#love that licorice is just lurking behind

[uselessalexis165]

THERE THEY ARE!!

[azlrse]

Okay but hear me out: hollyberry and dark cacao with an s/o who's very soft-hearted and sweet, like they couldn't hurt a fly, but then actually go into battle and oh, they're powerful to a terrifying degree-

It was 10:50 at night when i wrote this so I hope it makes enough sense 😅

Sweet Yet Vicious (Dark Cacao Cookie/Hollyberry Cookie x GN Cookie!Reader hcs)

CW: none, just fluff!

A/N: been burned out lately but hyperfixated towards the ancients all the time. Sorry if this one sucked a bit 😅

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

Dark Cacao Cookie 🗡️

Before Dark Cacao Cookie got in a relationship with you, he was a bit confused at first on why you were so nice to the others. He didn't get the concept of your personality that despite growing up from an environment where laughter and happiness doesn't even exist here, you were a soft-hearted and very sweet cookie.

But on the right hand, the king has gotten used to embrace your unique personality and was one of the many reasons why he really liked you. You are his sun and light, a polar opposite of him who melted his tough exterior behind closed doors.

Your boyfriend of a king didn't show much PDA during his reign during the day so it's up to you to show him simple bits of pieces of affection like holding his hand or saying encouraging words whenever he felt pressured during his kingly duty.

Imagine his shock when he caught you swinging a sword towards the dummy. Dark Cacao didn't know that his significant other knows on how to fight and was fascinated on each turn and swing you take, unknowingly that the king was watching your every move.

He doesn't tell you that he saw you fight in order for you not to feel embarrassed but also in respect. It must be you who must told him that you had experience when it comes to martial arts.

During your second date with your boyfriend, the both of you were ambushed by wolves and other predators that lurked within the village. Dark Cacao was about to give you orders to not engage in battle but you managed to bring a spare sword underneath the thick robe you wore.

You fought fiercely and shouted as you fought the wolves in spite. "Get your filthy paws off of my boyfriend! Or I'll stab your remains and throw it on the licorice sea!"

Overall, upon seeing this other side of his lover, he never thought he could fell deeply in love with you. You are definitely fitting to be the king's lover.

Hollyberry Cookie 💝

Being a cookie whose personality was almost identical as the ancient herself, you are on a ride to a relationship full of sweetness and fluff.

You are the type of cookie who would constantly brings her bouquet of flowers every time you visited her palace while Hollyberry Cookie would give you barrels of berry juice as a way to repay all of the expensive flowers you gave her. Hell, she even nags the royal gardener to plant all the flowers you gave to her and kept it as one of her most precious memorabilia.

The both of you would constantly show each other off to other cookies, from your friends to your immediate family members. Same goes for Hollyberry Cookie, she would talk all about you to the other ancients and to her own family.

"Have you seen my girlfriend?! I wish I could be strong just like her! I still remembered the time she won that berry juice drinking contest and gave me a kiss on the lips! I just loved her so much!!"

"Reader Cookie is definitely the best lover I could ever asked for! Look all of the flowers at the garden! The beauty that surrounded the palace gardens was just the same as my loving Reader Cookie!"

The time when she knew that your love for fighting and adventure shows up is when the two of you went to Cranberry Forest in search for one of the rarest berries had ever existed on her kingdom. You are so excited upon finding this berry that you almost slipped up here and there but luckily, your girlfriend was there to catch you from the mud slips.

Suddenly, a vicious tiger was running towards the both of you leaving no choice but to run. Your girlfriend refuses to run away in order to protect you. As she wields her shield, the tiger suddenly went limp as a huge branch was landed on its head.

Hollyberry Cookie was a bit stunted but realizes that you are the one who saved her, screaming a 'Shoo! Leave me and my girlfriend alone! Now shoo!!"

After you and your girlfriend successfully (and excitedly) find the rarest berry from the forest, you enjoyed it with an ice cold glass of juice while your girlfriend constantly teased you affectionately about your opposite personality.

Hollyberry Cookie loved that side of you, so she invited you another date but this time, to travel to all 4 corners of Earthbread. Or perhaps, she just wants this side of you more often...

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

Do not republish, edit, or repost to other websites.

Reblogs and likes are appreciated! 💕

[sholangagaga]

Glamstar Fam AU Headcanons P2

Gregory is still the kid with no background/homeless

Freddy found him hiding behind the arcade machine in his green room

And proceeded to freak the fuck out

"We must return you to your parents!" "Uh, about that"

Freddy doesn't want to send Gregory to god knows where, so he decides to adopt him

Takes a bit of convincing with the higher ups, but essentially Gregory gets a job at the Pizzaplex so hes not just a child with no purpose

It takes even longer to convince the others to accept Gregory

Bonnie and Chica are first, followed by Roxy and then Monty

Sun absolutely adores Gregory (when hes behaved)

Moon would rather gargle shrapnel than spend 5 minutes with that boy

Freddy settles into his role as father to a menace suprisingly well, but hes a bit too soft and tends to only encourage and coddle Gregory

And he refuses to believe Gregory does anything wrong, even if he had just WATCHED the kid do something bad

"Isnt Gregory such a good boy?" "Freddy h—" "Truly the best" "Fred—" "Come on Superstar let's get some ice cream" "FREDDY HE KEEPS PUTTING MAGNETS ON THE TICKET MACHINES"

No one gets decommissioned or sidelined in this one so mayhaps theres a glamrock Foxy lurking around~

Roxanne hates Foxy by association because sometimes children will slip up and call HER "Foxy"

Bonnie taught Monty how to play bass

Sun and Moon are (of course) theatre kids on opposite sides of the spectrum

Bonnie makes a mean ice cream float

Roxy drinks like 5 a day but refuses to personally order it so she uses Staffbots to do it

Bonnie knows its her every single time

Monty may have a crush on Roxy

But she breaks his heart each time she says she hates golf

Chica loves giving Gregory food and candy

"Here Greggy!" "Oh, sweet! I've been craving can— Eugh, PIZZA flavored licorice?!" "Premium Fazzy Ropes, trademarked to Faz Entertainment! May cause intestinal cramping, diarrhea, and vomitting!"

[daintyduck99]

I wish you would write a fic where Julie is Lady Death and fell in love with Reggie when he was still alive and now can't bring her to help him cross over because that means she'll never see him again.

Reggie blinks, staring at his smooth hands so hard that his vision blurs. 

It's easier to look at them than the woman seated across from him, with her flowing gown and waterfall of dark curls and her rueful smile like winter rapids, beautiful on the surface, but with the danger of drowning lurking beneath. He shivers as he flexes his fingers, marveling at the ease, the agility. 

While the signs of age have been stripped away, some imperfections linger—calluses and guitar string scars still litter his hands. Why? None of it makes any sense. If anything, he'd expected to see the boys, or maybe his mom, or his dog, in a bright room that screamed "heaven," not—this. 

The woman sighs, and Reggie studies her through his lashes. She taps the rim of her teacup listlessly, and Reggie’s fills with—amber liquid? It smells like licorice. She laughs, and he looks, and her eyes churn with so many emotions that they burn in his lungs like he swallowed too fast. 

Somehow, he keeps breathing anyway. 

"It's licorice root tea," she murmurs, "I thought you'd like it." 

Oh fuck oh no he's pissed off some kind of  goddess and now he's being detained and why won't his brain SHUT UP she can HEAR him don't think about how scary or how pretty she is or—wait, isn't she the rude one for reading his thoughts? What— 

She holds up her hand, biting her lip. 

"I can't exactly read your thoughts, I just sense the general emotions. I didn't mean to freak you out." She slowly retracts her hand, tucking some of her curls behind her ear. "Unfortunately, I tend to have that effect on people," she mumbles, crumbling in on herself, and Reggie melts. 

"Hey, no, you're not that scary! I mean, I'm pretty sure I died and that's super freaky, and you do have this whole aura of—smothering power? But it was kind of you to, uh—conjure? Conjure me some tea! And your eyes are so—striking.  Expressive! Anyway, once you get past the whole death stigma, you're really cute." 

She gasps, and he's so dead—again—but then he's utterly disarmed by her grin, gap-toothed and unaccompanied by the chill from before. 

A flicker of who she used to be?

"You're sweet, Reggie. Thank you. I do hate to intrude and to frighten people, but it comes with the territory of being Lady Death." 

He takes a sip of his tea like it'll explain away his warm cheeks, like she can't sense his emotions, and the licorice bursts across his palate, sticks to the roof of his mouth, cloyingly sweet. She tilts her head as she continues to smile at him—she knows she was right. He does like it. 

"Do you—do you greet everyone personally?" 

Julie hums, tracing the floral pattern on her saucer. A bit of frost has crept back into her eyes, her movements. 

"In a sense, yes. If I'd done it properly, you'd have no idea. Things would already be—more like you expected." 

He doesn't ask, but she flinches, almost as if his curiosity scalds her. 

"Reggie—I'm selfish when it comes to you. I thought I'd be ready for you to cross over, but I'm not. You're not mine to lose—" 

"But you love me," Reggie chokes, swept away by the realization. Lady Death shrugs. Her smile is stained with fog. 

"I do. And what of it? I can't keep you. You have to cross over, and I have a job to do. I've already held onto your soul for too long." 

"I haven't finished my tea, though," he blurts. Her lips part in surprise. 

"I—suppose you haven't," she acknowledges, "would you—like to?" 

He reaches through the chill for her hand, embracing the shock as their fingers intertwine. Maybe he'll get to kiss her before he goes, to dive into the rapids. Maybe he'll follow her as she travels the world, collecting souls, maybe he'll never see her mournful brown eyes again, or maybe she'll find him someday in heaven, having passed on her mantle to another. 

But for now—they're holding hands and having tea like it's a regular winter morning. 

[societybabylon]

Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.  

It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.  

“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”

Lifelong enemies Allie and Harry are devastated when they learn they are soulmates, so they form a pact to never act on their bond. Unfortunately, fate has other plans for them.

[read on ao3 here]

“Do you want to know your fate?”

Allie watched the old man place a crystal ball on the table in front of him. The bauble was unassuming and slightly dirty. Honestly, Allie wouldn’t have been surprised if it were made of plastic. It, like everything else in the cluttered store, looked cheap and fake. But then again, what did she know about the world of psychics? That’s why she was here, after all: she wanted answers about her future.

It was the day before Allie’s thirteenth birthday, and she was at a fortuneteller’s shop. Her friend Becca had insisted they come here to celebrate her impending soulmate reveal. Perhaps, Becca said, they could get a little insight into who she would be paired with.  

Allie’s world revolved around soulmates. When two people were ideally matched, an unbreakable soul bond tied the pair together. And two rules applied to all soulmates:

First, the bond was manifested in a tattoo. Everybody had their partner’s name written on their body somewhere. These tattoos didn’t require needles or ink; they showed up on their own, as if by magic.

Second, the tattooed names didn’t appear until the thirteenth birthday of the younger person in each couple. On that day, both soulmates would wake up to find themselves marked with their other half’s name.  

Assuming Allie’s soulmate was older than she was, there was only one day left until she learned who she was bonded to.  

Allie gazed at the crystal ball. Behind the fortuneteller, a pink neon sign buzzed an electric tune. The lights cast a dim glow throughout the small store.  

The psychic seemed over-the-top to her, not that she would ever tell Becca that. The man sitting across from her seemed more like a crackpot than a sage. His greasy hair hung in his face, so long that it nearly obscured his eyes. He reeked of licorice and burnt lavender. But they had already paid the man his fee, so they might as well hear what predictions he could conjure up for them.

“Do you want to know your fate?” he repeated. “Once you learn it, you can’t go back.”

“Yes,” Allie said. “I’m ready.”

The fortuneteller muttered a few unintelligible words and stared deeply into the crystal ball. “Hmm...it’s foggy, but some images are starting to come into focus. Ah, yes. I can see it now.”

To Allie, the crystal ball looked exactly as it did before.  

“I see money stained with blood. Tears and white bedsheets. Two bodies, submerged in water. A cellphone is ringing, but no one is picking up.”

“Okay,” Allie tried to figure out how to respond to this prophecy. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she certainly hadn’t thought he would list such unpleasant images. “But what does that mean?”

“These images foretell rejection and denial. You will learn who your soulmate is tomorrow, but you will be unhappy when you learn who you have been paired with. This bond will confuse you and bring you unhappiness. Yes, I definitely sense rejection and denial.”

Allie was stunned. “Do you see anything else? Like, happiness and love, maybe?”

“I cannot see specifics,” he responded with contempt. “That is not how my gift works.”

Of course the fraud fortuneteller wouldn’t be able to see specifics. She had shelled out good money for him to ruin her day. She protested, “But—”

The man cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Do not disrespect my craft. Just because you demand answers of me doesn’t mean that I’ll give them to you. I only see what the universe shows me.”

Allie glanced back at the crystal ball, which was still maddeningly clear. There were no bloodied dollar bills, no ringing cellphones. The fortuneteller could have invented any story he wanted. He could have reported that he had seen her in a happy relationship and with a successful career. And yet he deliberately chose to give her a bad fortune.  

“You must see something good in the crystal ball, right?” Becca murmured. She had been quietly listening in on the conversation between Allie and the psychic for the last fifteen minutes, mostly content to observe. “I mean, it can’t all be bad.”

“Actually, it can,” the man snapped. “I do not control your future. I merely pass on the messages that the universe sends me.”

“So you’re saying that rejection is my fate, and there’s nothing I can do to change that?” Allie said.

The man nodded eagerly, as if glad that she was finally catching on. “Precisely.”

“And why should I believe that?” Allie usually wasn’t so confrontational, especially with adults, but this fortuneteller was an exception. What did he know about her soulmate? Nothing.

The man scrutinized her frowning face. His lips went thin with irritation. “I think we are done here. I’ve told you what I saw. It’s not my problem if you don’t like the truth.”

Allie nearly scoffed. He read tea leaves and tarot cards for a living. He probably got pleasure out of ruining his customers’ days. Staring into a crystal ball and mumbling about dark visions wasn’t the truth, it was a cruel joke.

At least, she hoped it was a joke. There was a part of her (a part she tried to ignore) that worried that his predictions might come to pass. She pictured the images the man had mentioned—blood, tears, bodies in water—and she saw death. She shivered at the thought.

“Thanks for the crystal ball reading,” Becca cut in before Allie could offend the fortuneteller even more. “Well, we should probably go. My mom’s waiting for us outside.”

The fortuneteller wasn’t even listening. His attention had strayed to a stained, crumpled box of cigarettes that sat by his side. He picked one cigarette from the pack and sparked it with a pink lighter from his pocket.

Allie felt anger on her tongue, ready to be sharpened into spiteful words, but she could see that Becca was anxious to leave. She smothered her fury for her friend’s sake. “Yeah, thanks for the fortune.”

She stood up and walked out of the store with Becca. As the wooden door swung shut behind her, she turned around to give the fortuneteller one last glance. Thick smoke swirled around his head. His eyes were closed as if he had already forgotten that they were there.  

What did a man like that know about her fate?

+

The next day, Allie woke up at five in the morning. She was too giddy to go back to sleep. Despite how horribly the visit to the fortuneteller had gone, she was still excited by the potential of finding out who she was bonded to. She’d been waiting her entire life to see her soulmate’s name tattooed on her.  

She checked her wrists, a common spot for soulmate marks. They were blank. Her arms and legs, too, were bare. In fact, every visible inch of skin was unmarked.

Don’t worry, she reminded herself. It’s probably just hidden under some clothing.

She lifted the edge of her pajama shirt and walked to her mirror to get a closer look at herself. As she scanned over the planes of her stomach and saw more blank skin, she felt growing disappointment. It seemed that she hadn’t gotten her tattoo after all. Her soulmate was probably younger than she was, which meant she would have to wait until his thirteenth birthday to find out who he was.

But then she spotted a scribble of black near her waist. The writing was scrawled across her left hipbone in messy, boyish letters. She bent down to get a closer look at the words.  

Harry Bingham.

She gasped.  

Harry Bingham? No, it wasn’t possible. Harry had been her sister’s sworn enemy since preschool, which meant that by default, she and Harry were also enemies. Almost every time they had a conversation (a misfortune she did her best to avoid), he was arrogant and entitled and cruel.  

“No, no, no,” Allie said to herself. “This can’t be real.”

She paced her room, trying to rationalize why she was paired with Harry. She and Harry were nothing alike. It should have been impossible for them to be soulmates.  

Maybe this was some sort of cosmic joke, or the universe’s revenge for the times she’d been a bad person. Or maybe, while she had been sleeping, her sister decided to write Harry’s name on her as a prank. All those explanations were more logical than the thought that she might actually soulmates with Harry Bingham.

