Heaven (Modern!AU) (Constance/Orin) (Constance/Ebenezer)

Trigger warning for graphic depictions of self-harm and attempted su*c*de.

Connie experiences darkness before the dawn.

Something about the entire evening felt just a tad … off.

Orin Spiegler couldn’t exactly pinpoint what exactly was amiss in the couple’s stately 5th Avenue townhouse, but a sense of dread was tugging at him. He felt … anxious, which was not an emotion he felt often. Stock trading on Wall Street and rubbing elbows with some of the richest financial syndicates in the country and world took someone with steel-will and gumption. By self- admission, he had both in spades.

Orin knew there were many select adjectives one might use to describe him, but ‘uncertain’ was not one of them. When he felt or knew something, he believed it with his whole chest and soul.

Something in the air on that very evening was making his uneasy.

Orin sat in an expansive, high ceiling sitting room in the townhouse, the windows showing the top of Central Park’s green canopy. The clouds churned dark gray outside, pregnant with a chilling winter downpour that threatened to turn to snow if the temperature dwindled much more.

It wasn’t the cold or impending weather making him nervous, nor was it the distance scratching of the delicate sapphire needle on the phonograph nearby, playing a crackling blend of Chopin’s most well-known pieces. No. He was used to all that. He was used to the dry newspaper in his hands, ink smearing on his fingertips even if he’d given the damn thing the whole day to dry. He was used to the expensive firewood filling the parlor with the scent of aftershave, and just a little bit of nauseous smoke.

He was a man of routine, and nothing this evening stood out compared to anything else that would have also been commonplace any other night.

Yet, his fingers felt compelled to tap the wooden flourish of his armchair. An itch manifested on his freshly shaven cheek. The silk of his dressing gown suddenly felt as stifling as wool.

A persistent, nagging notion scratched at the base of his skull: Get up, get up, get up.

Something was wrong. But what?

Fuck, he needed a drink.

“Con!” he yelled, voice reverberating through the cavernous room, “Grab me a drink, will you?”

Silence.

A groan of irritation left him as he threw the paper aside and rose to his feet. “Con! Hey!”

He peered down the hall that housed a few of the townhome’s bedrooms. It was dark and still as nighttime pond. Uneasiness returned as he noted a persistent haze filling the hall. Steam from the bathroom, he realized.

Ah, of course, she was in the bath.

Well, she could fetch his drink nude, he thought. That could be fun.

Marching to the bathroom, his fingers curled around the knob like the legs of a dying spider. He gave the door a rattle. As expected, it was locked, the knob frozen in place. “Con. I know you’re in there.”

There was no noise from the other side. Not a sound of exasperation or fear, not the sound of sloshing water, not the sound of a squeaky tap or a groaning pipe. It was as if the room was empty on the other side of the locked door, but that wasn’t possible.

That persistent feeling of dread grew in tandem with the stretch of silence he experienced on the other side of the door. While one hand kept trying the knob, the hardware rattling like tumbling bones with furious flick of the wrist. While his right hand attacked the knob, his left hand rose seemingly of its own accord to tap his fingers against the lacquered wood. One finger to another, back and forth, three or four times.

The entire time, crickets. By now, she would have stirred. She should have stirred.

“Con?” he asked again, his voice growing with the same trepidation that had lured him up from the chair.

Silence.

Had she fallen asleep in the bath and slipped into the water?

“Constance. Constance!”

Panic rose in his throat and he continued to twist the knob over and over, attempting to move the lock’s tumblers by threat and force. The fingers that had previously siphoned out his anxiety through fleeting taps now curled into a fist and banged on the wood.

“I’m going to break down the door if you don’t answer me.”

Less than ten seconds passed before he acted upon the promise. Squaring his shoulders and bracing himself, he reared back against the hall wall before charging forward. The door jostled in place, and after a few strikes, began to buckle around the metal hardware. While the new lock remained in place, the historic door (a heavily restored original from the townhome’s initial construction around two hundred years ago) caved with relative ease.

Adrenaline numbed the pain long enough for him to force the wood forward past the screws and hinges.

On the next ram, it buckled. With the lock still clicked into place, the rest of the door flew back and smacked the bathroom wall.

Orin stumbled inside, and before he saw anything else, he saw red. A pool of blood, thick and black as oil, dripped from the edge of the otherwise pristine, white clawfoot tub. Perched atop the rim was a slit wrist, a jagged flap of skin hanging free from the cut veins.

One of his facial razors was limply cradled between the unresponsive manicured nails.

“Fuck!”

He pushed himself back from the doorway, stumbling away from the stained floor, as if he could push himself out of the dream before him.

“Fuck, fuck, no!” he screamed, voice shattering with each syllable. The world seemed to still in that moment, where each breath felt like an eternity to complete. “H-holy shit…C-Constance….”

Remembering himself, he peeled himself up from the floor and stepped through the metallic-smelling liquid to read the room.

As he looked inside, he saw his fear realized. While one slit wrist was perched atop the edge of the tub, her other slit wrist and head were submerged in the pink-tinted water, only a few bubbles leaving her nostrils and mouth. Her coppery hair wreathed her lifeless face like a halo, eyes already fluttered shut.

Acting instinct, he lunged to her side. Orin reached in and hauled Constance from the tub, all but throwing her onto the floor. She wasn’t nude, but rather dressed in a thin slip dress that reached her mid-thighs, likely to preserve some dignity for whoever found her.

She was already cold and limp in his arms from also slipping unconscious, therefore powerless to stop him bundling her wrists in towels and wrapping her in a robe. He worked in silence, waiting until all her wounds were covered before he began to apply beats of heavy pressure to her chest.

He thumped his hands against her sternum, then frantically tipped her head back and breathed into her mouth.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered, mindless of the blood and bath water drenching him. “No. Fuck. No, we’re not doing this.”

He commanded her to wake up over and over again, both shouting the order and muttering it against her blueish lips between breaths. Some of those whispers were prayers, not to Constance, but to any higher power or ghosts that could hear him.

When she finally did sputter up some water, she didn’t even take a moment to breathe. All Constance did was gasp and let out a choppy groan. Her agony was personified in a cry for death rather than a frantic gasp for life.

Ignoring her pleas to let her die, he scooped her up in his arms and rushed to his phone in the sitting room.

While waiting for an ambulance to arrive, he held her like a child cradling their favorite stuffed toy, rocking her softly all the while.

While he murmured sweet nothing, she let out creaking, suffocated groans for physical and mental release.

Release from life. Release from him.

The clawfoot tub in Ebenezer Scrooge’s London flat was large enough for her to practically lay flat in.

Slipping out of her robe (which was actually his robs - she needed to buy one to keep at his place), she tentatively stepped into the steaming tub of water one leg at a time.

Baths always worked wonders for her aches and pains, especially residual injuries from her broken legs.

This one was no exception.

Even when she went to sit down, the size of the bath continued to surprise her. Sitting fully on her bum, the water almost reached her chin. Almost slipping into the deepness, she caught herself with a giggle. She rolled her shoulder back and reclined against the back of the tub with a sigh.

Oh, it was heaven. She felt almost weightless in the tub, since it was large enough for her to move her arms and even wiggle her legs back and forth.

She could even dunk her head under the water (which she did, in fact!) and surfaced with another puff of laughter as she smoothed her curled bangs from her face.

The bath was a place of private solace; a haven to be truly defenseless and vulnerable. It was always one of the most reliable places she could retreat to and never be bothered. Whether it was after a chilly day of childhood snowball fights, a hard day at the office, or a harrowing modelling photoshoot that left her feet sore and ego bruised, she would go to the bath and feel peace.

Everything about this bathroom relaxed her. From the buttery paint color on the walls to the fluffy, freshly washed towels, and even down to the rainy London skyline outside the window, it felt perfect.

Slowly, she risked a glance down and at her wrist.

She turned her wrist over and glimpsed the deep, jagged scar adorning her right hand. While scars lingered on both hands, her wrist list had been badly marred thanks to the added clumsiness of her trying to use her non-dominant hand. It almost made her chuckle, the black comedy of it all.

Inhaling the steam off the bath, she took a deep breath to reground herself.

“You’re okay,” she reminded herself with a nod. “You’re okay.”

