behind the counter. He should have never let it slip that he was still a virgin, let alone to Jefferson. He should have known better. But he’d been lonely and drunk and admitting that he’d never felt the warmth of a woman wasn’t the worst thing he could have admitted to Jefferson. Still, he hadn’t expected his friend to remember that fact, much less act upon it.

His eyes fell on the business card before him. On the front was Jefferson’s usual contact information, but the back had someone else’s contact information entirely. In neat blue ink “The Beauty” was written out, with an email address he could send a message to. The name must have been a pseudonym, as Jefferson had explained, and Gold found it a tad presumptuous. He wondered if it was the woman who called herself that or if it wasn’t one of Jefferson’s nicknames. Jefferson had a nickname for everyone, including this group of friends he had Gold presumed. He’d insisted that none of them were prostitutes, and Gold assumed they had to be clean. He might have been a virgin but he’d certainly learned about STD’s and the like from the small bit of school he’d attended.

Gold sighed, turning to begin closing the shop for the day. It was early, but no one was coming by. It was rare that anyone came into the pawn shop to actually browse or buy any of his inventory. No, the shop was the den of the most ruthless man in Storybrooke. It was as off-limits as a dragon’s hoard. People only came when they needed to pay rent or deal for something. Deals were his specialty. Shopping never happened. Conversation never happened. Touch never happened. Never had. He was a cruel miser with a limp and no heart. And if no one had touched him in over fifty years, why would this...business card woman be any different?

The bell over his door chimed again as he exited the shop, locking it for the night and slipping the key into his jacket pocket where the business card he still hadn’t tore to pieces like any sensible person would weighed heavily. He’d go home, take a hot bath, and then a cold one. He’d find release in his hand as always and that would be that.

“Closing early, Mr. Gold?”

The voice made him tense. Her voice always did. Not in an unpleasant way, however. Isabelle French was one of the two people in town who were never unpleasant. Like Jefferson, the town librarian was one of the few people immune to his reach of real estate, which was most likely the reason WHY she was never unpleasant. It didn’t matter to Gold. She never showed him any sort of distaste. He was always kind. She asked him about his day. She smiled at him. Her eyes were on him, and to him that was all that mattered. It was Tuesday night, which meant she’d closed the library and was currently walking to Granny’s for some kind of ritual with her group of girls.

“Just for today, Miss French.” He explained, turning to walk down the sidewalk to where his car was parked. Or rather, where Isabelle French assumed his car was parked. He always parked behind his shop, a safe place out of sight from the main streets. But if Belle French was walking somewhere, his car was in the same direction.

“Is everything alright?” She asked, her blue eyes holding genuine concern.

His heart stuttered in his chest, and not for the first time he loathed his inexperience. How did one begin to speak to a beauty like Isabelle French? The correct answer (or rather, his answer) was that one did not. One listened as her accent flitted over the words and wove palaces out of paragraphs and only chimed in to ask her something that would let her continue that babble.

“My leg is simply sore.” He answered, leaning more heavily on his cane.

“Did you try that magnesium bath bomb I suggested? They’re supposed to help with soreness.”

“Not yet. How was your book club meeting?”

“Oh! It went great. We voted on the next book. Someone actually suggested The Scarlet Letter, which I adored but we have some younger people there and I wasn’t sure if they wanted to end up reading it more than once for…”

And that was all Gold needed. He allowed her to prattle on and on about book clubs and storytimes and the like. She stopped only to ask him the occasional question about his shop, and his answer was always the same. Not short, but not as eloquent as her words. They reached Granny’s far too soon, and just like that, she was soon bidding him goodnight with a smile. She was feeling daring tonight, going so far as to hug him before crossing the street and disappearing into the bed and breakfast. For a glorious moment, Isabelle French was in his arms, holding her to him, and then she was gone, and he loathed the tightening in his pants.

As he turned to walk back to his car and proceed with that night’s plans, the weight of the business card in his pocket grew heavier. How could he possibly write to any woman convincing them to bed him for the night when he couldn’t even talk to...well, Isabelle French wasn’t any woman, but his tongue still swelled in his mouth whenever he tried to speak to her and a simple hug had him already half hard! It was pathetic. No matter how much they enjoyed sex, no woman would…

But then, maybe he had it backwards. Perhaps he couldn’t talk to Isabelle French BECAUSE he was a virgin. He imagined experience made one more confident when talking to the opposite sex. He doubted he’d ever be able to be the confident, suave, dashing man Isabelle French deserved, but perhaps...Perhaps with experience he might could try.

At the very least, he was a few decades overdue for the warmth of a woman, and if a no-strings-attached night could allow him to say more than three sentences to Storybrooke’s perfect librarian. Well...it was worth a shot. Like it or not, he’d have to add sending an email to this business card woman to his plans for the night.