“This can’t be real,” she repeated.

But the ink was underneath her skin. As much as she wished that she could blink and watch the tattoo vanish before her eyes, she knew the mark was permanent. It would stay on her body forever, reminding her of the boy she’d been chained to.

When she took her shower later that morning, Allie tried, in a half-crazed stupor, to wash the name from her body. She scrubbed with her loofa until her skin was raw and red. But Harry’s name was still printed on her hipbone.  

After the shower, Allie dressed hastily, as if covering the mark would mean that it no longer existed. She even considered stealing a bottle of concealer from her sister’s room and smearing the makeup over her hip, but she feared that Cassandra would catch her in the act. Her mind was racing for solutions, and yet she was paralyzed by inaction.  

She curled up on her covers, her hair still damp. She was too stunned to cry. Instead, she just stared at the walls, trying to decode the mess she had landed in.  

By ten, Allie knew she could not hide in her room any longer. She crept downstairs to the kitchen, where her dad was flipping pancakes and humming along to a pop song. Cassandra and her mom were setting the table for breakfast. They had even put out a vase filled with her favorite peonies.  

“Morning, birthday girl,” her mom said.  

“Morning,” Allie replied, faking a grin. Her lower lip trembled from her anxiety.  

“I’m surprised you woke up late,” her dad said. “I remember waking up at the crack of dawn on my thirteenth birthday. I was so anxious I almost got sick. And then it turned out that there wasn’t even a tattoo on me!”  

“Sorry, dad, but even my birthday isn’t enough to get me to wake up early.” Lie. 

“You ready for breakfast?”

“Of course.” Another lie. Truthfully, she was terrified. She knew her family would use breakfast as an opportunity to spring the dreaded question: do you know who your soulmate is?

Her dad plated the golden pancakes and coated them with pats of butter and gooey, sugary syrup. He brought the food to the table, and they all sat down to eat.  

Allie shoved pieces of pancake into her mouth as if she were Joey Chestnut on steroids. She hoped that if her cheeks were stuffed with food, her family would let her eat her breakfast in peace instead of poking her for information.  

Across from Allie, Cassandra was only on her second bite of breakfast. She had cut her pancakes into delicate, precise slices and had taken care to ensure the syrup was evenly distributed. Even when taking sips from her orange juice, she was polished.

Perfect Cassandra, Allie thought. She would never be bound to someone as awful as Harry.  

“I remember my thirteenth birthday,” Allie’s mom said in between bites of pancake, seemingly clueless to the turmoil tearing her daughter apart. “I woke up and saw your dad’s name on the inside of my arm. But I had no clue who he was! Your generation is lucky to have the internet. You can Google your soulmate’s name and immediately find out who they are. We were in the dark about our soulmates until we met them in person.”

“Unless you knew your soulmate before you turned thirteen,” Cassandra pointed out. “Like, if you were paired up with someone that went to elementary school with you. Then you wouldn’t need the internet to help find them.”

Allie almost choked on her juice. That comment was uncomfortably close to her reality.

“I suppose that’s true,” her mom said. “That’s very rare, though. Your dad and I met when we were twenty-two, and we met earlier than most.”

“Well, I think it’s better not to use the internet to find your soulmate,” Cassandra declared. She said this frequently, especially when she was asked why she didn’t have social media. “I think you should meet your soulmate naturally, as you were supposed to.”

“So, Allie,” her mom turned to look at her. “Do you have any news for us yet?”

Allie went red. This conversation felt intensely wrong. Worse than the “sex talk” her parents had given her when she was eight. Although she had never considered it before, she wondered why her family felt like they were entitled to this information about her body and her future. Their society had bought into the idea that everyone should wear their soulmate tattoos like a badge of honor—but shouldn’t people be allowed to keep this information private?  

Allie was ashamed of her mark. She didn’t want to admit that she had been paired with West Ham’s most obnoxious idiot.  

“I don’t have a tattoo yet,” Allie lied, desperately hoping that her family would buy her act. “Guess he must be younger than me.”  

“Oh,” her mom said, clearly a little surprised. Her mom and her dad shared a look. “Well, that’s okay, honey. I’m sure you’ll find out who he is soon enough. Your thirteenth birthday doesn’t have to be all about finding your soulmate. You’re so young! You can worry about that later. Today’s still going to be a great day. ”

Allie almost laughed. Her parents thought she would be upset because she hadn’t gotten her tattoo. If they knew the truth...

“Yeah,” Allie said, grateful that her family didn’t prod further. And then she told her greatest lie of the morning. “I don’t really care about soulmates, anyway.”  

+

After breakfast, while her parents washed the dishes, Allie went back to hiding in her bedroom. She buried her head in the covers of her bed and let her emotions swallow her.

Harry Bingham, she thought again. How on Earth could I have been paired with Harry Bingham? We’re nothing alike.

She startled at the sound of her door swinging open. It was her sister. Cassandra wore a small, close-lipped smile that set Allie’s nerves on fire. Allie realized immediately that despite escaping the breakfast interrogation, she hadn’t escaped her sister.  

Cassandra sat down on the bed.

“You know you can knock, right?” Allie asked sharply.

“Sorry,” Cassandra said, entirely unapologetic. “So, who is it?”  

It was unlike Cassandra to be so upfront. Usually, she was the more reserved one, always telling Allie to calm down or be more patient.  

“It’s nobody. I told you, I didn’t find a tattoo on my body.”

“I know you’re lying,” Cassandra said. “I can hear it in your voice. You can fool mom and dad, but you can’t fool me.”

Anxiety shot through Allie. She thought that her performance at breakfast was Oscar-worthy, but as always, Cassandra saw through her lies. “I don’t want to tell you, okay? It’s none of your business.”

“I told you the second I found out who mine was.” Cassandra emphasized her point by sticking her wrist, which was encircled with blank ink, in Allie’s face.  

Allie could feel her panic growing. Her sister had a point, but Allie couldn’t possibly tell her the truth. How could she?

Allie imagined speaking Harry’s name aloud. She pictured her sister’s reaction, her mouth gaping wide and her eyebrows raised in shock. Cassandra would stutter out a kind response. She would try to make her congratulations sound convincing. Yet no matter what was said, they would both know the truth: Cassandra hated Harry, truly hated him. And that would never change.  

No, Allie could not tell the truth.  

“Just tell me.” Cassandra pushed. “I’m your sister. You can trust me.”

Allie’s eyes filled with stinging tears. “I do trust you, I promise. But I can’t tell you. Please, Cassandra, please just take my word for it. Please.”

Her sister looked bewildered. Allie knew Cassandra had never seen her beg like this before.  

“Fine.” Allie could hear the hurt in her sister’s voice. “You have to tell me one day, though. A soulmate’s not the kind of secret you can hide forever.”

Maybe not, Allie thought. But I can try.

+

When Allie arrived at school the next day, she was determined to corner Harry and confront him about the tattoo.  

As it turned out, she didn’t need to search for him. While she was walking down the hallway, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the lockers into a tight nook. It was Harry. Anger blazed in his eyes. He held up a cautious finger to his lips, shushing her. “Don’t say a word.”

Allie nodded. He stared at her suspiciously, as if he was worried that she would start screaming.  

“I think you probably know why I wanted to talk. I’m guessing it was your thirteenth birthday yesterday, Pressman. I don’t know what else could explain the tattoo I woke up with. And to think that I thought I would have a soulmate I liked.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “You probably prayed every night that you would end up with someone like me, huh?”

He was infuriating. She couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to think that she would ever be interested in him.

“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” Allie said. “Harry, you’re pretty much the last person I’d want to be bonded to.”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. You think I want to be part of your shitty family?”  

That was one step too far. She was half considering throwing a punch at him. She could do it if she wanted; in this nook, they were hidden from the eyes of their teachers and classmates.

“You’re an asshole,” she spat.

“Bitch.”

Allie wished she could vaporize him on the spot. How could she have been chained to such a callous jerk?  

She thought of clever retorts she could say to him, insults that would permanently puncture his inflated pride. Though Cassandra was usually in the spotlight for her intelligence, no one could beat Allie’s wit. She could trade barbs with the best.

Allie considered those rumors that she had overheard about his parents’ loveless marriage. Yes, that would be a fertile site for insults.  

She opened her mouth, prepared to escalate the argument. But she stopped herself before she could say anything.  

What good would fighting with Harry do? At the end of the day, she would still have his name written on her hip.  

Looking at him, she found that he, too, appeared to be at a loss for words. Though he still wore an angry sneer, his eyes were sad. It seemed that they both came to the same realization: they could hurl nasty words at each other for hours, but it wouldn’t fix their situation. If they wanted to overcome their bond, they’d have to work together.

“We’re stuck with each other until we die, aren’t we?” Harry let out a deep sigh. His furious mask cracked, and Allie glimpsed genuine misery and anxiety on his face.  

For a moment, neither of them said anything.  

Then, a brilliant thought struck Allie. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. “We don’t have to be stuck with each other. There are plenty of soulmates who reject the bond.”  

“I guess.” Harry scrutinized her. She could tell he was considering her suggestion. “But how would we make sure that we’ve rejected it permanently? I wouldn’t want you falling in love with me five years from now, Pressman.”

Allie rolled her eyes. “Harry, it’s us. There’s literally no way we’re ever going to be friends, much less…well, you know.”

He nodded. “Okay. So what are you thinking?”

In her mind, a plan started to fall into place. A simple, perfect plan. “We both have to promise that we’ll never speak of this…this bond to anyone else. Ever. We have to keep it a secret until the day we die.”

“Like a pact?” Harry asked.  

“Yes, a pact. Except a pact isn’t enough. We have to do more than that. Before we turn twenty, we both have to agree to get our marks covered up.”

Harry seemed much less certain about this suggestion. Covering up soulmate tattoos was technically illegal. Most tattoo artists outright refused to do it, and those who were caught in the act could face up to a year in jail time. Eventually, however, he conceded, “Okay, fine. I can agree to that. But you need to swear on your life that you’re going to get yours covered up, too. This is a two-way street, Pressman. If I’m going to jail, so are you.”

“I swear on my life I’ll...,” Allie paused, considering her words. “You know, I feel like we should have some official pledge or something. For example, I, Allie Pressman, swear on my life that I will never mention that my soulmate is Harry Bingham. I will do everything in my power to keep my tattoo hidden.”  

Harry snorted. “Who do you think you are? The queen? Let’s just shake on it and call it a day.”

Allie glared at him. “Just say the damn words, will you?”

“Fine. I, Harry Bingham, swear on my life that I will never mention my soulmate is Allie Pressman. I will do everything I can to keep my tattoo hidden. Yada yada yada, you get the gist. Can I go now?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were the one who pulled me behind these lockers in the first place.”

“Touché.”

Just like that, it was settled. Their soulmate marks were a secret that they alone would keep. And they would never, ever act on their bond.  

+

For two years after that, neither Harry nor Allie spoke about the curse they shared. They didn’t interact in the hallway or the classroom. They both pretended that the other didn’t exist, and they were both happy with this arrangement.  

While her classmates celebrated their budding relationships or dreamed of the day they met their other half, Allie fantasized about getting a new, large tattoo to cover up the one on her hip. She was fifteen now; there were only a few more years until she could write Harry off as a memory.

Sometimes, she heard murmurs about him in the hallway. Sometimes, it seemed all of West Ham High School wanted to know his soulmate’s identity. Between his looks and his wealth, Harry was considered an ideal match. But no one was ever able to discover whose name was on his body.

Harry was hardly a factor in her life, much less her soulmate. He was a problem that she had solved, and she was content to let him stay that way.  

+

Mid-October during her sophomore year of high school, Allie planned a trip to Manhattan. Her aunt, who lived in Virginia, was having a weekend getaway to the city, and she had invited both Allie and Cassandra to join for the last day of her vacation.  

A week before the trip, Allie reminded Cassandra (who was swamped with homework as always) about their aunt’s visit. “Do you want to come?”

“What day are you going?” her sister replied.

“This Sunday.”

Cassandra frowned. “I can’t. I have to study for a math test that day. My grade is on the edge right now, and if I do poorly on the exam, I’ll get a B+ in the class. I can’t risk it. Trust me, I would go if I could.”

Allie understood. She knew her sister wanted to go to Yale, and she had seen the statistics. The admissions rate was around six percent. Even for the best of students, Yale was a reach. Allie was a bit sad—the city was always more fun with Cassandra by her side—but she wasn’t a child anymore, and she didn’t need her sister to accompany her everywhere.

“It’s no problem,” Allie reassured. “Just let me know if there’s anything that you want me to buy for you while I’m down there.”

+

Allie went to the city alone, bringing only her black purse and her cell phone with her. She arrived at Penn Station in the early morning. Aunt Carly, decked out in her characteristic prints and bold colors, was waiting for her.  

“Allie!” her aunt hollered. Her obnoxiously bright orange-red lip gloss matched the color of her handbag perfectly. “It’s been so long since I last saw you. You look taller—have you grown?”

Allie gave her aunt a tight hug and laughed. “Since August? No, I don’t think so. Same height as always.”

“Any boys?” Her aunt asked with a wink.

Allie’s chest tightened. She hated that question, truly hated it. “Nope, no one yet. But I’m happy being single.”

Luckily, Aunt Carly dropped the subject, and moved on to talking about a list of all the clothes and books and trinkets the two of them would be splurging on throughout the day. There was no budget, it seemed; Aunt Carly acted as though her pockets were bottomless.

They spent the first part of the day shopping on Fifth Avenue and hopping into trendy boutiques. Aunt Carly bought dozens of clothes with dizzyingly high prices. By the time they went to eat lunch, her aunt had seven large shopping bags in her arms. Allie was more frugal; she had bought one bag’s worth of clothes.

After lunch, they spent their time exploring Manhattan. They meandered through the streets, grabbing snacks in between people watching. Allie loved the vibrancy and anonymity of urban life.  Here, she shed the labels that followed her in West Ham.  

After ending the day with burgers and fries at the Shake Shack in Grand Central Station, her aunt prepared to board her train back to Virginia. Her tiny frame was dwarfed by the assortment of large bags and suitcases she carried with her.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay walking back to Penn Station?” Aunt Carly asked. “I wish we had arranged a train for you from here. The walk is so far.”

“I’ll be fine,” Allie promised. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Actually, you know what?” Aunt Carly pulled her green wallet out of her purse and grabbed a couple of twenty-dollar bills from its folds. “I just don’t feel comfortable with you walking all that way. Take this money and take a cab. Please, do it for my peace of mind. I would feel much safer if you did.”

“Okay, I will,” Allie said, knowing full well that she was lying. “Have a safe trip home!”

Allie watched as her aunt took her bags and boarded the train. As soon as Carly was out of sight, she pocketed the money for herself. That money could be useful for another day. And, she thought, there was something kind of peaceful about a solitary night walk.

She left Grand Central and pulled up the directions to Penn Station on her phone. It was dark outside, but the way was straightforward enough, so she put away the phone and let herself fully absorb the city. She was mesmerized by the myriad of people who surrounded her. It was truly electric.

Allie peered into clubs where the night was only beginning, and where men and women knocked back liquor like it was water. She walked by a row of cramped food trucks, where the heavy scent of spices soaked in through her lungs and warmed her to the core. Compared to West Ham, New York City might as well have been another planet—a wondrous, delightful alien world.  

She must have taken a wrong turn, because she realized she had walked halfway down an alleyway she didn’t recognize. The near-omnipresent city crowd had disappeared. The only sounds were the quiet hum of cars on busy streets and the plinking sound of water dripping from a drainpipe onto the street.  

Allie suddenly felt very, very small.

She couldn’t have gone too far from a main street. So she told herself that she shouldn’t be worrying, really. All she had to do was walk through to the other end of the alley. Once she was back on a major road, she could pull out her phone again and check for directions.

Allie walked down the narrow street, thinking, for the first time, that maybe she should have taken that cab after all. In polluted Manhattan, there were no stars to light her way. The drainpipe’s dripping water drummed an eerie rhythm—plink, plink, plink.

Behind her, slow footsteps made squishing sounds on the wet pavement. She glanced over her shoulder quickly. It was a man, tall and blonde, strolling nonchalantly toward her. He seemed to have emerged fully formed from shadow. His eyes traced over her with feigned disinterest, only to light up when he set his sights on her purse and shopping bag.  

She picked up her pace. The footsteps behind her sped up to match her strides.  

That couldn’t be a coincidence. A host of horrible nightmares burst into her head. Assault, murder, robbery...

She needed to walk faster.

Allie started scurrying down the street.  

So did he.  