Her boyfriend was right outside.

This time, she had nothing, and nobody, to be scared of.

Ebenezer reclined in bed, dressing properly for a quiet evening in with pajamas and slippers. His torso sat propped against two layers of pillows, his legs crossed casually at the ankles. Across his lap was a thick book; an enjoyable endeavors compared to the massive manuscripts he often read daily as part of his job. A set of tortoiseshell reading glasses were perched atop his owlish nose. The frames were a set that Constance had helped him picked out at an optometrist appointment mere weeks prior. It had been a surprisingly domestic experience, he'd found. She'd been so serious about helping him choose the perfect set and offering her opinions. At the time, he'd wanted to pull her into a thankful kiss.

Now, he was eagerly awaiting for her to join him in bed.

Every once in a while, he glanced at the door to the ensuite bathroom. Whenever he heard a splash or giggle from inside, he almost smiled before returning to his book.

Gods, what had he done to wind up so lucky?

When the door finally opened and Constance emerged, her cheeks red and hair damp, his grin turned to a smirk. Wearing one of his robes with the hem of a sapphire-blue night slip peeking from underneath, she looked like a goddess emerging from her private springs.

“Hello,” she said with a shy smile.

“Hello, indeed,” he crooned, putting his book aside instantly. He opened an arm to her, and she crawled into his embrace. She sidled up to him, fitting perfectly in the nook between his chest and arm. “Enjoy the bath?”

She nodded and hummed. “Very much. It was so relaxing.”

He dropped a kiss upon her copper head. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“What are you reading?”

“Crime and Punishment,” he said. “I wanted to read it as a boy, but never got to it. I’ve been wanting to get back into reading more, my dear. I used to do it so often as a child when I could. Even when money was tight, libraries were always free.”

She hummed.

“Have you read it?”

“I’ve read Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Anna Karenina, but never Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment,” she said. “That’s the novel about the student, right? Raskolnikov. The one who kills his elderly neighbor with an axe?”

“…Yes,” he said, then laughed nervously. “I suppose it is a bit of a morbid choice.”

“Well, most literature is morbid in some way,” Constance giggled, readjusting herself so she laid alongside him. “Are you far along?”

“Not terribly – 10 pages or so. Barely a dent of a dent for a book of this size, I’d dare say.”

“…Can we both read it?”

“What?” he asked, glancing down at her. “Like, read it together? In turns?”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes. Is…that okay? Just a chapter or so a night before bed every night. Maybe … I could read a few times, and you could read other times?”

Touched by her sincere interest, he would have agreed even if he hadn’t liked the idea. Oh, he was overjoyed by the thought. Any opportunity to bond with her filled his proverbial cup, so to speak.

“Well, then,” he started, holding the book open with one hand while his other hugged her close. “Let’s start over, shall we?”

She reached out to grab the other side of the novel, helping to hold it upright for them.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

Inhaling again, she nodded and let her eyes flutter shut.

“It feels like heaven.”

@quill-pen I was inspired by our convo the other day. Just a bit.

Cutthroat Challenge: Just Desserts

Written: Jan 23 2020 Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Words: 1.5k

Prompt: Netflix and Chill

Sabotages: You have to work in Bucky howling like a wolf.  No sentence can be longer than fifteen words.

Warnings: 18+ Fluff & Smut

The fire roared, dry wood crackled breaking apart. It sent sparks into the smoky air drifting around the shallow pit. Bucky stepped up next to it, long silver flask in one hand. In the other a log which he tossed into the amber fire licking the air. He stumbled back with the gray smoke billowing in his face. He tipped back the flask, full of Asgardian whiskey and sprinkled his mouth with it.

Steve shoved into him, drunk. Well, as drunk as Steve could be. He grabbed for the flask, sloshing a bit down the side of Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky gave up and let Steve have it. Dark eyes stared over the fire with a hiccup. You were there, smiling with the glow of liquor and the warmth of the flames.

Steve, Bucky, Sam and Clint decided on a casual night out. But the four of them, tired of crowds settled on the woods instead. You tagged along. The compound could be so quiet without them. And you really didn’t want to be left with your own thoughts. So when Bucky urged you to come, you didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation.

At first you felt out of place. You worked accounting, administration mostly, and bumped into them often enough. But really you out in the woods with heroes, seemed out of your element. The trip there quickly changed your mind. You settled in around them. Each with their big personalities brought out yours. Sort of.

And after dinner all of them sat outside trading stories. You joined, flopped down in the big comfy wooden chair and curled up. Whiskey in your hands. Your eyes shifting and rocking from Steve to Sam, occasionally to Clint. But mostly, you caught yourself staring at Bucky.

Dark hair cut short, patchy beard. His eyes would glimmer in the flames. His short bursts of laughter would leave you smirking. The whiskey spread leaving you light headed and free, somewhat. So you indulged in observing your friend.

Suddenly Clint stood, swayed too, and tilted his head back to the full moon. Bucky’s eyes danced with silly uncertainty, his cheek bones scrunched into a wince. Clint billowed a long howl into the heavy night air. Sam, catching what Clint was doing started to bark. Still Bucky sat there as Steve too stood, put his hands on his hips and howled.

The guys descended into chuckles, sporadic yelps and growls. And you chugged the last of your drink as you giggled into the empty tumbler. After a few seconds of continued howls and barking you went back into the cabin. You were passed buzzed, drunk but you made another drink. The thought of going back out there sloppy wasn’t your idea of fun.

You slightly staggered into your darkened room. The small room moved around you ever so slightly as you headed to the bed. You sat the cup down on the end table. You bounced and jiggled while you peeled down to your shirt and panties. You dug out the laptop, tossed it at the head of the bed. And soon you followed.

Belly first, your feet hanging off the edge. Your shirt riding up passed the band of your underwear. You pulled at the laptop, put it on a pillow. Flipped it open and put on Netflix. An often repeated favorite was already there: Zumbo’s Just Desserts.

Your drink forgotten in the haze of influence you watched the competition unfold. You were enthralled in the making of gateau. And the sound of boots on a wooden floor never crossed your ears.

A giant flop later your laptop slid off the pillow. You scrambled for it. And your eyes swirled from light to the dark of the room. Looking over your shoulder, there was a large mass behind you.

It didn’t move. You lifted the laptop shining light upon the figure. Dark hair stuck out the top of his jacket ballooned around him. He moaned turned his head to the light and grinned. Bucky.

Suddenly he sat back on his knees. Foolery, lightness of spirit, whatever it was he stared at you. His eyes crinkled as he yanked his jacket off.

He howled, piercingly, it rang in your ears at its loudest.

You flinched and nearly dropped your laptop. So you rolled onto your back pulling it with you.

“Bucky!” you called and then giggled.

He was silent, still eying you, still grinning playfully. He tossed the jacket, the wind was a quick reminder of your bare legs. Haphazardly you tugged at the hem of your shirt, moved the laptop lower. But Bucky grabbed the laptop while he leaned back unlacing his boots.

“Food?” he asked sluggishly. “I liked that one flick about the inn.”

Your mind muddled to figure out what movie he was talking about. He came back down, kicking off his boots one at a time with a toe.

“The one with the city girl, goes to New Zealand,” he said. Coming closer, with laptop in hand, he crossed over your shoulders. You rolled to your side as he sat it back on the pillow. “Meets a guy, he helps her rebuild this inn.”

Your heart started to race. “A rom-com?” you asked breathlessly.

You tried not to pay attention to just how close he was. But the heat from his body surrounded you. His breath stinging with whiskey filled your nose.

“Ya, it’s good.” He chuckled softly.

His hand dropped around your waist pulling you in nearer to him. It felt like an act he had thought of for months. You sank back into him, disbelieving Bucky Barnes was cuddling your body. Propped up on his elbow, he dipped his head into your hair.

“I thought it was sweet, warming. Like you,” he whispered.

You shut your eyes tight. You fought the swimming in your head. Twitching, your hand glided from the comforter to his metal arm firmly wrapped around you.

Bucky’s breath hitched and then released it near your ear. His prickly beard scratched across your jaw. His arm unfolded underneath your head as you fell back into it.

You were face to face. Pale digital light casted shadows across his face. But blurry eyed as you were there was still gentleness in his gaze.