When Allie glanced over her shoulder again, she could see the man closing in on her. Terrified, she broke into a sprint. But just as before, he mirrored her actions, and from the sound of it, he was a faster runner than she.  

A cold hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her back mid-run. Allie tripped and went tumbling to the ground. The palm of her left hand scraped across gritty gravel, tearing her skin open. Blood oozed out from the cut and dribbled onto the street.

Allie stared up at the man with wide, stunned eyes. He whipped out a black glock from the pocket of his oversized jacket. His hands shook as if he had never pointed a killing weapon at another person before. Up close, he looked young, perhaps only one or two years older than her.  

Adrenaline jolted through her body, waking her up from her dreamy wandering. The pain of her injury receded as she focused on the weapon in front of her. This could be life or death, she realized. She had taken one wrong turn and ended up against the barrel of a gun.

“Give me your bags,” the man demanded.  

“What?”

“Did I fucking stutter?” And indeed, though his hands shook, his voice was calm.

The man jerked his gun in the direction of her purse and shopping bag as if his threat hadn’t been clear enough.  

“Okay, okay,” Allie said in rushed breaths.  

She took off her bags with her wounded hand and held them out to him. She stifled a cry as her purse’s handle bit into her skin. Her blood smeared over the metal, streaking it with red.

In a swift move, he snatched her belongings from her fingers. It amazed her how deftly he could move while still managing to point his gun at her.  

He quickly pulled her wallet out of her purse and rifled through paper bills quickly, including the money that her aunt had given her for a taxi. In the dim light of the alley, she could see her blood glistening on his fingertips, marking up every paper bill he touched.

He shut the wallet with a snap. His eyes darted nervously to each side of the alleyway, presumably checking to ensure no one had seen him rob her.  

“Now, close your eyes and count to thirty,” he ordered. For added intimidation, he waved his gun at her again. “And count slowly.”

Allie nearly whimpered with fear, but did as he said. She let her vision go dark. Without her sight, she couldn’t help but imagine his finger on the trigger, ready to kill her. She wasn’t putting up a fight. It would be an easy crime.  

“One. Two. Three…” she counted.  

But the shot never came. She heard the muffled thunk of fabric meeting heavy plastic, and then the squish of his feet as he sprinted down the alleyway. In seconds, she could no longer hear him at all. The city had swallowed him up. She was alone again.  

Allie opened her eyes and slowly rose from the ground. She winced as she plucked jagged pieces of gravel from her hands. She could still feel cold fear curling in her chest, although that emotion was quickly being replaced by the panicked realization that she had just lost her money and her ticket back home.

She was lucky about one thing: he hadn’t asked her to empty her pockets. Her phone was still tucked snuggly in the back pocket of her jeans.

+

Allie dialed Cassandra’s number. It was past midnight, so there was a high likelihood that her sister would already be asleep, especially since she had a test the next day. Her parents, notorious for going to bed early, would certainly already have dozed off.  

The line rang and rang, but Cassandra didn’t pick up. Then: Hi, you’ve reached Cassandra Pressman. Leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.

Since her sister’s phone had gone straight to voicemail, she would have to rely on someone else. She went through her contact list one by one, praying that at least one of her friends would pick up. Will, Becca, Gordie, Bean: none of them answered her calls.

The blood on her left hand had started to clot. Her cell was rapidly running out of battery. She needed someone to pick up.  

She scrolled through her contacts again, calling people she barely knew. She even called Elle Tomkins, who she had spoken maybe a total of three words to. Over and over, she was met with disappointment when no one picked up.

Allie was quickly running out of options when she came across a person she had tried to push to the corners of her mind. Her finger hovered over his name in her contact list. 

Harry Bingham.  

It seemed wrong to call him. Wrong, when he was constantly at Cassandra’s throat. Wrong, when they had done everything possible to ignore each other since she turned thirteen.  

You know what? Allie thought to herself. Fuck it.  

Before she could stop herself, she called him.  

He picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Hey. It’s Allie.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s the twenty-first century. I have caller I.D. What do you want?”

Ugh. Though his rudeness was no surprise, it still irked her. But at this point, it seemed like he was her only hope, so she tried to suppress her irritation. “Can I ask you a favor? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have no one else to turn to and I’m scared and I don’t know what else to do.”

“Shit, Allie. Just spit it out.”

“I’m stuck in New York City. A man mugged me and took all my money and my ticket back home. I wouldn’t have called you, except I’ve already tried my family and all my friends. Can you come get me?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. In her head, she pictured him lying in bed, half-asleep and sneering at her. She imagined that he was hovering his finger over the red button on his phone, ready to end the call at any moment. Knowing Harry, he would probably hang up on her and go right back to sleep, and in the morning he’d forget that she’d ever called him.  

“Hello?” she said, breaking the silence. “Harry? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” He sighed. “You’re going to owe me for this, Pressman.”

Relief rushed over her. “So you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I will. Might be a couple of hours before I can get to you, though. I’m going to have to take an Amtrak or something, because my dad will get pissed if I start racking up miles on my car.” The trains from West Ham to Penn Station took an hour and a half minimum, and since fewer trains ran at night, the next train to the city probably wouldn’t be for a while. “Do you have somewhere safe to stay until then?”

“Um, I was just planning on waiting around at the train station.”

“Jesus Christ.” He cursed under his breath. “You so owe me for this. Alright, walk to the Waterwhite Hotel. It’s only two blocks from the station. Tell the person at the front desk that you’re a friend of the Bingham family. They’ll let you wait in the lobby until I show up.”

A cool rush of relief flooded her. “Harry? Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it. Like, seriously. Don’t mention this to anyone.”  

+

Harry arrived at the Waterwhite a little over two hours later. His shirt was rumpled and he looked like he desperately needed two shots of espresso. Allie had never seen him look so disheveled. He must have come immediately after she called him.  

Allie was waiting for him on a modern, dark blue couch in the hotel lobby. She watched as he walked over to the tall brunette working the reception desk. He smiled and said something to the woman. Her previously bored expression turned happy, and she pointed to where Allie was sitting. Allie could see him thanking her with one of his classic Bingham smiles before walking over to where she was waiting. Even bedraggled, he still somehow managed to charm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. If he noticed her state of distress—her grimy shoes, her still-bloody hand, her tired red eyes—he did not comment on it.  

She nodded. “Thank you, again, Harry. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”  

He didn’t respond. They walked to the train station in near silence. The clacking of her shoes on the pavement was the only sound either of them made on the way there.

When they reached Penn Station, Harry paid for her Amtrak ticket back to West Ham in cash. This, too, was a near-wordless exchange. She thanked him. He merely grunted in response.

After waiting for thirty minutes, their train arrived. Unlike most trains out of the city, this one was near empty, occupied only by sleep-deprived workers commuting to their morning shift and a few odd stragglers.

Allie slid into a seat near the front of a car. Rather than sliding into the seat next to her, Harry spread himself out on the row of seats across from her. He rested his back against the window, stretched his legs across the seats, and let his feet dangle into the aisle.

Allie pulled out her phone to check the time. 3:23 a.m. was etched in glowing lights.  

The train rolled to a start. Harry closed his eyes and slouched in his seat as if he hoped to resume the sleep he had been enjoying before she had called. When he stretched his arms behind his head, his shirt rose to expose a sliver of skin by his hip.  

She could see the start of her name, inked on him in her penmanship. Allie Pressman. She had never seen it before. It pained her to look at it, although there was an almost beautiful quality to the tattoo. Unlike tattoos done by hand, a soulmate mark would never fade or need touch-ups.

He dropped his arms. The tattoo vanished under a cascade of black fabric.  

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” He was looking at her with half-shut eyes. So, he’d caught her staring after all.

Maybe it was sheer curiosity, or maybe her tiredness had made her weak, but she wanted to see those words on his skin.  

Without responding, Allie lifted the edge of her top and nudged down one side of her jeans so that his name was fully revealed. The tattoo was the same as always, stark black ink against pale skin. It felt strange to have her mark exposed to the world. No one had ever seen it but her.  

Harry followed her lead. He lifted the edge of his shirt, showing his tattoo to her once more. This time, she could see the entirety of her signature, like a claiming brand on a boy who despised her.  

They sat in silence, examining each other’s inked skin with fascination.  

“It’s weird, isn’t it? Seeing your name on someone else’s body,” she said.

“Yeah, very weird.” Harry tore his eyes away from her skin. Then, with a wry smirk, he said, “Almost as weird as having to cross state lines at three in the morning to pick up your enemy’s little sister.”

“Why did you help me?” she asked, genuinely curious.  

He looked surprised at her question. “Allie, I know what you and your sister think of me, but I’m not a bad person. I wasn’t going to leave you stranded in New York.”

Allie didn’t quite know what to say to that. Harry was right—she and Cassandra thought he was all West Ham’s worst traits distilled into one human being. Could it really be that after years of hating him, he was worth redeeming?

The train swayed hypnotically on the tracks. The cabin was quiet except for a man snoring three rows away from them. She and Harry stared at each other silently, truly seeing each other for the first time.  

He seemed different in this setting, she noticed. Away from his callous friends and his detached parents, he seemed lost and sad and beautiful and kind.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she finally said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? And what exactly do you think of me? I know you don’t like me, so don’t even try to deny it.”

Allie rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t know, Harry. I think you’re richer than I’ll ever be. I think you’re smart but overconfident. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t think about you much at all.”

Harry smiled at her. Had she ever gotten a genuine smile from him before? She didn’t think so. She was used to his cold glares and bitter frowns, so this unfamiliar expression sent a shock of warmth through her.  

“Don’t think about me at all, huh?” he said. “I’m hurt. Here I was, thinking I’d been in your dreams since thirteen.”

“Haunting my nightmares, maybe,” she retorted.  

“Ouch.” He turned away from her to look out the window.  

Guilt flared up in Allie, although she wasn’t quite sure why. “As if you care what I think of you.”

He turned back to face her. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Why would you think I don’t care?” He sounded surprisingly genuine, completely dropping the teasing tone he’d previously used with her.  

Allie suddenly felt anxious. She was trapped on a train with Harry Bingham, and he kept subverting her expectations. Without the judgment of West Ham hanging over her head, she didn’t know how to behave around him.  

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I think that because of a conversation from many years ago, when we both agreed to pretend that there was nothing between us.”

The train’s fluorescent lights flickered out above them. For a moment, they were plunged into the dark. The only light was the blue glow of the city outside, which bounced brilliantly off Allie’s white sneakers.  

Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.  

It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.  

“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”

Allie could feel her whole body tense up with renewed stress. She was grateful that the lights had gone out—hopefully, he couldn’t see her blushing.  

Why was he divulging this to her?

Harry laughed. The sound was sharp. When he spoke again, his voice was newly guarded. “I never wanted to be bonded with you. I still don’t. But when I look at the ink on my skin, I think of you. Always. So yes, Pressman, I do care what you think of me.”

The train’s lights startled back on. In the full light, Harry studied her for one more moment. His gaze was so intense it felt like it was burning her. She searched for the words to respond to him, but they kept getting stuck on the way to her tongue.  

Before she could come up with anything, he pulled a pair of earbuds from his pocket and shoved them in his ears. He closed his eyes, too, blocking out the sight of her. And just like that, he was back to ignoring her.

+

They arrived at the West Ham train station at five in the morning. The sun had not yet risen, and the dark sky was speckled with tiny stars. Just a short train ride had separated her from the everlasting citylight of New York. Her shopping spree and mugging almost felt as if they were figments of her imagination, although her scraped hands and the missing weight of her purse were painful reminders that the past twenty-four hours had been real.  

“Need a ride home?” Harry asked.  

“If you don’t mind.” She felt guilty for asking so much of him. She hadn’t even expected him to answer her call, and he had ended up coming all the way to New York to get her.  

“It’s whatever,” he said. He rubbed his tired eyes and took out the keys to his Maserati.  

Harry had parked next to the station. They got into the car like phantoms, sucked of all their energy.

Five minutes later, they turned onto Allie’s street. Harry made sure to pull over three houses before hers. That way, her family wouldn’t hear the purr of his engine or see her coming from his car.

“This is just between you and me, right?” Allie asked. “Just like before?”

Harry jerked his chin in response—a drowsy, clumsy attempt at a nod, she assumed. After a beat, he said, “Right. Just like before.”

There was nothing left for her to say to him. So she just said thanks, and then she exited the car.  

He zoomed off the second her door shut behind her. As she watched the silhouette of his Maserati drive out of sight, she was struck once more by what a wild night it had been. She had been saved by her worst enemy. She had sat by him on an old train and in a luxury vehicle. She had shown her mark to him. How out of character—perhaps she had been seized by a bout of insanity after she was mugged.  

She was thankful for his help. She was also ready to go back to forgetting that Harry even existed. With any luck, their relationship would return to the exact state it had been in before: nonexistent.  

[ripplestitchskein]

Whether We Wake or Sleep part 7

Part One     Part Two     Part Three     Part Four   Part Five     Part Six

On AO3

Word Count: approx 11K+   Rating: Teen & Up  (Will be Mature or Explicit in later chapters)

Summary: A canon-divergence set after Killian and Emma return to Rumpelstiltskin’s castle, an expanded epic Captain Swan adventure. Killian and Emma must work to break a new curse, one with an unsettling timeline, and align themselves with friends and foes alike. 

Notes: My everlasting and undying love to my instrumental wife @caprelloidea​ for the read through and the expert beta. And my love to Mandy @thesschesthair​ for my beautiful banner that always makes me smile. 

_____

Maleficent’s answering smile was every bit the reptilian creature that lurked beneath the bubblegum and lollipop exterior before them. She paused for a moment, twirling the bottle idly in her hand.

“My sleeping curse requires a very rare and difficult to procure ingredient. One that is out of my reach now. But if you want more of this potion, then you two will need to fetch it for me.”

Killian slouched, indolent, his eyes already rolling. Emma could tell though, by the set of his jaw, the faint white of his knuckles as he gripped his belt, that he was far more on edge than he appeared, deliberately not looking at her again.

“I'm sure it will be just as simple as popping down to the village market. We’ll make a day of it,” the false cheer and wide blue eyes had unease stirring in her stomach. The arrogant pirate captain of old making an appearance never boded well, brought out when things were particularly dire, when he had few other options at his disposal, but rarely was it because of her decision. It was clear he didn't want her to take this path and it seemed wrong to have him doubt her, to not have his full support.

 “Not quite,” Maleficent was all teeth.

 “What fearsome hell creature are we to slay then?” Killian asked. “Or is this an errand of the rob and run variety?”

 “Nothing quite so dire,” Maleficent eyed the pair of them. “Have you heard of the Forest Mother?”

 Emma and Killian both said “No” in unison but where Emma’s was an answer to the question, Killian’s was a firm declaration of intent. Maleficent’s eyes danced at him.

“Then I'm sure you understand the… difficulties in acquiring it myself,” she addressed the statement to Killian alone.

 “Well I don't,” Emma snapped, impatience and exhaustion threatening what little sanity she had. She was tired of these little meetings of the Super Cryptic Enchanted Forest Club, tired of being on the back foot, beholden to wicked witches and ridiculously poofy sorceresses and never knowing at any moment what fresh new horror awaited them. Tired of feeling like her judgement was impaired, like nothing she did was the right choice. Mostly she was just plain tired. She just wanted to go home, she just wanted to sleep.

 “And I don't care. Charles give her the map.”

 “Love, I don't think-” he started but Emma glared at him, cutting off the coming protest. He sighed, resigned, and shuffled a bit, reaching into the satchel crossed along his chest with jerking, frustrated movements.

 “Forest Mother doesn't sound particularly frightening, I think we can handle it. Mark where we need to go and tell us what the hell we need to get,” Emma bit out.

 Maleficent laughed, tinkly and mocking, enjoying their division. She took the reluctantly offered map.

 “Of course, dear,” she waved a hand, a ridiculous purple feathered quill appearing between her fingers to scrawl a rough circle on the parchment with a pleased flourish. It reminded Emma of contracts signed in blood, of ��souls given away for dark promises. Maleficent let the feather play across her lips for a moment, very much enjoying herself, before vanishing it away. Killian took it back with a false smile, his hand fisting around it as he stuffed it back into his bag.

 “But that won’t be enough,” she crooned. “That forest is where the witch lives but she will be much more difficult to actually find.”

 “Of course she is,” Emma said rolling her eyes. “So how do we find her?”

 Maleficent waved her hand again, a small ball of yarn appearing where the quill had been. It seemed to glow with a golden internal light, definitely not for blankets then, and Killian took this as well, eyeing it skeptically.

 “When you reach the Dark Forest this will guide you to her.”