“Did you hear?” he asked.

You simply shrugged not knowing what he was talking about.

A smirk curled in the corner of his mouth. “I said you’re sweet.” he repeated.

Somewhere in your drunken stupor you missed the motion. The slow descending dip of his head towards your face, the seriousness in his eyes. He kissed you.

Your eyes widened and then fluttered shut. He covered you. Heat and his heavy body began to spill to your legs, your hip. His metal fingers steadily worked their way up between the bed and your ribcage. The nook of his other arm cradled your head. Soon desserts were the last thing on your mind. 

The knot in your stomach loosened but the muscles in your thighs tightened. Bucky’s lips slipped from your mouth trailing kisses and sucks down your neck. He was on top of you. Grinding his want into your pelvis. His knees wedged in and then spread your taut legs a part. He pressed his groin to yours.

He couldn’t get enough of your petal smooth skin. Nor could he ignore the light scent of smoke in your hair. Or the vanilla warming in his nose. You are beautiful to him. Squirming underneath, caught between softness and him. And he can tell you haven’t been touched in some time. You cling to him, your moans send tingles down his spine urging him to rub harder. He wanted to see how long you could last with just well intended touch.

He smiled into the skin of your breast. You were shaking all over. Legs trembled around his hips, clenching to close but struggling to stay open.

His jeans scraped across the skin of your thighs. He shifted a bit, rocked his hips, pressed in harder hitting your clit faster.

“Oh, my god. Bucky!” you panted.

Your hands fumbled to his shirt and balled your fingers into the collar. He wouldn’t let you pull him from nibbling your nipple.

“Feel good, baby?” he muttered against your skin.

You nodded your head feverishly and shut your eyes. Bucky barely pulled away from you he kept his hardness jutting across your clit. He brought his metal hand to your face. His other arm still cradling your head, he enveloped you close. His metal fingers sunk into your parted mouth. The act turned into your undoing.

Suckling two at a time you crumbled underneath him sending your body into jelly. His metal fingers slipped from your lips. And with a satisfied sigh, your fingers loosen and fell to your chest. Weakly your eyes opened, Bucky was watching you tuck your lips between your teeth. Slowly he met your eyes, grinning lightly as he spoke.

“You still wanna watch Netflix?” he asked.

Leisurely you shook your head no against his arm. Bucky smiled and reached over toward the laptop. He shut the lid as his lips pressed against yours.

In the dark, his cool metal arm reached between your legs fiddling with your panties.

“Wanna feel the sweet I have for you?” he mumbled into your mouth.

You nodded wordlessly.

“Well,” he said unzipping his jeans. “I’m gonna to make sure you get it.”

i know ur a lil anxious so i’m here are some questions i want to know ur answers to

favorite fidget toy? favorite scent? favorite color? favorite flower? favorite outfit? how do you take your coffee/tea (tell me allllllll the different ways)? best job you’ve ever had? what was your best birthday and why? favorite animal? earbuds or headphones? i’m having major deja vu as i type this. what does your favorite water bottle look like? what’s your idea of a perfect day? favorite 911 rescue? favorite season of 911? favorite buck hair?

:)

Thank you for the ask, lovely! 😊

Okay idk if it counts or not because it's not technically a fidget toy, per se, but paper clips. I love unfolding them, bending them, twisting them into all kinds of shapes. I keep a box of them close at hand at work all the time so I can fidget while I'm on calls and in between patients to help me focus.

My favorite scent is anything rose. I adore rose-scented products but Dani hates the scent, so around the house I typically default to my second favorite which is lavender.

Favorite color is pink! Although any jewel-tone or a lavender/pastel purple is alway great, too.

Favorite flower is a rose! Followed closely by lily of the valley.

Ugh I'm so boring but I'm a leggings and t-shirt kind of girl. If I could live in leggings, I would. I have this favorite pair of black athletic leggings that has POCKETS!!!!!!! and my favorite t-shirt is a gray heather v-neck t-shirt with a picture of a monitor lizard wearing a witch hat and holding a cup of tea on it.

If I'm making coffee at home or just drinking drip while I'm out, I take milk and splenda. If it's Starbucks, it's a flat white or one of their seasonal cold brews (the chocolate cream is my favorite). As for tea, I usually take it unsweetened if it's something fruity, sweetened with splenda if it needs a little sweetness, or with honey if I'm sick or my blood sugar is low and I need a boost.

Best job I've ever had was probably my first job. I was a youth group coordinator for a major non-profit organization over the summer when I was 16 and I LOVED it. We got to organize and execute fundraisers, awareness events, blood drives, and all sorts of other events. We did lots of teambuilding events and got to dabble in all sorts of cool things in different sectors within the organization and it was just fantastic.

My best birthday was probably my 13th birthday. I spent most of it on a plane on a trip to visit family in Poland, but the day after (after a LONG night's sleep to beat the jet lag) I spent the day running around my grandparents' orchard, picking fresh cherries from right up in the trees and having a great time. We had a barbecue with all the family and we had an AMAZING chocolate cake my auntie baked for me. It felt like a BIG deal because it was so different than most birthdays at home and I still remember it super clearly.

My favorite animal is the octopus! They're SO smart and just so cool.

Earbuds, for sure. Headphones tend to hurt unless they're sized exactly right because I have my helix pierced and I just don't like them very much.

My favorite water vessel right now is actually a tumbler. It's a dark green color and has pink leaves and apples etched into it. It's a hot and cold tumbler so I can put whatever I want in it, but it's usually ice water lol.

My idea of a perfect day changes by the day, honestly. Right now, I'm dreaming of a cool, rainy day to clear the smoke out of the air and freshen everything up. Cool enough that I could sit outside under an awning and drink tea while reading a book. I wouldn't say no to a little bit of distant thunder, too, just for ambience.

Oh man, how do I pick my favorite rescue? I think I'm going to have to go with the 118 rescuing one of their own - when Buck was stuck under the ladder truck. The civilians rushing forward to help always makes me sob in the ugliest way and just makes my heart hurt in the BEST way.

My favorite season is probably season 6, honestly. SO many great episodes. Closely followed by season 3.

My favorite Buck hair is any time it's longer and slightly curly. I just want to run my fingers through it so bad.

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Swell 17 oz Marble Water Bottle Tumbler.

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Rabbit Wine Tumbler Stainless Steel, Gray, 12 ounce - Set of 2.

Vice

Thomas Shelby is expanding his company to America, Miami to be specific. He's already taken out who he thought was the biggest player. Little did he know, it's you who runs the South and you're looking for a new partner.

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x reader, Brock Rumlow x reader (past), Bucky Barnes x reader (past), Thor Odinson x reader(past)

Warnings: mentions of death, cannon level violence, swearing, angst, smut. Lmk if I missed anything.

Tommy slams you against the wall in his office, his hand around you neck as the picture beside you is left slightly askew.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" He questions, his face a mere inch from yours.

"I said," you lifted your half lidded eyes, fuck if this wasn't turning you on just a bit, "You killed the wrong man. Brock was my husband, not the head of the family. I'm the one who runs the South," You smirked. His hand around your throat tightening slightly.

"So why shouldn't I just kill you now, eh?" Tommy asked, his head tilting to the side a little, "why come here and show your hand?"

You smile, "business" you say simply, "and if you'd remove your hand I could elaborate."

He let go of your neck and backed off, grabbing two tumblers and a bottle of Irish whiskey off the table next to you.

You pulled yourself off the wall and went to sit in the plush gray chair in front of his desk, smoothing a hand down your crisp white pants while he poured the drinks. Your hair in a sleek ponytail, gold hoop earrings brushing the white blazer draped over your shoulders as you took the glass he offered.

"So," he began, sitting down behind his desk, "elaborate," his accent rolling off his tongue like silk as he waved a hand.

"I really should thank you, for taking Brock out."

"I thought he was your husband?"

"A marriage of convenience. He wanted my father's territory and I needed a figurehead." You smirked before taking a drink.

"Still doesn't explain why you're in my office"

"You've stepped on quite a few toes Mr. Shelby. Barely been here a week, and already trying to start a war?"

"No," he shook his head, pursing his lips, "I'm just trying to run a business, love" he raised a brow at you and leaned back in his chair.