  “What are we asking her for?” His question was asked with clenched-teeth reluctance, practically vibrating with tension. It was evident he was very much not in favor of this course, and that was particularly troubling considering his usual willingness to do whatever was necessary, despite his or her concerns. It was also extremely aggravating, exhaustion spiking against her nerves. She glared at him, and he looked momentarily cowed, giving her a glance of apology even as his hand squeezed around the yarn, the light glowing between the spaces of his fingers.

 She had seen him brave many terrible things, charging forth without a thought to his well being firsthand. Whoever this “Forest Mother” was he did not want to tangle with her and that was perhaps the most unsettling part of an already terrifying day. Wanted posters on the road, that terrifying climb, a dragon witch, and now some mysterious forest dweller who made him look like he’d rather eat glass than make her acquaintance.

 “The horn of a black unicorn.”

 Emma snorted, her discomfort and Hook’s conflicting behavior forgotten.

 “A unicorn? Seriously? Do you need us to jaunt over to Candyland and steal some gumdrops from Lord Licorice as well?”

 “Not a unicorn,” Maleficent said ignoring her, not even batting an eyelash at what was surely a rather bizarre and definitely not timeline friendly statement. Emma was too exhausted to care anymore.

 “A black unicorn. An aberration, born of darkness and cursed by death himself.”

 “How cheery,” Emma rolled her eyes again. “How much is this unicorn horn going to cost us?”

 “I don't set the price,” Maleficent said. “She’ll let you know.”

 “So something between a farthing and our immortal souls,” Killian said, all sarcasm. Maleficent looked completely unsympathetic.

 “Do you want my potion or not?”

 Killian opened his mouth, no doubt an eloquent description of exactly where the witch could put her potion poised to come out, but Emma was faster.

 “I do. We’ll follow your sparkly ball of yarn and get your stupid evil unicorn horn or whatever,” she stepped in front of him and held out her hand.

 “Just a little taste,” Maleficent beckoned her forward, her voice soft. “To ensure you come back.” She paused. “Well, if she lets you that is.”

 Emma looked down at the bottle once again in the woman's hands, at the long needle she drew out of it, fear rising along her spine. It was thick and wickedly sharp at the end, made of blackened wood, like the spindle of a spinning wheel. Visions of green smoke and raven’s eyes, a pretty cartoon princess caught in a trance flashed through her mind. She had never been a fan of that particular movie as a child and even less so now, facing a needle held by the main attraction.

 “Em-Leia, are you sure you want to do this?” Killian asked quietly behind her.

 She didn't look at him, couldn't look at him, lest her resolve crumble, stepping forward towards Maleficent as her answer instead.

 The sorceress’s hand was icy cold as she took Emma’s in her own, freezing against her skin as she slowly turned her palm up, holding the needle above it.

 “Just a little prick,” Maleficent murmured, and pressed the tip into Emma’s thumb.

 It stung, a sharp stick of pain, and blood welled, dripping down the slope towards her palm as she tried to pull back with a hiss, but it was short lived.

 Emma’s knees buckled suddenly beneath her as a wave of pure sensation washed along her body in a rushing tide. It poured down from her scalp to her toes, an all encompassing ecstasy, a drowsy sort of liquid honey heat filling her up, spilling over. Killian was there in an instant, catching her in his arms, her legs unable to support her as she turned, sagged into him, and moaned against his chest.

 It was the most incredible feeling in the world, a building sort of energy beneath her skin, sparks of heat at the edges setting her alight. She could feel every nerve, every point of contact between them, and she shifted further into his space, unable to help herself, her eyes fluttering closed as she pressed her cheek to the firm hot skin between the vee of his shirt. She was on fire with it, drawing in his warmth, the feel of him beneath her, letting it coalesce with the pleasure sinking into her bones.

 “Oh my god,” Emma panted out against him. He tensed, clutching her tighter with his arms. When she looked up at him, his jaw was set again, his eyes darker, searing into hers, conflicted worry set on his face. Emma swallowed, and grabbed blindly at his shirt, fingers scrabbling across his chest. Her legs felt even weaker if that was possible, no longer sore, and the world was sharper and brighter to her eyes, everything honed around the edges.

 Maleficent’s dark knowing laugh pulled Emma away from it, away from him, had her jerking out of his arms with sudden realization. She was practically climbing the man, and he looked tense and conflicted when she darted her eyes back up to his. He shuffled uncomfortably in place, still clutching the ridiculous ball of yarn. She couldn't care very much though, fleeting thoughts of consequences vanished in an instant, a concern for another day. She couldn't be bothered to worry. Not when she felt like this. Like she had awoken from the world’s best nap, like sheets warmed to body temperature and lazy Sundays in bed, orgasmic delight suffused and concentrated in its purest form. She was boneless and weak with it, but energized as well, electric heat zipping along her limbs. She felt like she could do anything.

 “Don't get used to it dear,” Maleficent's said dryly her eyes raking over her. “The next time is never as incredible as the first.”

 She looked almost sad, glancing down at the bottle clutched in her hand, her face yearning with memory. That was scarier than anything. Emma had spent enough time on the streets, had dealt with enough of the seedier sides of life to know the look of an addict, the hollow emptiness and resignation of the recovered. She almost felt sorry for the witch, and very, very unsure if this was a good idea.

 Maleficent closed her fist around the glass.

 “This is not a cure, mind you, it will only… temporarily mask the symptoms. As soon as that little taste wears off the curse will hit you again, like you had never taken this at all.”

 The thought of going back, of feeling that terrible ache, the helpless fog, or worse, was scarier still, a rapidly building tower of one new fear after another. Emma wanted to snatch the bottle from her hands, hoard it away, keep herself from ever feeling the helpless pain again. Instead she squared her shoulders, shaking out her limbs to rid them of the tingling buzz, and stared at Maleficent levelly, her fingers still trembling.

 “Guess we better get our hands on that horn quickly then.”

 ______

 “This place is creepy as hell.”

 Killian only grunted in response, had only grunted in response since they’d left Maleficent's fortress, his attention fixed firmly on the rapidly unfurling ball of yarn, the tail end tucked into his hand.

 It was incredibly creepy. The Dark Forest, the patch of map Maleficent had indicated, apparently wasn't named for the color of the foliage, or even the amount of light it received, but rather the general feeling of unease it evoked. The bark on the trees was silvery white, reminding Emma of bleached bone, a sea of skeleton sentries surrounding them on every side. Gnarled twisting branches reached down from all angles, like creeping hands and knotted fingers. It was colder in the wood too, the spring to summer sun hidden behind a sudden blanket of gray winter clouds overhead, the wind crisp and chilling. It had her pulling her cloak tighter around her, shifting into Killian’s space to leech his warmth, trying not to feel the pang of hurt when he shifted away.

 Still, it didn't seem to be just the temperature that set a chill to her bones, there was something about the place, a hanging presence, a low fog of disquiet blanketing everything. The red leaves carpeting the forest floor rolled before them like a river of blood, and as with Maleficent’s lake valley, it was completely and utterly silent.

 “I feel a little like a cat,” Emma tried again. His silence was freaking her out as much as their surroundings, the flickering muscle in his cheek making rapid time with their footsteps. If she had been standing closer she imagined she could hear the scrape of his clenched teeth over the rustle of the leaves under their feet.

 That did get his attention however.

 “Pardon?”

 Emma gestured to the yarn. It still glowed with that faint yellow light, the tightly wound ball skipping over the roots and dead leaves, the rocks and furrows, as if it hovered or flew through the air.

 “Cats,” Emma said. “They chase yarn.”

 “They do?” He almost stopped walking.

 “They don't have cats where you come from?” It was a ridiculous conversation but Emma was feeling keyed up and giddy, nervous energy filling the wells of her joints, the rush of adrenaline from the potion slow to fade, and the silence of the wood made her feel like she should say something.

 And Killian was almost... scared. She could tell by the furrow of his brow, the uneasy flicker of his eyes. She had seen him scared before, his face twisted in fear, eyes wide, but it had always been for her, or Henry, never for himself. Fear for himself took on a different cast, like a man determinedly facing the gallows, and it frightened her. He had been uneasy in the castle, reluctant, but now he looked paler and drawn, the yarn almost trembling where he gripped it.

 “Of course they bloody do, but they chase rats and pests not bits of string,” the look on his face was so filled with disgust she had to bite back a smile to keep from laughing at him directly. “What use is chasing a ball of yarn?”

 “It's cute?” Emma offered. He only huffed, and kept moving forward. “Seriously. Killian.” She reached forward, grabbing the arm of his coat to stop him.

 “What is wrong with you?”

 Emma chased his flickering eyes with her own, trying to catch them. She attempted a different question.

 “Who is this Forest Mother?”

 “A children’s tale,” he waved his hand, the string dancing in the air. “A fairy story.”

 “Lemme guess, she's not the nicest witch in the wood?”

 Killian gave a little motion, a half shrug. A lie told in body language.

 “She is not a figure of evil if that’s what you’re asking,” he said finally, and continued forward, the ball of yarn further ahead of them now.

 “Then why are are you all-” Emma gestured at him as she walked. “Like this.”

 He was silent a moment, before he sighed, resigned.

 “When I was a lad, the crew, they told all sorts of tales, not a lot to do on a ship after all. Many of them were the cautionary sort, meant to frighten children in the night, make them think twice about poor behavior. The Forest Mother was a particular favorite of theirs.” He said it matter of factly but his eyes gave away his discomfort, the burden of memory. He may have mastered his voice but he had never quite figured out the eyes.

 The thought of a younger Killian, floppy dark hair and those same revealing eyes, hiding beneath the covers after hearing scary stories in the dark had her heart clenching in her chest.

 “What's so scary about her?” Emma asked softly.

 “She peers into your soul, takes the measure of you, and if she doesn't like what she finds, she throws you into her oven, and consumes you,” Killian said this too as if it was the most normal thing in the world, which she supposed, given where he’d grown up, it was.

 “Where I come from if you’re a bad kid Santa just doesn't bring you presents,” Emma offered.

 “It's said she can see into your soul. Your true soul,” Killian was speaking quietly as he moved, almost inaudible over the sounds of the leaves, ignoring the mention of Santa completely. “Only the pure of heart can seek her help or stand unmolested before her.”

 Emma swallowed, understanding a bit. She could remember the shame and anguish on his face in the cave, the guilt that he carried, always so heavy on his shoulders, weighing him down as surely as his trademark leather coat. Even now he walked as if he still wore it, centuries of terrible deeds trailing behind him.

 “And you thought she was going to...eat you?” Emma asked.

 He flashed her that false smile as they moved forward, chasing the yarn.

 “I was a difficult child, rebellious, for... many reasons,” his smile turned a bit more genuine. “I'm sure that's difficult to believe.”

 “I am having a lot of trouble picturing it,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work, and the smile fell from his face completely.

 “When we’d make shore they’d take us to the woods. Leave us on the edge. A simple jest to keep us in line, but an effective one,” he swallowed, overcome with memory and Emma’s heart lurched. “I never feared the punishment,” he said, looking away from her again, fixated on the ball making its way across the forest floor. “Just the confirmation.”

 “Little you thought he had, what? Some blackened soul?”

 The shrug he gave was small but no less heartbreaking.

 “I imagine if it wasn’t then, it surely is now,” he looked further ahead. “We’re getting behind.”

 “Killian wait-” Emma struggled to follow him, his longer strides eating up more ground than she could cover, plowing through the dense leaves more easily. “Killian-”

 Killian froze in front of her, the strand of yarn falling forgotten to the forest floor. The connection broken, the leading ball seized up as well, shuddering to a stop yards away.

 “What-” before she could say another word Killian grabbed her hand jerking her roughly to the side as hooves sliced the air where she’d been standing. Emma fell hard, pain vibrating up her elbows as she landed, and above her a horse gave a terrible shriek.

 The rider was white as moonlight, pure and glowing before them, a faceless specter on a ghostly mount. She cried out startled, as Killian grabbed her again, barely rolling her out of the way as the creature brought its hooves down once more, clawing at the leaves where she had been sitting.

 “Your sword,” she heard him cry, already drawing his own as he stood. Emma fumbled, rising on wobbly knees with shaking hands, barely able to wrap them around the blade before the rider struck out at her. She scarcely dodged in time, the blade cutting through the air, a sharp whistle in her ear.

 “Swan!” Killian’s yell told her his position behind her but she couldn't take her eyes off their opponent to check his condition.

The rider backed his mount up a few paces, but his blade, a crystalline shard of opalescent glass, was still wickedly sharp and pointed right at her, ready to strike.

 Emma swallowed. She could feel Killian pressing into her back as he moved, apparently upright and unharmed, leaves rustling under his feet in the silence, solid and firm against her. She wanted to sag in relief that he was okay, but she held her sword out instead, rigid.

 “What do we do?” She asked. The snowy mount whickered. It was a haunting noise unlike any animal she had ever heard before, worlds away from Four’s friendly sounds, turning her blood to ice water in her veins. She shivered.

 “There’s two more,” Killian said grimly.

 “Damnit,” she could feel him nod behind her in agreement and she cast her eyes quickly to the side to check their positions.

 The one in her periphery was red as blood, seeming to rise up from the scarlet leaves of the forest. Where he ended and they began was indistinguishable, and that was extremely unsettling. He was more solid than his white counterpart, less formless, but no less formidable. She turned slightly, and saw the third, this one completely devoid of color, leeching the light from all that surrounded him, a fathomless human shape only vaguely a man cutting into the tree line like a rift in space. Terror seized her at the sight of him, a walking nightmare in gray daylight.

 “What the hell are those?” Emma bit out, her grip tightening around her weapon. It didn't seem like enough.

 “I have no idea,” Killian murmured. “But they don't seem pleased to see us.”

 “You think?” Emma snapped. She could barely breathe, fear was filling her lungs, solid and choking in her throat. It poured off them, an invisible mist settling over her skin, making it crawl and itch as the feeling intensified, an almost tangible thing. She tried for levity, anything to shake the feeling off, to make it go away.

 “I used to watch this show as a kid. Always thought I’d make a good Yellow Ranger.”

 Killian huffed impatiently behind her, clearly not getting the reference, as he settled into a tense defensive posture. Emma however was babbling.

 “Sorry Black is taken. You can be Blue though. It would go well with your eyes. I never really liked the Green Ranger so we’ll skip that one.”

 “Excellent, whatever your heart desires. After we handle this, aye?”

 She tried to focus on them, to look at their faces, be bold, but her eyes kept sliding past of their own accord, burning and stinging with every attempt. Clever quips and taunts died formless in her mouth.

 She could feel Killian’s every move behind her pressed against her back, the faint tremble of his body vibrating up her spine, similarly affected by the crippling fear that had settled in the clearing at the rider’s appearance. The creatures, for these were no men, were death incarnate, something otherworldly and wrong. And they were definitely going to kill them.

 Emma reached blindly back with her free hand, skirting his hips, and grasped his wooden hand, giving it a squeeze, more for herself than him. He tugged back, a reassurance, and something else, as he stepped forward.

 “It seems we haven't been properly introduced,” Killian said finally, his voice was calm, just a faint tremor under his usual bravado. Emma could hear her blood rushing in her ears, the nameless terror replaced with fear for him as he stepped forward. She turned, catching the end of his bow, the urge to ask him what the hell he was doing, to grab him and run, was overwhelming her, her legs burning with the need to move.

 He was ignoring her though, half circling her to face each of the figures in turn.

 “Killian Jones,” he said to them. “We seek audience with the Forest Mother or The Bone Mother, as she may be known to you.”

 “If Maleficent had led with that title I probably wouldn't have accepted so fast,” Emma muttered. Killian shot her a look that could only mean “Shut up, Swan.”  She clapped her lips closed.

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 The three of them spoke as one, the sound of their voices scraping down her spine, sinking the terror into her bones, goose flesh springing up among her arms.

 “Not so good with riddles, mates,” Killian said. “Come again?”

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 This time the voices were accompanied by the quiet hum of energy, their weapons: the crystalline sword, the scythe of shadow, and a ruby tipped stave glowed bright, brighter, charging, as one.

 “What does that mean?” Emma looked at Killian, exchanging a wild eyed glance before he took a step back towards her.

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 The humming buzz of electricity grew louder, the weapons glowing brighter.

 “No idea, but we should probably figure it out,” Killian said, no lack of urgency in his voice as he pressed against her back again, the two of them trying to keep the specters in their lines of vision.

 “We’re surrounded by forest! And we are looking right at you.” Emma said frantically, her eyes darting from tree to tree, seeing no break in the wood. She tried to focus her eyes on them again, but they kept shifting away, their faces burning embers, the rapidly growing light of their weapons too harsh, like staring into the sun, purple and blue splotches in her vision when she blinked.

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 “Emma!” Killian was jerking her around, his sword falling forgotten into the leaves. The energy hummed and spit like downed power lines, sparking in the air around them. His hand grasped her shoulder, fingers digging in, the wooden hand pressing against her arm. He stared at her, blue eyes locking with her own. “Look at me,” he said firmly. “Only me.”

 Emma wasn't sure if this was a final moment thing, a fleeting glimpse of each other before death took them, but she knew she couldn't look away if she tried. If the last thing she saw was him that wouldn't be so bad, she reasoned. The temptation to shift her eyes away, to check the riders was overwhelming, but Killian’s were steady and true, open and honest, and she couldn't look away.

 The clearing was suddenly silent, the harsh pants of their breath the only sound. Emma looked up at him in confusion, unsure if it was safe to move, unsure if she wanted to. His fingers pressed further into her arm. It was a subtle sway, the feel of his breath on her face, and she leaned in.

 “Oh very good. Two hearts for one,” the voice was ancient and accented, breaking through the silence. Emma jerked back as a bundle of rags and fabric joined them in the clearing at the edge of her vision. She was still too afraid to move, to turn her head to look at it fully.

 “Well come along then. I won’t wait all day,” the figure shuffled, leaves rustling with rasping rhythmic sweeps somewhere beside them. The thick inflection on her words made them sound more like “vell” and “vont” and “den” but Emma could understand well enough.

 She looked at Killian in question, his face a bit paler, his shoulders slumping with equal parts concern and relief, chest still rising and falling with gasping breaths. He hitched them in a little shrug, and they turned as one to face the new arrival.

 An old woman, hunched over and twisted by time was hobbling away, a silver birch broom painting along the path behind her. The riders were gone from the clearing, disappeared as quickly as they had come, and in their place a small hovel rose into the air, surrounded on all sides by a fence of thick white sticks and rounded posts. Emma pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a noise when she realized what exactly it was made of. She grabbed Killian’s arm, tugging on it.

 Bones. Skulls. A fence of human remains marked the perimeter of the old woman’s house with haunting grins, yellowed with age, and flaming sockets where eyes would be. The house the fence protected was decrepit and sad, made of darkened rotting wood and crumbling decaying thatch, rising up into the canopy of the trees on thick heavy stilts, sinking into itself with the burden of time and neglect.

 Emma did kind of shriek when it moved, Killian barely getting his hand over her mouth in time, palm hovering just above her lips, his fingers warm against her cheek as the stilts shifted, as they walked. The house turned in a circle on towering chicken-like legs, sharp talons as thick and wide as several people digging into the dirt and leaves. It lifted one to scratch the other, and settled back to the forest floor.

 “What the hell is that thing, ” Emma hissed into the cup of his hand. Killian pulled her back against him, his breath hot in her ear, his chest firm against her back once again.

 “Careful, love, I don't think she’ll take too kindly to us insulting her dwelling,” he warned in a whisper, for her ears only, releasing her to step hesitantly forward. Emma shivered, her face flushing.

 “Etiquette in these situations is rather...fraught. Probably best if I take the lead on this one,” he murmured. He didn't sound particularly delighted by the prospect.

 Emma scoffed at the implication, forgetting his nearness in her indignation. She could be polite if she needed to be. She watched as the house turned, scratching ineffectually at the dirt, the flaming eyes of the skull fence posts flickering with the disturbance, and she bit off a startled curse. He might have a point, and by the rise of his eyebrow he knew it.

 The old woman turned suddenly at the gate, pointing the handle of her broom at the two of them. Her face was a map of deep and jagged wrinkles, her nose as gnarled and twisted as the skeleton trees, hooked at the end like every scary witch in every scary story Emma had ever read. But her eyes were lovely sea glass green, twinkling and ominous at the same time. She jabbed the handle at them again, and Killian leaned back in defense.

 “Do you come of your own will or another's?”

 They answered at the same time, only put off for a moment by the abruptness of the question.

 “My own,” Killian said, bowing slightly.

 “Another’s,” Emma said warily.

 Killian tilted his head to look at her in exasperation.

 The woman stared at them hard for a moment, the pupils of her magnificent eyes an impossible black, and Emma could barely breathe under the scrutiny.

 “Your truth reveals much. It will be important for what is to come,” the witch said. It was unclear, however, who she was talking to, and she simply turned, beckoning them with an easy wave to follow her.

 Emma swallowed, looking up at Killian. He looked as uneasy as she felt, his tongue swiping across his lip as if steeling himself for something. She wanted to reach out, to grab his hand, comfort and solidarity in one simple gesture, but he was already moving protectively in front of her, walking through the gate of bones.

 ____

 The tales from the mouths of impish hardened sailors took on life before his eyes and old childhood fears, thick and cold, filled his chest as the old crone led them through the gate.

 It was just as they said. A hovel on the legs of birds. A fence of bone, her victims held forever to stand guard against the unworthy. There was a mouth of gnashing teeth set in the rotted wood of a door, where knob and keyhole should be, and Killian repressed a shudder as the teeth snapped playfully at her fingers when she opened it. The pair followed her into the house, the spindly legs bending low to allow them entrance.

 “Who were those guys?” Emma asked from behind him. Never content to do as he asked his Swan, never one to just blindly follow his lead. He glared at her without heat, but she was focused on the dwelling, her eyes taking it in, grasping the wall to steady herself as the house rose suddenly into the air again. “The ones on the horses.” She looked queasy, clutching her stomach as the dwelling moved beneath them.

 “The price for the answers you seek is precious time, would you have me waste mine on such trivialities?” The crone asked, casting one sea green eye over her shoulder as she reached to stoke the flame of her oven.

 He knew that oven. It ate the bones of the wicked and the vengeful. It charred them as black as their unworthy souls and the witch would feast for days, or so the stories said. It was a monstrous thing to finally see in person, the grates like snarling teeth and haunting eyes, the flame within burning blue and green with an unnatural heat. No mere coals and wood could produce such hellfire.

 Killian shifted back, setting himself firmly between Emma and the heaving stove.

 “I guess not?” Emma was saying, looking up at him bewildered and he shook his head slightly. It was best to be direct and to the point, get in and get out before things went wildly off course. He didn't particularly care who the creatures had been anyway, they were gone and the witch was before them. She was the real threat here

 The witch looked at Emma with a sharp disappointment. “If only you were willing.” She murmured. Emma frowned at him in concerned confusion. He shrugged.

 He had met his fair share of seers and soothsayers, knew they spoke in riddles and delighted in tricks and could certainly not be trusted. That the mother of this wood hadn't immediately struck them down was fortune enough, and he didn't feel the need to push their luck any further with pointless queries as to the nature of her servants, or fall into any of her clever traps.

 He stepped forward.

 “We have been sent to obtain a-” the old woman’s craggy hand waved him off, hobbling across the broken boards of the floor.

 The entire place seemed on the verge of collapse, and it shifted imperceptibly as the creature’s legs below shuffled and moved. He should have found the subtle sway and ebb comforting, like ocean waves, but it was rather like being in the belly of a great beast, swallowed alive and left to decay.

 Killian resisted the urge to gulp.

 “I know what you seek,” she led them across the hut to a darkened corner and motioned for them to sit. The table, and the mismatched set of chairs around it were the only furniture in the room save for a spartan sleeping pallet on the other side of the dwelling, and of course the infernal heaving oven.

 One of the chairs, however, was already occupied.

 “There’s. A. Skeleton,” Emma hissed quietly at his back, as if his eyes were not able to suss that out for himself.

 It was dressed very well for a bag of bones he thought, a top hat sitting jauntily on a yellowed skull, a cravat tied smartly about its bony neck. It was as much a guest as they were it seemed, a saucer and teacup set at the place before it, the shadows of the corner barely hiding it from view.

 “My Ivan,” the old woman said waving another hand dismissively. “Now. A drink to honor guests and honor hosts.”

 Killian sat hesitantly as she bid on a rickety rocking chair pushed up to the table, motioning for Emma to do the same on the small stool beside him. He had a bit of experience here as well, lifetimes of witches and sorcerers and fae, all with different codes and unwritten rules. To eat in one set of company could damn you for eternity, to not eat in another could result in a swiftly assured death. That the only other guest in attendance was a pile of nicely attired bones did not bode well for their chances of choosing correctly.

 “You may call me Baba Yaga,” the woman said, bustling about the room as she prepared a pot of tea. The clink of porcelain and the hiss of steam filled the cabin mixing with the acrid smoke. Emma glanced at him uneasily.

 “You come to seek a gift,” Baba Yaga said, setting a small teapot down in the center of the table. “Answers to your questions.”

 “We only need a black unicorn horn,” Killian corrected. “Nothing more.”

 “I know what you seek,” she repeated, settling into the chair. “I provide only what the willing need. Let us drink,” She motioned to the teapot, and smiled, a wicked pull of lips across teeth. He raised an eyebrow at her.

 Killian was also, despite what he had told the riders in the wood, well versed in tricks and riddles, one could not survive the dangers of Neverland without that particular skill, and he smiled at her winningly.

 “Just me milady, begging your pardon,” he bowed his head respectfully, careful to keep one eye trained on the witch. Her smile grew, yellowed skin stretching across bone, and she nodded, pouring a bitter brew from the teapot.

 “Your will is your own after all,” she said slyly. She cast her eyes to Emma. “And hers is another’s.”

 “Precisely,” he took a sip of the tea before Emma could protest or question him, giving her a warning glance and nothing more. She looked at him, still confused, but things were moving too quickly for them to confer, trapped high above the ground in a witch’s cabin, invited to tea with skeletons. He just hoped she would follow his lead, would keep silent and safe and let him handle this. He had no idea what he was doing truly, what horror awaited him in this hovel, in that cup, but better him than her. That was the only truth he knew.

 He tried not to gag. The tea was stagnant and tepid, as stagnant as it smelled, but he sipped again and again until the cup was empty. His stomach roiled in protest, water filling his mouth as he tried not to vomit.

 Baba Yaga’s lips pulled against her teeth again in delight and she snatched the cup away, turning it in her hand once, twice, and a third time before overturning it on the mismatched saucer before him.

 “No peeking,” she warned.

 “Wouldn't dream of it,” Killian rasped. His voice was hoarse and raw, choked with bile, and he appreciated the comforting hand Emma laid on his arm, the concern and confusion written on her face. He smiled at her reassuringly. Wanted to tell her that this witch had no power over the unwilling, that Emma could not help him lest they both fall victim to her tricks. That was the point of her question, to see the full scope of her dominion, the reason she had invited them both to drink. He couldn't speak however, not with the witch right there.

 “The question of your future is mine to see. The answer a gift to give,” Baba Yaga said. She picked the cup up again and peered inside, gnarled fingers twisting it back and forth in her grasp. What she saw there was a mystery, her face giving nothing away.

 “Take it, with my compliments,” Killian swallowed as best he could, the bitter herbs caught in his throat. His mind was swimming as his vision snapped in and out of focus.

 Drugged surely. He thought. Poisoned probably.

 “Killian,” Emma grabbed his arm as he swayed. He could barely feel the warmth of her through his coat, could barely make out the pressure of her fingers. Not the best of signs.

 “Are you okay?” It was a firm question, all the words she wasn't saying written in her eyes. We can go. You don't have to do anything else. We can run. He appreciated it, and just smiled at her again, a sappy ridiculous thing he was sure, but his vision was growing even dimmer.

 “What the hell did you do to him?”

 Far away at the end of a long tunnel he saw Emma rise from her stool, his hand lifting weakly, trying to grab her, but falling leaden and useless to his side as words of warning caught on a tongue that was too thick and heavy to speak.

 “By his own will,” the woman reminded her.

 Whatever Emma replied was lost to the sounds of his pulse in his ears, whatever she did too far away and dark to see anymore.

 _____

 He blinked awake to a familiar cabin, cramped and dirty, smelling of salt and fish and rotting wood. The ropes of ancient hammocks swung in time to the rocking of a ship long since lost to the sea. A dingy blanket of burlap and unraveling wool on one of them was the only personal effect in sight. It was a spartan and coldly familiar place. He had slept in that hammock, curled under that blanket into Liam’s side night after night, crying himself to sleep until it became apparent that tears weren't going to bring their father back, that their new masters would be no less cruel, and it looked no different now than it had centuries before.

 “My gifts are not without price,” Baba Yaga said, and he turned to face her pushing down the startled leap in his chest to give her a cool stare. Childhood fears would have to wait.

 “I don't need ‘gifts’ just one item, the horn of-” she cut him off, holding up an impatient hand.

 “We both know that is not all you seek Captain,” her accent twisted the word, her eyes shining with mirth. He pushed down the surprise that she knew who he was as well, merely raising an eyebrow.

 “Oh? And what is that? Do, please enlighten me,” he waved a lazy open palm towards her and leaned back, trying not to appear as unsettled by their surroundings as he was. He was barely resisting the urge to pick up the blanket and breathe in the long forgotten scent of his brother, witches and their hallucinogenic tea be damned.

 “If I give you the horn where do you plan to go?” She asked instead. He opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off. “Be warned and be willing Captain, for now and for then and for forever hence, in this wood the answer to questions is the gift of time, mine or yours it matters not, but the price will be paid.”

 Killian was silent. In truth, he didn't even know the answer. Emma’s and his course was not set as yet, they were moving from moment to moment, dealing with problems as they arose, chasing solutions with no clear endgame in sight. Maleficent did not have the answers they’d hoped for, merely a bandage for a gaping wound, and after this mission he was at a loss. So he said nothing.

 Baba Yaga grinned, knowing, and tilted her head.

 “I can give you the answers you seek, the gifts you will need. You have earned the horn in deed alone already, and a question of your own if you accept, but I can give you more.”

 There was nothing seductive about the hunched over form in front of him, nothing externally appealing about her sallow skin, and bony limbs, but her voice whispered over him like a lover’s caress, temptation and desire brushing against his skin. He closed his eyes and pushed it away with a small shake of his head. No good would come of deals with the devil, or from a woman worthy to be the devil’s bride.

 “Perhaps, I will remind you of your price,” Baba Yaga’s voice slithered across him.

 He heard the rasp of fabric, felt the prickling electricity of magic, and a familiar scent filled his nose, over the smells of brine and unwashed men came something sweet and clean. He opened his eyes.

 “Swan,” he breathed out.

 He knew, logically, this was an illusion, the old woman shifting and morphing before his very eyes told him that. Silver hair turned butter yellow, thick and curling against the gentle slope of her shoulders as she straightened and grew taller. It was Emma in form, but instead of dark moss her eyes were the cool sea glass green of the witch’s. He growled.

 “Your parlor tricks won't work on me siren,” he spat. “I'll have the horn and the horn alone.”

 “You haven't heard my proposal,” the woman said, her accent fading to Emma’s gentler voice.

 “And I've no wish to,” he said.

 “I do not deal in wishes,” Baba Yaga said, her voice hard and suddenly her own again. She shifted, shrinking down back to the hunched over old woman, leather and suede traded for dirty rags and stained linen. He breathed a bit easier facing her as herself, even the face of Emma was enough to take him off guard, enough to make him question his resolve. “My trade is in noble deeds freely given and questions of the heart worth a year of time apiece.”

 “Noble.” Killian scoffed. “Afraid you have the wrong Captain then, madam.”

 “You drank the tea,” she reminded him gently. “Of your own will.”

 “To protect Emma,” he snapped. “From whatever ridiculous farce we’re playing out here. Which I very much hope will find its end soon, we’re on a bit of a schedule.”

 She ignored his rudeness, her eyes glinting.

 “A sacrifice for another is not noble?”

 Killian gritted his teeth in frustration. They were getting nowhere, the rock and pitch of the ship and the smells of faded memory were making him ill, mixing with the bitter tea and hatred of these games, twisting against his insides where the ghost of a frightened little boy begged him to be cautious, reminded him she could cook him alive for his insolence.

 “I merely offer you a trade,” Baba Yaga said finally when he didn't answer, looking strangely disappointed. “Three gifts, three questions. You have one gift and one question already if you complete that task to its end, when the deed is satisfied you may return to claim them.”

 “And you get what?” Killian sneered. “Trade implies parity.”

 The woman stared at him and merely smiled, her lips remained pointedly closed.

 Killian sighed in frustration. She had mentioned there was a price for answers, and she was well practiced in avoiding giving them it seemed.

 “Lay out your terms,” he said instead. Not quite a question. She seemed pleased he was catching on so quickly and nodded.

 “Three deeds for each of my gifts and for each of my answers,” she said simply.

 Killian frowned.