"These other families, they're a bit old school and you have successfully pissed them all off," you wet your lips, "I have a rapport with them and could help you with Barnes and Wilson at the docks and Odinson with distribution."

"And why would you do that?"

"Brock was the head of the Dixie Mafia, which I now control, plus the territory I inherited from my father. It's only a matter of time before the other families try to force my hand. I need another convenience. You want to expand. I want to keep what's mine." You finished, never breaking eye contact with his orbs of ocean blue.

Tommy pulled a cigarette out of the box on his desk and lit it before offering you one. You shook your head, pulling out your vape and hit it, the sweet smelling cloud hung in the air between you two.

"And why should I do that, hmm?" Tommy asked, exhaling the smoke.

You lean forward, "because if you don't, your shipments can't dock, and what you do have now you won't be able to move. You'll have to go back to England with your tail between you legs, back to Birmingham, back to Watery Lane. I do my research too, Mr. Shelby." You finished, lifting a brow at him.

Thomas took another pull from his cigarette as you stood up.

"Join me for dinner. Tomorrow night, my restaurant, six sharp," you said as you began to walk to the door, "and we can discuss this arrangement further," you pulled the frosted glass door open and walked out not giving him a chance to respond.

Arthur and John were standing by Lizzie's desk and you shot them a wink as you walked past in your sequence Jimmy Choo's. You hadn't formally met your future brother-in-law's yet but you knew all about them.

"Who the hell was that, Tom?" Arthur asked as he stared at you making your way to the elevator as Tommy walked out of his office.

"A problem," Tommy answered.

"Never thought a problem could look that good," John quipped.

"Me neither"

A/N: likes and rb's appreciated

Aftershocks (1/5)

The Better Love Series 

A sequel to The Rules of Engagement 

pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader (Ears). Part of the Better Love ‘verse. 

summary: That bomb fucked you up a little more than you thought. h/c, fluff.

words: 1.5k 

warnings: 18+ - canon typical violence, angst, hospital stuff. This one is mild for me.

a/n: unbeta’d. Gif by @javier-pena, banner by @cassandras-nest​, title card by yours truly.Takes place hours after ROE leaves off. This won’t make a lot of sense unless you’ve read Rules first.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five 

MASTERLIST 

A deep, throbbing ache in your back drags you back to the land of the living.

Ugh. 

You rub the crust from your eyes and wiggle your toes with the awkward effort that comes from heavy sleep. It’s late afternoon, the sun sinking low in the sky, falling in gentle patches over the crumpled comforter. Reality comes back to you in slow, muzzy chunks. 

You’re lying in Peña’s bed. He’d ridden you hard, then tucked you in afterward, snuggled comfortably beside you while you’d drifted off. 

The lazy smile dies on your lips as you remember just why Javier Peña had felt the need to throw you against the wall and fuck you like there was no tomorrow.

Your apartment. A blazing fireball. Smoke and ash and rubble. Emilio’s broken body. 

You choke back a sob. 

Javi.

Your chest throbs as you remember how he’d looked at you, eyes shining and desperate. 

“I thought I’d lost you.” 

How he’d held you close, tucking you gently under his chin as if you were the most precious thing in the world. Wild sex in the hallway, gentle sex in his bed. Snuggling up together afterward. His soft confession, “I’m all in, Ears, if that’s okay with you.”

Your brain spins dizzily in an attempt to process it all. Despite all of the pain, fear, drama, and uncertainty of the past 12 hours, you can’t help feeling a profound sense of relief. Sure, you’ve lost everything you’ve ever owned, but at least you have Javi. 

That thought still boggles your mind. 

You roll over, kicking your feet to untangle them from the sheets. Javi’s side of the bed is long cold. Sighing, you haul yourself up on your elbow, surprised when you have to catch your breath to do so. 

God, you’re more sore than you thought you’d be. 

Your heart races as you stand, and you press your hand to your breast bone, feeling a little woozy. Gray spots swim in your vision, and you blink hard, forcing them away. You hadn’t realized you’d stood up so fast.

Slowly, you patter naked into the hallway, following the sound of Javi’s voice. He’s in the kitchen with his back turned to you, speaking lowly into the telephone. He’s still shirtless. 

You crack a grin at the memory. 

Now that you’re standing up, you’re starting to feel a little more stable. Thoughts are still fuzzy and distant, and your pulse thrums skittish in your ears, but at least you’re not going to pass out. Your chest feels weird, though, like your lungs have been scraped raw, and taking a deep breath sets something throbbing deep in your back. Your head aches like a bitch, too. 

Fuck Pablo Escobar and his fucking bombs. 

You snatch Javi’s green shirt off the kitchen counter, still lying half-folded where you’d dropped it this morning. Javi raises his brows at you, and you shoot him a wink as you slip into it. He’s still on the phone, talking to Messina, you think, but his eyes follow you darkly as you make your way to his bathroom in search of some pain medicine.

Climbing onto the toilet to peruse through Javi’s bathroom cabinet feels like more effort than it really ought to be. Again, your heart speeds, and you double over, suddenly panting for air. 

A minute or so later, Javi finds you sitting on the toilet lid with your head in your hands. 

“Hey,” he says, pausing as he notices your position. He drops to his knees in front of you, taking your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His voice is laced with concern. 

You look up at him. He’s all dark eyes and somber expression, watching you warily with a deeply furrowed brow. “Just a little dizzy,” you admit, hating to see him worry over you. “I was looking for a tylenol. My back is killing me.”

Javi blinks, as if the thought of keeping medicine in a medicine cabinet has never occurred to him. 

“I can find you something,” he says, and somehow, you just know that means he’ll be sneaking across the landing to borrow from Connie’s stash. “But baby, are you sure I don’t need to take you to the hospital? You look a little pale.”

“I’m sure, Javi,” you answer firmly. The thought of getting dressed and leaving the apartment is absolutely abhorrent right now - you are still bone weary. You decide to offer him a compromise. “If it really bothers you, I’ll see somebody tomorrow after work.” 

Javi shakes his head. “You’re not going in tomorrow, babe,” he says slowly. “I already talked to Stechner.” There’s a little bit of hesitation in his tone, like he’s wary of how you’ll react. “Once word got around about the bomb, everybody was looking for you. I didn’t mean to butt in, but I really didn’t want to wake you, either.” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, almost apologetically.

In a different situation, you think you might be annoyed by his interference. But Javi is staring at you with those solemn, worried eyes, one errant curl falling across his brow, and you find that any frustration you feel is buried deep beneath exhaustion and maybe even a little gratitude. “Guess I’ll let it slide,” you tell him, cracking a small smile. “This time.”

He answers you with a tiny breath of relief and a quirk of his lips. “Good.” One long thumb massages your knuckles absently. “He’s put you on leave for the rest of the week. Says get some rest and maybe some therapy, and he’ll see you on Monday to talk logistics.”

You snort. “Asshole.”

Javi’s expression is a little darker as he agrees. “So,” he says, leaning back on his heels to pin you with an intense stare. “Doctor tomorrow?”

“Doctor tomorrow,” you promise, allowing him to pull you to your feet. “Tylenol now.”

“Bossy,” he complains, reaching up to stroke your cheek like he just can’t help touching you at every opportunity.

“Assertive,” you’re quick to correct, swallowing back a shiver. All of this soft, sweet caressing is very new.

Javi grins, a gentle, fond expression that crinkles his eyes and makes him look years younger. “Have I mentioned how good you look in my shirt?” he murmurs, meeting your lips for a slow, deep kiss that steals your breath. One hand roams up to gently cup your breast. 

“You don’t have to,” you answer smugly, catching that wandering hand in a firm grip. Your heart is racing again, but for all of the wrong reasons. “Now, go raid Murphy’s medicine cabinet for me, please.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughs, shaking his head at the fact that you know him so well.

That woozy feeling redoubles just as soon as Javi shuts the door behind him. You bite your lip, counting back the hours since you’ve had anything to drink besides coffee. Even that had been a long time ago. Probably you’re just dehydrated.

You make your way to the kitchen, feeling numb and detached as you shuffle through the cabinets. Javi has a startling lack of normal drink wear, but you manage to find a nice set of crystal tumblers lurking above the sink. 

Typical.