 “I'm assuming one of the gifts is the horn?” he asked. Baba Yaga pursed her lips again. “A statement.” He corrected, setting his jaw in annoyance.  “Not a question.”

 “An excellent assumption,” she smiled.

 “For drinking the tea and accepting your game,” he did not bother to phrase this as a question either, knowing she would play this game all day, and she smiled wider, impressed.

 “A noble deed to be sure,” she replied.

 Killian thought a moment, his mind whirling, trying to pick apart every moment, every odd phrase, piecing it together as best he could. He despised the round and round of riddles, impatience prickling against his nerves, but he knew they wouldn't get the horn otherwise, that he had to figure out her tricks to keep them safe and see them on their way. He sighed.

 “But I had to do it willingly,” he mused aloud.

 Her smile faltered a bit.

 “You asked one question already, and we both answered,” he said, crossing the room. “But only I was willing then, by my own admission.” He peered up at her. “Answers are gifts, time, you said.” He licked his lips as the thoughts formed and slowly pieced themselves together. “A year. A year of time apiece.” He repeated her words, and waved a finger at her, knowing by the stony expression on her face that he was on to something.

 “So each deed is worth a gift, something tangible like the horn. But only from the willing,” he continued to watch her expressions carefully. “That’s why you wanted Emma to drink the tea.”

 Baba Yaga set her her jaw, eyes flashing, and he tried not to smile as she confirmed what he had suspected in the hovel. She had no power over Emma, and that would at least keep Emma safe no matter how this played out.

 “I'm assuming if one fails at the deed the gift is forfeit?” He raised an eyebrow at her but she continued to stare at him, implacable. So he continued on, the game knitting together in his mind as the words left his lips. “And every answer is a gift, a year.”  He repeated the words, realization dawning as he spoke them again.

 “Clever Captain,” Baba Yaga praised with a smirk, yellow teeth flashing in delight as the implication of that snapped together in his mind and he looked at her with barely contained fury.

 “So I owe you a year of my life for answering a bloody question?” he hissed. “That is a question by the way.” He glared.

 Baba Yaga was practically grinning now at his frustration, her teeth sharp and terrifying in the dim light of the cabin.  

 “You can earn it back,” she teased. “I will answer no more than three, as I said, one for each deed. Acceptance of my deal will grant you the first of them.”

 “I'm assuming you’ll try to get me to answer more as we go along, that's the way of it?” He grumbled. “And if I don't play along I can't collect the question you owe me already.”

  She just smiled.

 “You may take, how you say,...the gamble.” She said slowly, her eyes dancing with dark mischief. “Or, you can be on your way.” She hummed to herself for a second, considering. “I will still give you the horn and you will give me the year, but nothing more. I am not unreasonable.”

 “I think I'll take my chance with just the horn then,” he said finally. “I'm not all that keen on learning more about meself anyway. And I've lived for centuries, I can spare one year.”

 “The questions need not be about you-” Baba Yaga rocked back on the stool, her smile knowing again. No longer did she wear the wicked sly grins or stony neutrality that had twisted her visage so far, but instead the happy softness of an assured victory, it made his skin crawl to see it as his heart sank. “-but about the woman you love. Her future. Her path.”

 Killian swallowed. She had already seen the truth of their situation. They had no plan after this. Obtain the horn, return it to Maleficent in exchange for more of that vile potion, and then...what? The potion would buy them time but not knowledge. It was also one thing to fall into a trap blind and unknowing, it was quite another to walk into it freely. Noble, Baba Yaga had said, the word now full of dark trickery and ill purpose. To continue on for Emma’s sake would certainly be noble, after all the cost would be only his to pay if he failed. In those terms it didn't seem like so much of a gamble after all. They had what they had come for in hand already, if he could possibly win the knowledge they needed to save her he had no choice but to take that risk.

 “Alright,” he said.

 When Baba Yaga looked at him again it was a predatory thing, the seaglass green of her eyes now practically black with hunger and greed. Killian swallowed around the sharp anxiety in his throat, the feeling that he was making a mistake. He was already down one year of his worthless existence, but she had offered up three of her own, those odds were better than some he had faced before.

 Baba Yaga reached beneath the grimy kerchief that covered her silver hair, and pulled from beneath it a single strand.

 “The second of your deeds, either an absolution in frozen time or a way forward,” she said holding it out to him.  “This must be tied into three knots and then blown upon like the whistling wind.”  She pursed her lips and blew.

 Killian took the hair and looked at it. It glinted in the sparse light, drooping along his knuckles. It looked ordinary otherwise, a simple thread of regular hair. He glanced back up at Baba Yaga but she sat there, poised and serene, waiting for him to carry out her odd little task.

 It was undoubtedly a trick, he knew without even attempting to ask that should he complete the mission something terrible would probably be inflicted upon his person. That's how these things worked. In story and in life there was always a caveat and he was without the means to question her further and find it out. He frowned at the little hair, considering, trying to remember the tales of his youth, the memories too far away to grasp.

 “Perhaps you should demonstrate what you mean,” he said after a moment, holding the hair out for her to take. “I’m all thumbs when it comes to these things.” He held up his wooden hand apologetically and turned it, smiling innocently.

 “One would think the Captain of a ship would know his way around a series of simple knots,” Baba Yaga replied taking it from him nonetheless.

 “I won't tell if you won't,” he smirked. Baba Yaga didn't look angry though as she took it from him, to the contrary she looked almost pleased, her worn fingers moving over the thread quickly with a nimbleness that belied her age, tying it into three minuscule knots.

 “Show me the bit with the blowing again too,” Killian said, still all innocent politeness. “I've forgotten.”

 “Careful,” Baba Yaga warned. “Your clever mind and fairy looks get you much, but arrogance is deadly, Captain.” Despite this she pursed her lips again, blowing cool air over the knotted strand.

 Almost at once it glowed with silver light, spreading across her wrinkled hand, up her arm, covering her in a soft ethereal glow. Killian stepped back in mute surprise as her body froze, as it became entombed in smooth granite that trickled over her like gentle water, flowing in the wake of the light. A statue.

 Killian gaped at her, at a loss. As far as victories were concerned this was a new one for him. Though he doubted the witch could collect the year he owed as a piece of statuary, so it was at least a fortunate outcome, and perhaps they could still find the horn among her things when he returned. He looked around at the creaking ship, waiting for the vision to fade, for the run down hovel to appear and Emma’s worried face to stare down at him.

 The ship rocked again and sighed around him. He frowned.

 The statue creaked along with it, splintered and cracked, small fissures opening along her cheeks and neck. The silver light poured forth again, and the stone crumbled away to dust, disappearing on unseen wind. Baba Yaga smiled at him.

 “You did not think my own spell would hold me?” She said with a mocking laugh. Killian pursed his lips in annoyance, but knew better than to answer.

 “The deed, nevertheless, was completed. I believe I am owed a forfeit. And a question,” he snapped, impatient. “And don't think I've forgotten you owe me a question for that foul tea and accepting this farce, madam, and the horn as well.”

 “Indeed my boy, I will not forget. That is for when we return, not before, ” her tone was a dark warning, but she reached into her sleeve, and pulled out a single feather. “This is your reward for now.” It was a watercolor of reds, yellows and orange, shining in the light like flickering flames, from the tail of a large bird based on its size and shape. She held it out to him.

 “Time is a tricky business. To give this to you, I must give this to you. On and on we go, round and round.” Baba Yaga laughed to herself.

 Killian hesitated a moment, raising a suspicious and confused eyebrow at the mad woman before he took the gift.

 “A feather,” he said dully, unimpressed. He turned it in his fingers. “I suppose it will make for a handsome quill.” He offered, at a loss for what other purpose it could possibly serve.

 “Foolish man,” Baba Yaga snapped, her laughter fading as quickly as it had come. “That is the feather of the Firebird. A powerful ally when one has need of one.”

 “My thanks then, milady,” Killian bowed a bit in deference, disconcerted by her sudden anger, and placed the feather carefully in his satchel. He was unsure if it would still be there when they returned to reality, or what use a bird could be, but he was  unwilling to waste his question to ask, nor did he want to anger her any further, he was already pushing the boundaries of politeness.

 “You may ask your question, but consider it carefully against its worth,” Baba Yaga sat, calming and settling into a stool at the side of the room. She arranged her ragged dress and cloak around her withered form and waited.

 It was a moment before he asked the question that had been burning him from the inside since all this began, since Zelena had confronted him by the carriage, or perhaps even earlier on the doorstep of the woman he loved, in a strange city, the ghost of her lips mingling with the crushing disappointment that his kiss had failed, that she still didn't remember, that he wasn't the one.

 “Where can we find the person with the means to break Emma’s curse? Her-” Killian swallowed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth, gravel in his throat. “-true love.”

 Baba Yaga’s eyes burned into him, burned through him. He could feel the heat of them as sharp and hot as the midday sun. Her face was expressionless as she weighed the answer but those eyes glinted with something unidentifiable.

 “There is a man, her true love, within half a day’s climb of my Red Sun. He is somewhere between here and there,” she said finally.

 Killian’s knees felt like water, his heart a leaden stone in his chest as the last bit of hope he held there drained away. It was one thing to have the Wicked Witch taunt you with your worst fear, or to have the proof of it in failed kisses, but hearing it so plainly spoken, that such a man did actually exist, such a man was here and close and waiting, was another thing entirely. He couldn't even be annoyed at the cryptic answer, that the man existed was enough. Killian swallowed, his eyes stinging, and looked away.

 Baba Yaga sat in silence, cupping her hands serenely in her lap and waited.

 They were square now, the year of his life regained, the horn and this odd feather won. He could leave it here, cut his losses and go. But he needed more information, they still needed a way home, even if he was unsure of where that place was for him, he knew where Emma belonged. He still had a duty to her, still loved her, despite the truth, as useless and wasted as that love might end up being. And while she might not love him in return, his feelings would remain unchanged, forever. He would keep his promise and get her home. He stood up straighter.

 “The last task,” Killian croaked after a long quiet moment. “Let's get on with it.”

 “Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head and with it the room spun.

 _____

 When Killian blinked awake the second time it was in a place he did not know. Cold and damp and silent, he squinted against the dim light of torches hung on the wall and took in his new surroundings. It was a crypt of some sort, or a mausoleum, the final resting places of the dead carved into the walls with open shallow caverns where bones and bodies were laid to rest. The floor was covered in them, broken skulls and limbs mixing with rocks and dirt. He shuddered against his will and backed away, his boots sliding against the macabre debris.

 “What are we doing here?” He tried to keep his voice level, nonchalant, but it tremored faintly anyway.

 Baba Yaga stepped out of the shadows.

 “Which one is your Emma?” She asked without preamble.

 “What?” Killian gasped out. He whirled back to the wall of graves, his heart thundering. It couldn't be, she couldn't be.

 “Which one is your Emma?” Baba Yaga repeated.

 She reached out and grabbed a torch from its place on the wall, holding it aloft to cast light across the shallow caves carved into the face of it.

 Nine heads of identical golden hair shone in the light, all of them dressed just as Emma had been, the suede pants, the soft leather jerkin, the heels of her sturdy borrowed boots. They all lay there serene, peaceful, nine pairs of small delicate hands clasped across nine stomachs. Killian wanted to scream seeing them there, all of them looking like Emma, like her body, tucked away on identical stone beds in the repose of death, not one of them different than any other. It was a nightmare come to life, seeing the woman he loved dead and in this place, even worse to have the image repeated, over and over again.

 He shut his eyes against it. Shook his head in denial, his throat filling with tears and terror in equal measure. It was like being ripped open, a cold hand reaching into his chest and squeezing. He could barely breathe with the weight of it.

 “You didn't-” he gasped out and shook his head again. “Not her. It’s not her. None of them are her.” The weight of her question pressed against his denials, his Emma was among them she had said. HIS Emma was laying there as dead as all the other unfortunate souls that covered the floor. She was Bone Mother, she struck down the unworthy, she burned them in her oven or killed them with her tricks and now his Emma was lying in one of these graves.

 “Do you wish to know the truth?” Baba Yaga asked curiously.

 “Yes,” he answered before he could think, needing to know. He was too desperate to curse himself for being so careless, too anguished to care.

 “None of those you see before you are the Emma of the flesh but one of them is the Emma of your heart. She is safe. Now. Which Emma is your Emma?” She repeated, her voice emotionless.

 Killian almost staggered with relief at the words. It wasn't real. None of this was real. Emma was safe somewhere outside of this nightmare, she was alive and well. This was an illusion, a dream just as the ship had been. His eyes snapped open in realization.

 “If I answer to pass the test, I give another year,” he turned on her accusingly. “Either way I lose, again.”

 Baba Yaga shrugged, indifferent, almost lazy, the flame of the torch in her grip bobbing with the action.

 “There is no rule against it,” she pointed out. “You did not set those terms.”

 “I thought it was bloody obvious you cheating-” Killian had to clench his fist to keep from striking out at the woman, anger hot and stifling overriding all his fear and relief.

 “The deed remains the deed. Fail it and forfeit. Win and you lose nothing and gain my gifts,” she said. “Now. Enough. Which Emma is your Emma?”

 Killian closed his eyes again, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to rip her throat out, frustration and rage sweeping over him in a dark tide. She was right though. He hadn't specified, he should have known. He was a fool to think he could win this outright, a fool to think the deck was not stacked against him from the start.

 He had to win. He needed the answers. Needed to get back to Emma, get away from this foul creature and her games, needed to get them home. The year of his life didn't matter, but if he won they would be even, three questions apiece, three answers each. He didn't care to have a year of the witch’s life, he just wanted it to end.

 He took a deep steadying breath and stepped towards the wall.

 Each of them were identical as far as he could see, down to the smallest detail. All beautiful, all Emma. The slope of her nose, the tiny indent of her chin, the soft luster of her hair. He took another breath and stepped closer.

 He couldn't smell her. The air of the crypt was foul with decay and the musty scent of ancient things. Nor could he look in her eyes and know. If he could see their eyes he had no doubt he could see the truth in them.

 Killian closed his own, trying to think. She had said it was the Emma of his heart.

 “Whatever that bloody means,” he muttered to himself. He tried to focus, to feel something, anything, some hint or sign. There was no magical pull, no internal sixth sense, no guiding light to show him the way. His body was utterly silent, just the harshness of his even angry breaths, overly loud in the silence of the crypt, and the thundering of the blood in his ears.

 Killian was familiar with following his heart.  As black as it was at times he had let it guide him, had rarely questioned it, or the path it had taken him on. Not until the day it was pulled in opposing directions, one leading to vengeance, the other to a small fierce woman and her improbable family had he even paid it any mind. He had always just trusted it to guide him, from shore to shore, one foot in front of the other. Nothing changed now. He supposed it didn't matter anyway, the Emma of his heart was whichever Emma he chose. Or at least he hoped that was the way of it.

 He stepped forward at random and reached out to the one in the center. His hand brushed the silk skin of her cheek, still warm even in the chill of the tomb. His fingers traced down, and pressed against the smooth curve of her lips, thumbed at the hollow of her chin.

 “This one,” he said hoarsely, his eyes still closed, knowing it was true before he spoke the words aloud. “This is my Emma.”

 “Your gift, Captain,” Baba Yaga said softly. He turned to face her. She looked kinder in the torchlight, sympathetic even. It did nothing to quiet his anger, or the remnants of fear and sadness at war within him. She smiled at him softly and held out a small green bottle.

 He looked at her in question, but didn't ask it, knowing it was pointless anyway.

 “Memory potion,” she said as he took it, the glass cold in his hand. “To help when needed, as the feather is.”

 “Suppose that could be useful,” he acknowledged stiffly, putting it into his satchel with the feather. “In case our disguises fail us.”

 “Or if one just needed to forget,” she said slyly. Killian clenched his teeth. “It has many purposes for many things my boy. Now, your question, if it pleases you.”

 Killian hesitated, his gaze flickering to the Emma he had chosen, his Emma according to the test. He should ask for the way home, for more information on the True Love that awaited her somewhere in this time, in this realm, apparently near enough to require less than half a day's ride. He had one more question though when they returned, when he collected Emma and the horn, and so he asked the only question he could, the only answer that he truly needed. The answer he needed to go forward.

 “Will she be happy,” his voice was soft and rasping, echoing off the walls of the crypt. “Will Emma be happy?”

 Again, Baba Yaga looked at him as if she could see into his soul. The soft smile pulling her lips across her yellow teeth once more.

 “Noble,” she murmured quietly. “I told you, Captain.”

 “Answer the question,” he bit out.

 “On the day that potion is used-” Baba Yaga said motioning towards his bag. “-she will be happier than she has ever been.”