Again, climbing requires an alarming amount of effort, and something uncoils painfully in your chest as you reach over your head for a glass. You flinch, and three of the tumblers go flying, shattering on the floor with a horrendous crash.

Startled and off-balanced, you stumble to your hands and knees, heedless of the glass shards that are digging into your bare skin. Your vision is graying at the edges again, and you can’t fucking breathe. 

“What the fuck?” Javi’s voice is hard as he slams open the front door. “Babe?”

“Sorry,” you wheeze with the very last of the air that’s left in your lungs. Panic sets in, your body responding to the acute lack of oxygen in the only way it knows how. “I was -”

Speaking sets you coughing, and suddenly, you’re coughing so hard that you can’t stop, great, wrenching spasms that send pain racketing through your entire body.

Javi drops the bottle of pills he’s holding. They rattle against the floor. “Ridiculous woman,” he grits between clenched teeth, reaching down to haul you to his chest. You know he doesn’t mean it. “You are not fine.”

You press your fingers to your lips, one last rasping cough ripping its way out of your throat. When you pull them away, they are covered in tiny spots of blood.

Javi freezes as he sees it. “Jesus Christ.” 

Your teeth are chattering, your entire body shaking. “I’m -”

“Goddammit, if you tell me you’re fine one more fucking time, Ears,” Javi growls, allowing the threat to trail off.

You shake your head. “I’m not,” you manage. Everything hurts, and words are difficult right now. Your throat is raw, and you still don’t have enough air. “I’m sorry. I was, but now I’m not.”

“Come on,” Javi’s voice is terse, worried. You have the foresight to grab his sweats from the counter before he sweeps you off your feet. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

♠

notes/confessions:

I promise, promise, promise, this is going to turn into fluff. Please don’t kill me!

Originally, Aftershocks was going to be a huge one-shot, but nah. I thought I’d try smaller chapters for once (read: chaotic jay cannot plan shit to save her life). 

Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from my tags!

Tags: @jedi-mando, @perropascal, @aerolanya, @pikemoreno, @bitchin-beskar, @mostly-megan, @huliabitch, @starsandmando, @starlight-starwrites​, @thirstworldproblemss, @knittingqueen13, @yespolkadotkitty

Javier Peña tags: @magpie-to-the-morning, @tiffdawg, @danniburgh

SPORES

Obi Wan x OC

no warnings, just implications :)

(mobile formatting, sorry)

***

Obi Wan thought it very likely, as he deflected another blaster bolt and crashed backward through the paper-and-wood dividing wall, that he was fighting his contact. The gamblers in the room beyond scattered in the cool glare of his lightsaber, overturning stools and card tables to get out of the way. If Obi Wan had thought himself recognizable enough to preclude an introduction, he saw now that he was very wrong indeed. More blaster fire singed the walls and set the drooping scraps of translucent paper to smouldering. He set his feet and held up a hand as she stepped through the splintered hole in the wall.

“Stop!” He shouted desperately. He didn’t put any power behind it other than his voice. It seemed best not to provoke her further.

She paused, her blaster leveled at his gut. Wisps of smoke curled around her, snaking gray white in the light from the bar beyond. Everyone had fled, they were alone now, her looking like the cat that caught the bird. She was dressed in all black, heavy boots climbed up her calves and cinched leather vambraces armored her arms. The collar of her jacket was turned up against her neck, pooling her short dark hair around her jaw. She smiled slowly and lowered her blaster.

“Master Kenobi,” she said, holstering her weapon.

Obi Wan made a noise of disgust in his throat and extinguished his lightsaber. “Well clearly you are the one I’m here to meet! Was all this really necessary?” He gestured to the mostly destroyed gambling parlor. The owner was cowering near the outside wall— Obi Wan could see her wide eyes reflecting the dancing embers of the fire through the hole he had made with his body.

“Any idiot with access to a medical droid could fake that handsome face. A jedi’s tell is in the fight,” she said, stamping out a wisp of burning paper with her boot. “Just doing my due diligence.”

Obi Wan sighed and started righting the toppled tables and stools. “I suppose I’ll just bill this to the Republic,” he said. He took a few credits out of a pouch on his belt and nodded toward where the owner of the gambling parlor had crept into the bar section and was sorting through cracked tumblers with a defeated expression. “Let’s leave these people in peace. We can talk on the way.” He scooped up his pack and tossed the credits on the singed bar top.

The town outside was tiny, but dense. Narrow streets crowded with tall narrow buildings that nodded toward each other, sometimes blocking out the sky entirely. Street vendors sold food and drinks, lit by multicolored signs in aurebesh and other scripts that crowded the sides of the buildings. Obi Wan put his lightsaber on his belt and fell into step with his contact as they wound their way toward the edge of town.

“Ketra Thell,” he said musingly. “Part time bounty hunter, sometime petty thief. Estranged jedi padawan.”

“Is that a question or an accusation?” Ketra replied. She matched Obi Wan’s stride on long legs, her heavy boots digging into the loam of the unpaved street.

Obi Wan turned a twinkling gaze across to her. “Merely an observation. It’s not often we encounter those who left the order in the wild.”

“It’s not often we seek out our former captors,” Ketra said icily. “I’m making a special exception.”

Obi Wan knew better than to challenge her characterization of the Jedi. Ketra had been a student before she abandoned the order, making some serious accusations on her way out. It was somewhat before Obi Wan's time, though. He and Ketra were almost the same age, and he had been hardly more than a youngling when she left. Now was not the time for a debate, in any case.

“Clone intelligence has located separatist activity on this moon, in the forest about thirty clicks east of the town,” Obi Wan said.

“Based on the original intelligence I delivered to the Republic,” Ketra replied. She shot him a look.

“Just so.” He said cheerfully. “Show me what you found.”

***

The forest was the heart of the matter. As they approached the edge of town, what had appeared in the haze of evening to be a mountain range or a cloud bank resolved into a towering wood of incredible scale. The trees were so tall their crowns were obscured by clouds. The understory was twice the height of the Jedi temple, crowded with broad-leafed vines and dense shrubs with sharp fronds. Fungus clung to everything. The whole wood was nearly silent, without animal sounds. And it was lit by a soft pink glow emanating from the gaps in the heavy bark armor of the trees.

The pink was the luminescence of a deadly fungus that parasitized the trees. Undisturbed, it was inert. But if it was broken apart, say by blaster bolts from battle droids, it released clouds of toxic spores. Every single mammoth tree, across the hundreds of thousands of hectares of forest on this small moon, carried the fungus. It was a natural bio weapon factory. And Obi Wan, and the jedi council, thought that was the reason the separatists were here.

“Wait,” Ketra said softly, holding a closed fist up over her shoulder. Obi Wan stopped, looking around her.

A half click away, a cluster of low buildings were stacked between the trees. Battle droids patrolled the perimeter, blushed with the myco-glow of the trees. Obi Wan saw three tanks stationed in an arrow formation facing the direction of the town. The pink fungus light clashed with the cool green of the security lights that shone from the corners of the buildings. In the multicolored light, harvester droids prodded the glowing gaps in the bark with delicate metal fingers.

“They’re harvesting the fungus,” Ketra whispered. “Get a good look, then we’ll double back a bit.”

Once they were out of earshot of the facility, standing in a deep hollow between two trees off the path, Obi Wan folded his arms and glared at the mossy forest floor.

“Well this isn’t good,” he said, more to himself than to Ketra.

“You can’t bring clones in here,” Ketra said. It wasn’t at all what he expected to hear.

“What?” Obi Wan looked up.

“If you bring troops in here for a firefight, you’ll poison the whole moon. And… I won’t let you destroy this forest.”

Obi Wan stared at her. “Ketra, you must see that we cannot let the separatists develop a new bio weapon.”

“I’m not saying you should.”

“How do you propose we stop this then?” Obi Wan held his arms out. “I’m flattered by the implication, but I can’t take down a whole battalion and weapons factory alone.”

“That’s not my problem. The forest is my problem.” Ketra turned away, fading into the thick understory on moss-softened footsteps.

***

It turned out Ketra had only retreated a bit deeper into the wood to build a fire. Obi Wan found her, legs crossed, at the base of a tree, washed in soft pink and firelight.