 The strap of the satchel around his shoulder suddenly felt impossibly heavy, digging into his flesh through the fabric of clothing.

 “Used on who?” He asked. Baba Yaga just looked at him, expressionless and he ground his teeth in frustration.

 “Is this your final question?” She smirked. Killian didn't answer. He couldn't use the last question on that, he had to know how to get them back. He clenched his teeth harder.

 “Take us back, witch,” he snapped instead. “So we can get the horn, ask my question, and be on our way.”

 “Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head again, and the room spun.

  ____

[myheroimaginations]

Hey. Always great to see a new MHA Blog. Could I get a fluffy scenario with Yaoyorozu taking care of a sick male s/o? If this isn't quite specific enough, please let me know. Thanks

Thanks for the request! I’m really excited to get more involved with this community, I’ve been lurking around in it for a while now. I’m glad to get some love in for the girls so early, I was scared I wouldn’t be seeing any requests for them for a while. Hope you enjoy!

Yaoyorozu Momo knew something must have been up for her boyfriend not to come to class. In fact, she had been a little overly worried at first, considering she had sent him a good number of texts since walking into the classroom and noticing his absence. Thankfully though, he was merely sick, and had been napping through the morning due to fatigue, as she was informed by the text she received from him around lunch time.

Sorry for getting back to you so late… Yeah, I’m technically fine, just caught some sort of bug that must be going around. I’m tired as all get out, so I passed out for a while. Sorry again, I should’ve texted you when I woke up and decided I wasn’t coming to school.

Momo sighed in relief at the text message, but felt mildly annoyed with her lover’s sickness. She had been telling him that it was flu season, questioning as to whether or not he had gotten his shots, reminding him to wash his hands frequently, keeping him updated when someone they were close to caught the bug… Well, at least now she wouldn’t have to fuss over him keeping the sickness away as much. She responded to him.

You must have caught it from Kirishima, he was sick last week. Is anyone there taking care of you?

No, parents are out of town. They just gave me a lowdown on where all the meds and stuff were and told me to rest up.

Momo pursed her lips together. Sure, he would eventually get better, but it’d take much longer than if someone was there actively caring for him. She had always grown up with a family nurse who would tend to her when she fell ill, and it always made the pain of sickness significantly more tolerable. Someone had to care for him, and she assumed as his lover that job must fall onto her without family around.

I see. I’ll see you after school then.

She responded simply, merely ignoring the message she got in return telling her she didn’t need to come, that he could handle it. She had made up her mind, and once school was over she ran home to change and grab a few supplies and started toward her boyfriend’s apartment. Not wanting to force him out of the bed to let her in, she simply scoured out the spare key the family kept in a potted plant by the door, heading inside and to her lover’s room.

“Momo…” He sighed softly as she walked into the room, offering him a little smile and approaching his bed. “Seriously, you don’t need to do this. You don’t need to get sick too.” His voice was rough, he was clearly congested. His skin was pink from his fever and coated with a small layer of sweat. Medicine bottles were stacked on his bedside table, some popped open, along with an old washcloth that had entirely dried by this point. As she expected, he wasn’t getting proper care by himself.

“Hush. I’m your girlfriend, it’s my job to take good care of you, isn’t it? I tried to keep you from getting sick, but now that you are, I’m going to help you get well again. He opened his mouth to protest, but she simply shushed him with a finger to his lips and soft chuckle. “Have you changed your pajamas recently?”

“Well, no, but…”

“You need to! I bet those are covered in sweat from last night and today.” She huffed and dug in his drawers, pulling out a fresh set of pajamas and handing them to him as he sat up. “Put these on, you’ll feel much better after you do. I’ll get some fresh rags and cold water while you do that.” He simply nodded, knowing there was no use to argue with her. Once Momo made up her mind, it was difficult to convince her to back down. Plus, the idea of his stern girlfriend acting as his doting nurse for the afternoon didn’t sound so bad. With a groan, he got out of bed and changed into the fresh pajamas and admittedly, he did immediately feel a little bit better. Momo re-entered his room just as he was getting back into bed, pleased that he had followed her instructions.

“I brought you all the notes and schoolwork you missed today so you don’t get too far behind,” She informed him as she pulled a chair up to his bedside, sitting the bowl of water in her lap and soaking a washcloth in it, “But I hate to inform you that you have a pop quiz to make up with Yamada-sensei.” She giggled at the annoyed groan he let out, ringing out the washcloth and leaning over to gently start washing his face.

He let out a happy sigh at how good the cold cloth felt against his hot skin, smiling up at his girlfriend. “Well thanks for the heads up. I appreciate it.” He relaxed as her hand gently scrubbed his face and neck clean of sweat. Momo could be so harsh with her words, and yet she always had a very gentle touch. It was one of the things he liked so much about her, her hidden softness. She tossed the used washcloth in his hamper, before soaking and ringing another one, neatly folding it up, and then gently rested it on his forehead. He felt ten times better already, despite the dull ache of illness continuing to linger in his body.

He had expected Momo to maybe stay an hour or two, clean him up and give him some meds, then be out the door to get her homework done and let him rest. This wasn’t the case at all though, because she had been here with him for nearly six hours by now, and 10:00 p.m. was approaching fast. She had changed out his washcloth every hour or so, made him take some expensive medicine she had brought that tasted like raw licorice, even made him some fresh soup for dinner. Even as he had dozed in and out of sleep, she stayed by his side, working on her schoolwork and occasionally asking if he needed anything. And if he did, she complied without complaint. She did have a curfew however for weeknights, and started listing things off he had to do before bed as she packed her things.

“Take these medications to help you sleep peacefully, and these to ease your pain. Have a cup of hot tea in the morning, and remember, I’ll have my ringer on if you need anyth-”

“Momo.”

She paused when her boyfriend interrupted her, looking up at him curiously. “…Yes?” She asked with a tilt of her head.

He smiled wide, sitting up and pulling her in for a gentle hug. “Thanks for taking care of me… you’re a really wonderful nurse, you know that?” He hummed into her shoulder, and she let out a quietly amused sigh as she returned the hug. She could deal with how sweaty he was for a little bit, the moment was too tender for her to end. She sat down on the edge of the bed, eventually breaking the hug and holding his hand.

“Well… I want you to get well soon. School’s pretty lonely without you there, so I’d very much like you to return as soon as possible.” She confessed with light pink cheeks, glancing away from his eyes. “And I knew you certainly wouldn’t be taking proper care of yourself.” They softly laughed together.

“I guess you’re right there, but now I’m fully trained for when I have to take care of you one day. I promise I’ll return the care you’ve given me tenfold!” He swore, giving her hand a little squeeze. “Thanks for all you’ve done for me…. uh…” She blinked as he stuttered a bit, giving him the time to find his words. “Hey, I know I’m sick and all but… is one kiss okay? Just one? I’ll close my lips tight and everything.” He asked with hopeful eyes.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile at his request. “I suppose one won’t hurt too much…” It was rare for her boyfriend to be this openly affectionate, and maybe it was the illness messing with his brain, but she was going to take advantage of it at least a little bit. She closed her eyes as she leaned in, her boyfriend meeting her halfway as they softly kissed each other. It was brief and gentle, but very, very sweet and left her feeling warm once they separated.

Momo smiled at her boyfriend as she stood, gathering her things and giving his head a soft pat. “I’ll talk to you in the morning. Sleep tight.”

“You too.” He responded, happily settling back into bed as she left his room and headed home.

The next morning, he found he felt better than he had before he had gotten sick. He excitedly texted Momo that he would see her at school, yet oddly got no response. It wasn’t until he was in his desk and class had started that he received his slightly grumpy response.

You gave me your sickness. I hope you meant it when you said you were ready to return the care, ___.

[eddiejpoplar]

Our Hottest Reviews, Drives, and Features of the Year

Another year has disappeared in the rearview mirror, and here at Automobile our 2018 included experiences with a mind-blowing roster of amazing machines. Over the past 12 months, we found ourselves behind the steering wheels of stuff as diverse as the all-new 2019 BMW 3 and 8 Series, SUVs from Rolls-Royce and Lamborghini, and a 755-hp Corvette—and as always, we endeavored to put you right there alongside us. Here we present a selection of the very best reviews and feature stories we published in 2018; please enjoy, and be sure to stay with us throughout 2019 to read our adventures with the upcoming Toyota Supra, Land Rover Defender, Ford Mustang Shelby GT500, and more!

2019 BMW 3 Series | “Because the 3 Series really is a sedan that’s free once again.”

2018 Jaguar XE SV Project 8 | “Top speed? 200 mph. Sounds hilarious, right? The thing is, SVO wanted to create a halo car with a really hard-core track focus. The engine is just the start . . . ”

2019 BMW M850i xDrive | “Fortunately, you don’t have to be a BMW fan to love the all-new 2019 BMW 8 Series, especially so in M850i xDrive guise. You just have to enjoy great cars.”

2019 Rolls-Royce Cullinan | “The Cullinan’s armor may be more stylistic than literal. But it does an indomitable job of insulating its occupants from the wilds of the world while presenting a stoic outward face to skeptics and admirers alike.”

2019 Mercedes-AMG G63 | “Like the G550 on which it is based, the G63 is longer and wider than before, with an independent front suspension where a solid axle once lurked. The result is a far more civil machine with more interior room, a nicer cockpit, and handling dynamics that fit this century.”

2018 Porsche 911 GT2 RS | “It begins with a little smile during the triple-digit approach to a braking zone, gestates into giggles as you fly around a long, constant-radius right-hander fast enough to bend your neck like licorice, and finally breaks into full-on snorts as the car comes off the corner and accelerates into oblivion for about the 23rd time in the past three minutes. Holy. Blanking. Lucifer.”

2019 Lamborghini Urus | “The trouble with success is that it is cumulative. When you have the perfect family, the perfect job, the perfect life, “perfect” becomes normal, and normal sucks. You need something more. Enter Urus.”

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 | “Not content with the kidney-flattening supercharged LT4 engine that kicks out 650 horses and 650 lb-ft of torque in the Corvette Z06, the new ZR1 has a super-supercharged LT5 V-8 spitting 755 horsepower at 6,300 rpm and 715 lb-ft at 4,400 rpm. You don’t need your kidneys, anyway.”

2018 Porsche 911 GT2 RS and 2020 Porsche Mission E | “Tension is in the air as we approach today’s subject. Only three people have driven this car so far without a watchdog in the passenger seat. I’ll be number four.”

2018 BMW M5 vs. 2018 Mercedes-AMG E63 S | “Welcome to round four of the BMW vs. Mercedes fight for the Hottest Sedan crown. This time, it’s the 2018 BMW M5 vs. the 2018 Mercedes-AMG E63 S, in Portugal.”

2019 Ferrari 488 Pista | ” ‘Pista?’ The name might describe your neighbor’s attitude when you rev its new twin-turbo, 3.9-liter V-8 to its 8,000-rpm redline as you pull into your driveway past midnight.”

2019 Porsche 911 GT3 RS | “A flimsy air fence is the only thing separating my borrowed Porsche 911 GT3 RS from the baddest-ass racetrack on earth. The proximity is so tempting, you could hardly blame me for my smoldering fantasy to ditch the Nürburgring’s sterile Grand Prix circuit and hit the hallowed Nordschleife, unfettering all 512 horses on the forest-lined über track.”

The 700-Horsepower Club  | “Behold the mad, reality-distorting power of these three goliaths of automotive engineering: the Porsche 911 GT2 RS, Chevrolet Corvette ZR1, and McLaren 720S.”

The post Our Hottest Reviews, Drives, and Features of the Year appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

from Performance Junk Blogger 6 http://bit.ly/2QbiT0V via IFTTT

[jonathanbelloblog]

Our Hottest Reviews, Drives, and Features of the Year

Another year has disappeared in the rearview mirror, and here at Automobile our 2018 included experiences with a mind-blowing roster of amazing machines. Over the past 12 months, we found ourselves behind the steering wheels of stuff as diverse as the all-new 2019 BMW 3 and 8 Series, SUVs from Rolls-Royce and Lamborghini, and a 755-hp Corvette—and as always, we endeavored to put you right there alongside us. Here we present a selection of the very best reviews and feature stories we published in 2018; please enjoy, and be sure to stay with us throughout 2019 to read our adventures with the upcoming Toyota Supra, Land Rover Defender, Ford Mustang Shelby GT500, and more!

2019 BMW 3 Series | “Because the 3 Series really is a sedan that’s free once again.”

2018 Jaguar XE SV Project 8 | “Top speed? 200 mph. Sounds hilarious, right? The thing is, SVO wanted to create a halo car with a really hard-core track focus. The engine is just the start . . . ”

2019 BMW M850i xDrive | “Fortunately, you don’t have to be a BMW fan to love the all-new 2019 BMW 8 Series, especially so in M850i xDrive guise. You just have to enjoy great cars.”

2019 Rolls-Royce Cullinan | “The Cullinan’s armor may be more stylistic than literal. But it does an indomitable job of insulating its occupants from the wilds of the world while presenting a stoic outward face to skeptics and admirers alike.”

2019 Mercedes-AMG G63 | “Like the G550 on which it is based, the G63 is longer and wider than before, with an independent front suspension where a solid axle once lurked. The result is a far more civil machine with more interior room, a nicer cockpit, and handling dynamics that fit this century.”

2018 Porsche 911 GT2 RS | “It begins with a little smile during the triple-digit approach to a braking zone, gestates into giggles as you fly around a long, constant-radius right-hander fast enough to bend your neck like licorice, and finally breaks into full-on snorts as the car comes off the corner and accelerates into oblivion for about the 23rd time in the past three minutes. Holy. Blanking. Lucifer.”

2019 Lamborghini Urus | “The trouble with success is that it is cumulative. When you have the perfect family, the perfect job, the perfect life, “perfect” becomes normal, and normal sucks. You need something more. Enter Urus.”

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 | “Not content with the kidney-flattening supercharged LT4 engine that kicks out 650 horses and 650 lb-ft of torque in the Corvette Z06, the new ZR1 has a super-supercharged LT5 V-8 spitting 755 horsepower at 6,300 rpm and 715 lb-ft at 4,400 rpm. You don’t need your kidneys, anyway.”

2018 Porsche 911 GT2 RS and 2020 Porsche Mission E | “Tension is in the air as we approach today’s subject. Only three people have driven this car so far without a watchdog in the passenger seat. I’ll be number four.”

2018 BMW M5 vs. 2018 Mercedes-AMG E63 S | “Welcome to round four of the BMW vs. Mercedes fight for the Hottest Sedan crown. This time, it’s the 2018 BMW M5 vs. the 2018 Mercedes-AMG E63 S, in Portugal.”

2019 Ferrari 488 Pista | ” ‘Pista?’ The name might describe your neighbor’s attitude when you rev its new twin-turbo, 3.9-liter V-8 to its 8,000-rpm redline as you pull into your driveway past midnight.”

2019 Porsche 911 GT3 RS | “A flimsy air fence is the only thing separating my borrowed Porsche 911 GT3 RS from the baddest-ass racetrack on earth. The proximity is so tempting, you could hardly blame me for my smoldering fantasy to ditch the Nürburgring’s sterile Grand Prix circuit and hit the hallowed Nordschleife, unfettering all 512 horses on the forest-lined über track.”

The 700-Horsepower Club  | “Behold the mad, reality-distorting power of these three goliaths of automotive engineering: the Porsche 911 GT2 RS, Chevrolet Corvette ZR1, and McLaren 720S.”

The post Our Hottest Reviews, Drives, and Features of the Year appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

from Performance Junk Blogger Feed 4 http://bit.ly/2QbiT0V via IFTTT

[jesusvasser]

Our Hottest Reviews, Drives, and Features of the Year

Another year has disappeared in the rearview mirror, and here at Automobile our 2018 included experiences with a mind-blowing roster of amazing machines. Over the past 12 months, we found ourselves behind the steering wheels of stuff as diverse as the all-new 2019 BMW 3 and 8 Series, SUVs from Rolls-Royce and Lamborghini, and a 755-hp Corvette—and as always, we endeavored to put you right there alongside us. Here we present a selection of the very best reviews and feature stories we published in 2018; please enjoy, and be sure to stay with us throughout 2019 to read our adventures with the upcoming Toyota Supra, Land Rover Defender, Ford Mustang Shelby GT500, and more!

2019 BMW 3 Series | “Because the 3 Series really is a sedan that’s free once again.”

2018 Jaguar XE SV Project 8 | “Top speed? 200 mph. Sounds hilarious, right? The thing is, SVO wanted to create a halo car with a really hard-core track focus. The engine is just the start . . . ”

2019 BMW M850i xDrive | “Fortunately, you don’t have to be a BMW fan to love the all-new 2019 BMW 8 Series, especially so in M850i xDrive guise. You just have to enjoy great cars.”