“Let me take a few days to gather more intelligence and decide what to do,” he said from the edge of the firelight. Ketra shrugged and took a bite of her field rations. Obi Wan shook his head and sat down across from her.

“I brought camping supplies, but really only for me,” he said, showing her the compact tent folded inside his pack alongside a lantern and a pack of rations.

Ketra looked up at him, something calculated playing around her eyes in the shifting light of the campfire. “We can make do.”

Obi Wan set up the tent in a deep channel, carpeted with moss and tiny carnivorous lichens, between two of the tree’s massive roots. The dull color of the canvas blended with the forest well enough, but the shape of the low tent stood out against its surrounds. Obi Wan looked toward the path, which had been marked with plenty of fresh droid tracks, and back again at the tent. His hand went to his jaw, fingers working anxiously through his beard.

Then Ketra was beside him, and he felt her presence flow in against his heels like cool water. She didn’t speak, but just stood beside him looking at the tent. As he watched, the canvas began to bubble and buckle. Leaves and stems erupted from its surface. Slime molds extended their orange and yellow fingers across the unnatural planes of the tent frame. Mushrooms billowed into the spaces between the bushy plants springing from the tent top. In a moment, the tent seemed to disappear, perfectly camouflaged against the understory.

Ketra slipped past him and dropped into the cleft of the roots near the entrance to the tent. She opened the tent flap with one hand.

“Coming, Master Kenobi?”

***

Watch Your Back

CLANG.

Parker pulled the fenced gate shut. Pressed a big bright yellow button.

Machinery churned, rumbled, and sprang to life. Loud hydraulic hissing and humming accompanied the chorus of mechanical noise. The elevator lurched and rumbled upwards.

The rice and beans that Steven had offered Parker for breakfast also lurched in her stomach.

Unlike the glass walls encasing the elevator in the main hall—which afforded a majestic view of a serene fountain, bathed in diffuse light, and surrounded by lush plants—the elevator Parker was riding in now resembled a dreary, moving prison cell.

Harsh light shone from a skeletal metal frame, streaks of black wheels marked the sickly-green floor, and the passage of time had caked the corners with grime. The freight elevator carried the lone FBI agent upwards. Up to areas that were not open to the public.

She lit up a cigarette during the slow ride. When the elevator jolted to a stop, she braced herself, then yanked the fenced gate back open, clattering and clanking into place. She emerged into the access corridor of the top floor. It was a lot cleaner here, almost sterile with its white walls and gray floor, while it shared the same harsh light from fluorescent tubes.

Outside the manager’s office, murmurs reached her ear. She took a quiet drag from her cigarette and listened at the door.

Blowing out smoke, no matter how quietly she squeezed it out, it sufficed to drown out the low volume of the hushed murmurs inside. Of two men speaking.

They fell silent.

“Someone out there?” one of them asked with much greater volume. A familiar voice.

Parker swiveled, knocked twice, and entered without waiting for an invitation. The cigarette drooped from the corner of her mouth. Tiny fumes billowing from its end now stung in her eyes as she shut the door behind her.

The little plaque on the desk read “MANAGER”. Behind the opulent mahogany desk sat Memphis Chapman.

Not the manager.

The manager had turned into a zombie and one of the now-dead police officers had brained him with a nightstick.

Memphis was still clad in his security guard attire, complete with the fitting black baseball cap. The way he wore the hat backwards made him look like an idiot to Parker. In his hand, he held a burning cigar.

Sitting on the edge of the left end of the desk was another man, Joshua Sharpe. His brown leather boots, jeans, gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, holstered six-shooter strapped around his chest, and the five o'clock shadow made him look like he had just walked off set from some cowboy movie production. He was smoking a cigarette himself.

“No smoking in here, Parker,” growled Memphis. No ring of humor to it, no semblance of irony.

Parker squinted at the burning cigar pinched between his fingers, then spotted the open bottle of Tennessee bourbon and two glass tumblers on the table, filled two fingers each with the brown liquid.

She produced her FBI badge and went through the motions. Pure habit. A little bit of spite.

“Special Agent Quinn Isabelle Parker,” she said.

Joshua arched a brow and grinned at her. As he shifted his weight against the desk’s edge, his eyes glinted with something curious and he looked her up and down, lingering a bit too long on where her bulletproof vest may be hiding her breasts.

“What is wrong with you? We already know who you are, Parker,” said Memphis.

She pocketed the badge again and took another drag of her cigarette.

“Just a reminder, Mister Chapman. You’re not the manager nor the owner here, and until we learn otherwise, you’re technically unemployed. As a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I command a whole range of legal authority to investigate federal crimes and threats to national security.”

Memphis chortled.

“And?”

“And—we are surrounded here by threats to national security, as well as I can make arrests for any federal offenses committed.”

Memphis puffed his cigar, staring at her, waiting for a point. When none came, he asked, “Is telling you where you cannot smoke a federal offense?”

“No, but wrongful appropriation of this property would be a federal offense, and this puts you in an awkward position if you have the gall to tell me where I can smoke or not in a place that you have no authority over,” she said quickly, coldly, firing the words from the hip.

He shook his head and asked, “What, are you seriously going to arrest me? Now?”

“No. But I will smoke wherever I want.”

To punctuate that declaration, she took one last long drag from her cigarette, and then snuffed it out in the classy sharp-edged glass ashtray on the desk, sitting right in between Memphis and Joshua. Parker really took her time to stamp it out a couple of times, leaning over the surface and staring into Memphis’ eyes, wordlessly challenging him.

He chortled again.

“Nice. Real nice. Well, what do you want?”

Joshua finally stopped checking her out, snatched up one of the two tumbler glasses, and sipped some bourbon. Then he sucked on his cigarette and started blowing smoke rings into the air, likely trying to catch Parker’s attention.

She ignored him the entire time.

“We have a problem and I need that passe-partout key of yours to solve it.”

The big, cushioned leather chair creaked as Memphis leaned back, lounging deeper into it. He kicked his feet up onto the table, displaying bright red sneakers he had likely “appropriated” from the local shoe store inside the mall. A belated challenge to her challenge.

“Do we now? What kind of problem?”

“Infestation,” Parker said. “Fungal infestation. It seems to be spreading from the vents, and I think it’s coming from the basement—maybe the electrical room.”

Joshua interrupted them.

“Electrical room? Wouldn’t that be the driest place? I don’t see how mushrooms would grow there.”

Parker continued to ignore him, staring intently at Memphis.

“There’s only two places left to check, which are both in the basement. The electrical room and the underground storage space. They’re all locked down and we have to be thorough about this.”

Memphis puffed away at his cigar and picked up his own tumbler glass, cradling it as he chewed on her words. Parker had more to add.

“One of Steven’s kids ate one of these mushrooms and has fallen violently sick. Might turn into a zombie for all we know—the kid’s showing first symptoms already. We need to curb this problem before it gets out of hand. What if these things have spores that spread in the air? We don’t need an outbreak in here.”

An awkward silence draped itself over the group. Joshua craned his neck to stare at Memphis and then broke the silence.

“Sounds bad, man. We got plenty o’ horseshit out there in the fog outside. Might wanna keep our own backyard nice and squeaky clean.”

Memphis clicked his tongue, groaned, and leaned forward to flick some ashes into the tray. He left the burning cigar there and then dug around in his pants pocket.

Slapped a shiny silvery key onto the desk. Tapped it twice for emphasis.

“I want this back when you’re done.”

Parker took the key without hesitation. She did not respect his authority and cared little about returning it to Memphis. Her opinions on him mirrored the same disregard she had hedged for local law enforcement when still working the “Skin Thief Killer” case.

Memphis’s forehead wrinkled as he peered at Joshua.

“You should go with her. Two sets of eyes are better than one, just in case there’s something down there we haven’t been expecting. And the other thing we talked about.”

Parker did not even flinch. She silently registered that remark and filed it in her mind palace for later investigation.

Memphis was up to something, and he had roped in Joshua as his accomplice. The FBI agent had pegged Joshua as a small-time crook from the first moment they had met—likely a con man from Louisiana, judging by his demeanor and accent.

That is, if the accent wasn’t an elaborate act. For all she knew, Joshua used a different accent in every state, and Joshua Sharpe was not his real name at all.