2019 Rolls-Royce Cullinan | “The Cullinan’s armor may be more stylistic than literal. But it does an indomitable job of insulating its occupants from the wilds of the world while presenting a stoic outward face to skeptics and admirers alike.”

2019 Mercedes-AMG G63 | “Like the G550 on which it is based, the G63 is longer and wider than before, with an independent front suspension where a solid axle once lurked. The result is a far more civil machine with more interior room, a nicer cockpit, and handling dynamics that fit this century.”

2018 Porsche 911 GT2 RS | “It begins with a little smile during the triple-digit approach to a braking zone, gestates into giggles as you fly around a long, constant-radius right-hander fast enough to bend your neck like licorice, and finally breaks into full-on snorts as the car comes off the corner and accelerates into oblivion for about the 23rd time in the past three minutes. Holy. Blanking. Lucifer.”

2019 Lamborghini Urus | “The trouble with success is that it is cumulative. When you have the perfect family, the perfect job, the perfect life, “perfect” becomes normal, and normal sucks. You need something more. Enter Urus.”

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 | “Not content with the kidney-flattening supercharged LT4 engine that kicks out 650 horses and 650 lb-ft of torque in the Corvette Z06, the new ZR1 has a super-supercharged LT5 V-8 spitting 755 horsepower at 6,300 rpm and 715 lb-ft at 4,400 rpm. You don’t need your kidneys, anyway.”

2018 Porsche 911 GT2 RS and 2020 Porsche Mission E | “Tension is in the air as we approach today’s subject. Only three people have driven this car so far without a watchdog in the passenger seat. I’ll be number four.”

2018 BMW M5 vs. 2018 Mercedes-AMG E63 S | “Welcome to round four of the BMW vs. Mercedes fight for the Hottest Sedan crown. This time, it’s the 2018 BMW M5 vs. the 2018 Mercedes-AMG E63 S, in Portugal.”

2019 Ferrari 488 Pista | ” ‘Pista?’ The name might describe your neighbor’s attitude when you rev its new twin-turbo, 3.9-liter V-8 to its 8,000-rpm redline as you pull into your driveway past midnight.”

2019 Porsche 911 GT3 RS | “A flimsy air fence is the only thing separating my borrowed Porsche 911 GT3 RS from the baddest-ass racetrack on earth. The proximity is so tempting, you could hardly blame me for my smoldering fantasy to ditch the Nürburgring’s sterile Grand Prix circuit and hit the hallowed Nordschleife, unfettering all 512 horses on the forest-lined über track.”

The 700-Horsepower Club  | “Behold the mad, reality-distorting power of these three goliaths of automotive engineering: the Porsche 911 GT2 RS, Chevrolet Corvette ZR1, and McLaren 720S.”

The post Our Hottest Reviews, Drives, and Features of the Year appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

from Performance Junk WP Feed 4 http://bit.ly/2QbiT0V via IFTTT

[reddirtramblings]

This morning, I was outside watering the containers on the deck and those next to the potager and greenhouse. We had very hot temperatures in Oklahoma last week. One day we topped out at 108° and another, 110°F. We are now back down to the normal mid to low-90s, but Oklahoma’s extreme summer weather proved which were the best plants for summer containers.

Containers on the back deck surrounding the chairs. I think if I had to live again in an apartment, I would be ok if I had a place for lots of containers. Behind the chair is Pennisetum purpureum ‘Princess Caroline’ and next to it is P. purpureum ‘Fireworks.’ I love the way grasses sway in the breeze no matter how hot things get.

Drip irrigation works

Here’s my rundown, but before we start, note that my containers are–for the most part–on drip irrigation. I did plant a couple of large containers in late spring that I water with a hand sprayer. Also, on the hottest days, I watered twice a day. You can either set up your drip irrigation kit on a timer for twice a day or spray them the second time yourself. You simply cannot miss a day and keep your containers thriving. Miss two, and most plants will die in such extreme heat.

Who could blame them?

After temperatures moderate, feed your plants with a granular or liquid organic fertilizer. There are several brands on the market. Heavily watered plants in containers will need a boost of nutrients.

I wrote about how to install a drip irrigation system for containers in my book, The 20-30 Something Garden Guide: A No-Fuss, Down and Dirty, Gardening 101 for Anyone Who Wants to Grow Stuff. Click the link if you’d like to buy the book and learn more.

[Click on the galleries to see the photos enlarged. Many of the plant names are listed in the captions.]

Pilea microphylla, artillery plant, is probably so named because it is as tough as an artillery shell.

This container has both ‘Cathedral Windows’ coleus and black sweet potato vine. Although I bought the sweet potato vine untagged, I believe it to be Sweet Caroline Bewitched After Midnight™ because of the leaf shape. The container also has a spreading verbena, but it’s pretty overwhelmed by the sweet potato vine. I think the container looks great against ‘Princess Caroline’ grass.

Asparagus densiflorus ‘Myers,’ foxtail fern, is another plant that is almost indestructible.

Bullet-proof plants

When planning your containers, my first suggestion would be to incorporate at least one or more bullet-proof plants like those in the gallery, above. This way, you’re assured of having some success. If something else in the pot dies, simply replace it.

Repeat after me, plants die. It’s okay.

‘Snowflake Rose’ geranium and Polygala fruticosa ‘Petite Butterfly’ have both kept blooming sporadically throughout summer. ‘Snowflake Rose’ has splotched variegated leaves. I will be overwintering it in the greenhouse or indoors.

Nutmeg scented pelargonium (geranium) has such nice blue foliage that seems impervious to heat.

‘Orange Fizz’ geranium has some dead leaves inside of it, but considering it’s been in full sun all summer so I’m not surprised.

Ecbolium amplexicaule, green swan flower, is from Kenya and one of my favorite plants to grow in containers. It is the green and white corner of the deck this year. I bought mine at Bustani Plant Farm. It is rugged tough.

Plectranthus scutellarioides ‘Peter’s Wonder’ is another favorite coleus I buy or overwinter year-after-year. Although it has very brittle stems, it’s also such a unique color combination.

I’m very surprised scented geraniums and some of the other zonal geraniums–botanically all pelargoniums–have performed really well in containers this year. You may remember from my Instagram posts like this one of ‘Angel’s Perfume‘ and another video introducing scented geraniums that I invested in six or seven scented geraniums in the dead of winter. I’m happy to say that all of my lovely scented geraniums from Colonial Creek Farm are alive and happy. They aren’t blooming much, if at all because it’s too hot for anything to bloom, but they will once temperatures lower into the 80s. I’m especially excited about the blue/silver foliage of the nutmeg-scented one although it doesn’t smell like nutmeg to me. Scent is really so personal.

A unique pelargonium

I bought P. ‘New Path’ from Bustani Plant Farm, and it is still blooming its fool head off in spite of the heat. Steve Owens, the owner of Bustani, put me in touch with Dr. Ernest DeMarie, who created ‘New Path,’ when he was a graduate student working toward his doctorate at Cornell University. As DeMarie wrote in his blog, A Not So Simple Garden, ‘New Path’ is unusual because it is “a tetraploid with a zonal pelargonium called ‘Rio’ as one parent, and a tetraploid hybrid I made at Cornell via tissue culture from a white zonal pelargonium and P. aridum as the other parent.” This parentage explains the different type of leaves you find on ‘New Path.’ Again, from DeMarie’s blog, “It [P. aridum] is a small plant with deeply divided leaves, small yellow flowers, and red tuberous roots. So somewhere in ‘New Path’ lurk genes for yellow color and finely divided foliage.”

Pelargonium ‘New Path’ has also been a surprise. It has very thick leaves that have held up to the heat. Note, it does get some shade from the two larger containers surrounding it. I bought mine at Bustani Plant Farm this spring.

I think it’s simply beautiful. You just never know what you’ll find on the Collectors Corner bench at Bustani! I’ll be overwintering this beauty in the greenhouse come fall.

Probably my favorite container of the year is this one next to the greenhouse. It is filled with Supertunia Vista Parade, Angel Face Steel Blue angelonia, Superbells Doublette Love Swept, Diamond Mountain Euphorbia and Supertunia Vista Bubblegum which were all test plants.

Thriller, filler, spiller formula

I try to follow the “thriller, filler, spiller” formula of planting, first written about by Steve Silk in Fine Gardening magazine, with one tall plant in the center, something shorter in the middle and something to trail down the sides of the container. The photo, above, shows a version of this formula. With the two shades of pink Supertunias, Vista® Bubblegum®, and Vista® Paradise  (2019 release), and the Diamond Mountain™ euphorbia (2019 release), I think this is my favorite container this year. The Angel Face Steel Blue angelonia (2019 release) blooms slowed down in the extreme heat, but it will recover and bloom more as temperatures moderate. The bloom stalks weren’t standing up the way I wanted so I added this tuteur to hold them upright. I like using tuteurs and obelisks to reign in floppy plants. I also deadheaded the angelonia to encourage more bloom spikes later. An upside-down lamp shade would also work as would a peony support pushed into the potting soil, but in this case, I wanted the height of the tuteur.

Below is a closeup of the same container. It deserves two pictures. Proven Winners sent me these trial plants. I think, if I remember correctly, the company wanted us to combine the already outstanding Supertunia Vista® Bubblegum with 2019 introductions in interesting ways. Well, my plant shipment came at the busiest time of the year so I simply put a bunch of them together in one container. I think it turned out very nice. Very nice indeed.

Closeup of Supertunia Vista Bubblegum, Diamond Mountain Euphorbia and Supertunia Vista Paradise.

Even though I like the standard TFS formula, I find that a mid-sized plant like Helichrysum italicum, curry plant, with a ring of lime green duranta, makes a pretty bold statement. This container is also a favorite this year. I placed it between larger containers with taller plantings to fill in around it. I just deadheaded the coleus in the pot at the left so it doesn’t look its best now.

Helichrysum italicum, curry plant surrounded by Duranta erecta ‘Lime.’ This picture doesn’t show the best of this plant combination, but it was the best I could get this morning. Taking a photo from the other side made it look like the plants were behind bars as in prison. Ha!

Containers on the other side of the deck grouped in the TFS formula. ‘Princess Caroline’ is on the left, and ‘Fireworks’ is in the pot on the right.

Green and white corner of the deck.

Another of my favorite containers–I planted this one later in the season when I found Pilea microphylla artillery plant, Supertunia Hot Pink Charm, Helichrysum petiolare Lemon Licorice, licorice plant and Floria Sun Rose coleus on sale for half price at Acer Hardware. I just knew they would look splendid together, and they do.

Closeup of Supertunia Hot Pink Charm, Blue My Mind Evolvulus, Helichrysum petiolare Lemon Licorice and Attar of Rose scented geranium.

By grouping containers together in pleasing ways, you can use the TFS formula on a larger and more interesting scale.

Tall plants that perform well in my containers are purple fountain grasses like Pennisetum purpureum ‘Princess Caroline’ which takes a very large container and its smaller cousin, ‘Fireworks.’ You can also use plain purple fountain grass, but I like ‘Fireworks’ better. It does lose its pink stripe in the middle of summer but regains it again in fall.

Rugosa roses also make a tall statement in the garden. After they grow larger, they compete with anything else in the pot. Why Rugosa roses? Because they are extremely hardy. I can leave my ‘Therese Bugnet’ out on the deck in a glazed pot all winter. Rugosa roses also smell good.

Cyperus papyrus ‘King Tut’ Egyptian papyrus is another great plant for a container centerpiece in full sun. In fact, most grasses do really well as do large coleus. I just trimmed all of my coleus back by half so they don’t look that great today. ‘Big Red Judy’ also sometimes called ‘Big Red’ is a wonderful large coleus that could be the centerpiece of any pot.

Here’s an old photo from 2011 of Rosa rugosa ‘Therese Bugnet’ with an assortment of desert and tropical plants.

Rosa rugosa ‘Therese Bugnet’ only blooms once in spring in my garden, but she is pretty and smells delicious.

‘Big Red’ coleus earlier this spring.

In the photo below, I’d hoped ‘Large Marge’ coleus would grow larger than the Lotus jacobaeus, black lotus plant in this container. I should have read the tag. Marge isn’t that large The black lotus has a see-through quality, but Marge looks rather smothered. Both plants are extremely drought tolerant, and the black lotus bloomed only a week ago. The blooms are so exotic they give me a thrill.

I know, I know, but really, they do.

Lotus jacobaeus, black lotus, with ‘Large Marge’ coleus and Superbells Tropical Sunrise calibrochoa.

When thinking about heat and drought tolerance, look for plants with silvery foliage. I really hate dusty miller, but my friends in Tulsa convinced me broad-leaved dusty miller was a much prettier plant. They were right. Thanks, Beth and Teresa! I’m enjoying how heat tolerant it is and how great it looks against P.  purpurea ‘Princess Caroline.’ It’s also great in bouquets and is often used in the florist industry. Dichondra argentea ‘Silver Falls’ is another a good choice as are the newer varieties of Evolvulus Blue My Mind® and Helichrysum petiolare Lemon Licorice. The latter two spill out of containers and weave through other plants in very pleasing ways.

Senecio cineraria ‘New Look,’ broad leaf dusty miller in front of P. purpureum ‘Princess Caroline.’

Dichondra argentea ‘Silver Falls’ is also a good choice for a hot-weather container.

Closeup of Supertunia Hot Pink Charm, Blue My Mind Evolvulus, Helichrysum petiolare Lemon Licorice and Attar of Rose scented geranium.

With that, I think I’ve covered what worked well this year in containers. Remember, bullet-proof plants are the centerpiece of any successful heat wave container. What are some of your favorites this year?

  Best plants for summer containers This morning, I was outside watering the containers on the deck and those next to the potager and greenhouse.

[azlrse]

Hm..

What would the yandere cookies(you pick who) do if their S.O was mute/blind/deaf, etc?

For this ask, I'm gonna do Licorice Cookie since it's been a while since I wrote something for him.

Licorice Cookie is the kind of cookie who would use a bit of his darling's disability to it's advantage but only did this once since he feels extremely guilty.

Let's say that you were Licorice's self-proclaimed lover who is blind and couldn't see the world. At first, he didn't mind watching you afar as you take a walk on the lonely forest with only a staff to hold on for. By the look of your face, you are not scared of the dangers lurked within the forest, just a relaxed and peaceful expression as you felt the fresh wind on your face.

As usual, you always make the first move when you sensed that there was a cookie near you, asking them for help when you accidentally dropped your walking stick. Licorice was a bit skeptical about your eyes but didn't say a word as he picked up your stick and handed it over. You thanked him and made your way towards the small town you resided.

As more days passes by, he always watches you from afar behind the trees. You sat down by the bed of flowers and felt peace there. No cookies, no noise, just the sound of the wind and the leaves falling down.

"I know you are there, come forward." Licorice was a bit shocked when you called him, a bit hesitant to come forward. How did you know that someone is out there watching over you. That cookie isn't a danger towards you, isn't it? After all, you want someone to talk to.

Licorice would sat down and at first, he didn't want to talk to you. You were just a stranger and a nuisance disturbing his walk days ago but he needed some time away from Crimson Badlands. Nobody was with him at that time so a small talk should be a nice thing towards him, right?

Months had passed and he's been looking forward on going towards the forest just to see you and as always, in the usual spot where he first sees you.

There is something growing inside of him, how his heart beats fast as he listened to your lovely voice. He loved the way you gave helpful advices after he ranted towards his peers and his master (he didn't mentioned that he works for Dark Enchantress in fear that you would ran away from him) instead of dropping all the words of negativity on his journals.

You didn't judged him by his rants and for breaking down.

You always praised him for his usage of magic.

And he didn't treated you differently just because you are blind.

Wait, does this dark cookie gained feelings for you?

^^ yup, sure he does...

This cookie is hella overprotective over you. He would constantly watches you where ever you go and even has to disguise himself to avoid being recognized as he follows you around. He knows that you are blind and vulnerable to the open world, especially when it comes to Dark Enchantress' forces of evil.

He thinks that you would be in danger if he's not there with you.

When the final straw came that a thief stole something and beat you when you are trying to defend yourself, he didn't hesitate to summon his minions and carried you away to safety. He needs to take you away since in his perspective, you were way better if you're with him, protected in his arms.

Licorice loves you so much and how he wishes for you to see his face. You would be the perfect right hand cookie for him. He will do his best to find a spell that could restore your sight.

But as long as you remain good in his care, you recieve that spell as a loving gift from him.