She did not even bother with any parting words and swiveled to leave. Joshua downed the rest of his glass like a Tequila shot and slapped the tumbler down onto the desk before following her out into the hallway, closing the door behind them, and leaving Memphis to smoke his cigar all alone while he stared out the office window into the suffocatingly thick mist outside.

Joshua motioned to help her pull the elevator gate shut, but Parker pushed past him once he stepped onto the elevator, dragging the fence into place on her own.

CLANG.

In turn, Joshua pushed the button to the bottom level before she could, and then stood next to her, just an arm’s length away. Crossing his arms. The elevator lurched into motion and started rumbling and humming and hissing its way back down.

“So, is there a Mister Parker?” he asked. “Can’t tell with those gloves on your hands all the time.”

She sensed his smug expression without even facing him.

“No.”

“You single?”

“No,” she said, then immediately corrected herself. The word had come out instinctively, likely the response to anything he might have said. “Yes, I’m single.”

He oozed a smug amount of confidence.

“I’m not interested,” she quickly added before he could keep pestering her.

“In general, or just me, or do you swing the—”

“Joshua,” she cut in. “A child might die, and there might be some hostile life form hiding in the basement. Please—focus on what’s important now. You watch my back, and I’ll watch yours.”

Finally, she directed a glance at him. Fierce, stern, cutting even deeper than the words.

His southern drawl, swagger, and confidence probably made it easy for him to flirt with women, but his charm bounced right off Parker. It did nothing but irritate her.

The way he met her gaze with a furrowed brow, he looked taken aback by it.

The elevator rumbled to a stop.

Still stunned, he failed to react, failed to offer to help open the fenced gate. Parker did it all by herself and led their way out.

Breaking from his dejected trance, he muttered behind her, “Okay, FBI. I’ll watch your back.” The way he swallowed syllables, however, it sounded more like, “Watch your back.”

Almost like a threat.

A chain-link fence reached from floor to high ceiling and blocked their way, framing a single door of the same make.

Parker stuck the skeleton key into the lock, twisted it, and finally gained entry to the basement.

Their boots rapped with heavy echoes through these wide, barren corridors. All cold bright light, catching dust in corners and the streaks of worn rubber wheels indicating trails once frequently blazed by forklifts and logistic carts.

The lights flickered on inside the electrical room. A white glow from fluorescent tubes reflected on waxed floors and humming and sizzling resounded from closed electrical panels. They opened some of the hatches, here and there, finding only blinking lights and a sprawling set of installations that only fully made sense to a skilled electrician. What would they do if this place started breaking down? Were any of the survivors cooped up in the mall who might be able to maintenance this installation?

Something else to worry about. Another time.

After sweeping the area quietly, Parker lingered by the vent to the air ducts near the entrance. It smelled like mildew and made her nose itch. Just like upstairs. She expected to hear something from the vent.

But nothing came.

Joshua pierced the silence.

“See? Nothing here.”

She ignored his remark and exited the electrical room, returning to the connecting corridor. The skeleton key unlocked a huge set of green double doors opposite the freight elevator, and the two of them pushed inside.

A huge, yawning hall. Cage-like cells, all locked, lining the walls. Green folding doors concealed the contents of individual storage units, some of them labeled with stencil-form store names spray-painted onto them. Narrow corridors branched from the main hall. Gray and rough concrete floors throughout.

Dead silent.

Parker broke that silence as she entered, and her footsteps echoed wide and far through the secret bowels of the mall.

It was the first time that the place projected something sinister. Foreboding.

Like THE MALL itself knew something. Like it waited, patiently. Like it was hiding something in plain sight.

Like it was no refuge from the zombies at all—but a prison for the living. Like it was no safe haven that shielded them from the things in the mist, but a hungry creature of that mist, slowly digesting them in its stomach.

“I don’t see nothin’,” Joshua interrupted her thoughts. He had come to stand right next to her, fists resting against his hips.

Despite his posture, he looked as nervous as she felt. Like he had just had the same dark epiphany.

“Let’s look around before we call it a day,” she countered.

“Split up to cover more ground more quickly?”

The gears churned behind her forehead. He probably wanted to do whatever insipid thing that Memphis and he had been plotting. It was not a major concern of hers right now, however it added to her reasons against his suggestion.

“No. Can’t watch your back if I don’t know precisely where you are, and that means you can’t watch mine, either. There might be something down here. Nobody checked this place since we shuttered the mall.”

Joshua smirked and unholstered his .44 Magnum, lowering it by his side, now at the ready.

“I’m a big boy,” mused the immature man in his thirties. “I can look out for myself.”

Parker squinted at him. She flipped the button on her holster and drew her service pistol.

“No doubt. But you haven’t seen a good deal of horror movies, have you?”

His smirk never faded. Joshua waved at his own face with his free hand.

“With killer looks like these? I don’t pay a lot of attention to things happening on the big screen. Too busy making—”

“If you did, then you’d know that splitting up despite the existence of monsters gets people killed. We are practically living through a horror movie right now, and according to horror movie rules, you are likely to die first if we split up.”

Parker smiled. She was trying to cut through the tension—her own tension, his tension; his inability to keep things in his pants, and the overall oppressive atmosphere that the mall’s basement exuded. The joke did not land. Instantly, she knew how little the smile did to alleviate anything at all.

If anything, it did the opposite.

Joshua’s smirk faded. Maybe the reality of impending danger was finally sinking in. Maybe the days of bunkering inside the mall with other survivors had lulled him into a false sense of security, crumbling instantly under the weight of dread that this underground hall projected.

Maybe she was just projecting.

She checked the safety switch on her P226 and held it in both hands as she advanced, scouring the halls with her eyes darting back and forth, scanning their environment for anything.

Anything at all.

“Watch my back,” she repeated.

Joshua followed. For minutes, they wandered the narrow branching corridors, and she was unsure if they should check every single unit. There had to be a hundred of them down here, many mysteries hidden behind locked doors.

No sign of the fungal infestation anywhere. The air vents all looked clean in this area.

Not a single sound to greet them but the tapping of their shoes.

Perhaps she had been wrong all along.

“Hey, what was your specialty in the FBI? Were you trained in, uh, SWAT, or anything like that?” Joshua asked.

Parker paused; certain she had heard something while he was talking. But the fool had talked right over it. Distracted her.

She looked back down the corridor they had come from, hoping to hear it again.

“Top of my class in behavioral science,” she said. “I’m a profiler. I also completed the HRT training course.”

Scritch, scratch.

Parker jolted, looking for the source. She had indeed heard something.

“What is that?” he asked.

“I’d like to know, too.”

“What do you mean? You did some HRT training and don’t know what the hell it is?”

She shushed him and backtracked the way they came.

Every step she took, she took with more care. Lighter footfalls, trying not to eclipse the source of the scratching sounds. Or to alert whatever it was to their presence.

“Did you hear that?” Joshua asked.

She had not. Not this time.

“Yes, I heard something. But if you keep talking—”

Scratch.

Stopping in front of a green door, they both raised their guns at it.

Both exchanged a glance, assuring each other that they were ready to find out what was behind that door.

SCRITCH, scratch, SCRATCH.

Not behind the door. It came from above them.

From an air duct vent. Darkness loomed behind its slits.

Only in the last moment did Parker realize there was no air coming from it.

When the vent’s grate violently exploded outward, it hit Joshua in the head with a loud metallic sound and a pained groan to follow. He stumbled about; a face soon painted in crimson.

Something whipped out from the air duct, like a fleshy vine. A tentacle. Barbed. Horned?

Mouths?

Teeth?

Teeth.

They snapped at her. The tentacle whipped around, hissing through the air. Pointy barbs sliced her Kevlar vest, slashing lines through the “FBI” emblazoned in bright yellow letters across her chest—a truck’s worth of brute force hit her, flinging her against the nearest wall and knocking all the air out of her lungs with a gasp.

Joshua yelled, “Fuck!”

Though he wasn’t even able to stand straight, he raised his gun to aim at the growing tangle of tentacles billowing out from the open vent and took two shots.

One of them flew so far off target that it obliterated the fluorescent tube on the ceiling and Parker screwed her eyes shut before shards rained upon her.

Scrambling to get back up on her feet, she turned around at the last second and ducked—and not a second too soon, because a lash of a tentacle left deep marks on the wall where it missed her head.

Joshua yelped and his palm squeaked against the floor. A tentacle had coiled around his leg, tightened its grip, and yanked him back towards the fleshy mass. A scream escaped Joshua’s throat; a blood-curdling scream, like someone was flaying the skin from his flesh. His entangled leg left an alarmingly wide trail of blood wherever he slid over the floor. He craned his neck, twisted his back, and aimed—and refrained from firing more shots once he spotted Parker in his sights.

Instead, she took the shots this time. Aiming higher up than he did. Fifteen rounds to release.

Dead center of the mass.

One, two, three; BANG BANG BANG.

Some misshapen thing that slowly, painfully, forced itself out of the vent, seemingly too big for the opening, but eager to push through anyway.

Four, five, six, seven; BANG BANG BANG BANG.

The tentacles whipped, and she flinched when another one of them narrowly missed her, scarring the floor with deep cuts.

Eight, nine, ten, eleven; BANG BANG BANG BANG.

Something sizzling and bright pink sprayed from the tangle of tentacles wherever her bullets struck.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen; BANG BANG BANG BANG.

The series of gunshots left a familiar ringing in her ears. She ejected the magazine the moment she knew the last bullet was discharged—having counted them with trained and cold efficiency—and quickly reloaded the gun with a spare magazine.

Responding to the bullets it absorbed, the thing in the vent squealed. Not a single voice, but a chorus. Like a herd of pigs, squealing in fear and pain.

Something viscous and black dripped from the mass. Gobs of it splattered to the ground, spilled there, chunky, bony bits splashing away with it. The tentacles stopped their violent whipping and their flailing motions slowed to the point of falling limp.

Joshua discharged his remaining four bullets into the thing. Haphazardly, growling through gritted teeth, but now hitting everything as dead center as Parker just had. She kept her pistol trained on the creature, but it ceased to move entirely. The squealing abruptly stopped.

Hunched and as tense as a taut steel wire, she gave it several more breaths, waiting and aiming. Expecting the creature to make a surprise comeback, just like in the horror movies.

Nothing.

Joshua pawed and whimpered as he pried the lifeless tentacle off his leg, and the alarming amount of blood from his injuries only spilled out in greater quantities with every bony little spike that he pulled out of his flesh. His face was twisted in terror, his body trembled all over.

With an almost comical PLOP, the whole unspeakable mass of the creature plummeted from the vent onto the floor.

The ensuing sound upon hitting the floor almost made Parker throw up all that rice and beans from breakfast. Wet, squishy, spongy, wretched—and like a hundred mouths emitting gurgling groans. Clicking, squelching. Chattering teeth.

Human teeth.

Parker recoiled at the sight of this abomination, now exposed to flickering lights. The mouths on the tentacles, they looked like tiny human mouths, with sets of tiny human teeth. She had to force herself not to look any closer.

“Hey, a little help here?” Joshua asked.

He looked like he was on the verge of tears. His trembling hand hovered over different spots on his leg where the lifeblood continued to mercilessly pump out of places where it shouldn’t, and his face had paled.

“You need medical attention A.S.A.P.,” Parker said.

“No shit?” he said, and his voice cracked when it rose in pitch.

She crouched down next to him and assessed the damage. Multiple puncture wounds and lacerations. Had to bandage it up, or he’d bleed out quickly. Worst case scenario, an artery of his had taken a hit.

“Take off your shirt,” she said.

He scoffed, barely flashing a nervous smile.

“Take me out to dinner first, why won’t ya?” The clipped laugh that followed betrayed his true feelings in the moment; high-pitched and crazed.

Unadulterated panic and the fear of death had gripped him. And rightfully so, she thought. The next few minutes would decide whether he lived or died.

She helped him unbutton his shirt and slip it off, revealing a toned chest, even if he was on the underweight side. Parker produced the hunting knife she had appropriated from the sporting and outdoors store and used the blade to break up the fabric as quickly as she could, slicing and tearing it into ribbons. Makeshift bandages would have to suffice, and she tightly bound them around the worst of his injuries, down the length of his leg. Her fingerless black gloves were soon slick and her fingertips stained bright red.

Joshua complained, but she ignored him some more while providing first aid.

“I got that thing good, huh?” he asked.

“Uhuh.” Using the last strip from his shredded shirt, she tied up one last bleeding wound. All the fabric was turning dark and red quickly. She tightened the knot.

“Ow! What even is—what the fuck was that thing?”

Following his gaze only halfway, she immediately snapped back. Had no time to really study it.

Some part of Parker didn’t even really want to know what it was. Every fiber in her body, every instinct told her that it shouldn’t exist. Or at the very least, that it shouldn’t exist in this world.

Yet here it was, just like the shambling hordes of zombies outside. And the thing that had hurled the truck at the mall.

And other things that hid in the mist.

Impossible things. Things that didn’t belong.

She gave Joshua her most measured and honest response: she quietly shrugged and helped him up onto his feet, bracing his weight with one of his arms over her shoulder to help him walk.

“Come on, we have to get you to the Doc. The pharmacy. No slacking now,” she said.

Hobbling their way down the corridor, Joshua squeezed out pained noises with every other limping step. He emitted another nervous laugh, wheezing and almost immediately running out of breath from their difficult walk.

“Ah, fuck, this hurts! Good teamwork, huh?”

“Watching each other’s backs. Good job, man. There may be hope for you yet.”

“Do you mean—”

“No. And outside of us being back-to-back against some monsters, I still don’t trust you. Whatever little game you and Memphis are playing, you had better knock it off. I have my eyes on both of you.”

“Ow. And just to make it crystal-clear, there’s no double-entendre here?”

Parker paused, looked down.

“Shit, Joshua. This is bad. Your bone should not be sticking out like that.”

The panic returned to his face and his head snapped down to follow her gaze.

Her lips parted for a grin, with nothing but a silent laugh to follow. She missed playing poker with her colleagues on Thursday nights.

Finding no exposed bones, Joshua spotted her grin, and then chortled. Said, “Okay, FBI. Very funny. Good one, seriously. You got me this time.”

They rounded the corner, returning the way they came. They left the big hall’s gate open as they passed through it. The elevator’s machinery soon clanked and hummed and hissed; they ascended.

And in the halls they had just left, unbeknownst to them now, the tentacles twitched.

—Submitted by Wratts

it’s a better place since you came along

the adventure zone taako & angus mcdonald 7k words

read on ao3

“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”

Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”

***

In which Taako answers a general “help wanted” ad that actually changes his entire stupid life.

x

There’s a baby crying somewhere.

Taako, left waiting in the foyer by a harried maid, has nothing else to do but tap a foot, twist one of the rings on one of his fingers, and count the long seconds that the plaintive wail continues to echo through the cavernous house.

Listen, he may not be a very good dude, just in general, and for a healthy plethora of reasons—but there’s a prickling sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach, as one minute passes into two, and the sounds of distress go unheeded.

What in the fresh fuck, he thinks, when another member of the house staff drifts through the room without any sense of urgency. If he knew shit about magic beyond a few travel-handy tricks and the occasional intuitive transmutation, he’d assume this was some sort of elaborate illusion. Maybe a sort of test played on unsuspecting hopefuls who came to answer the help-wanted ad.

Unfortunately for Taako, he remembers all-too well what it feels like to be an unwanted child, outcast and always alone. As it turns out, he has a very particular Achilles’ heel and he’s not overly thrilled to discover it.

“Well, I didn’t need the job that bad,” he tells himself, as he gets up to single-mindedly fail this stupid test. And nevermind that he kind of really did.

‘Confidence is key’ and ‘fake it till you make it’ are two mantras that Taako could live and die by, so it’s with long, unchecked strides that he crosses the grand foyer and chases the miserable cries up some stairs, down a long corridor, and finally into an out-of-the-way bedchamber at what must have been the back of the house.

The cries stutter when the door clicks open, and Taako gets a glimpse of a tiny round face peering at him through the bars of an ancient-looking crib. The sudden appearance of this strange elf in his nursery seems to have surprised the little human, but not for long. After about two seconds, he screws his face up and screams with renewed vindication.

Taako winces, his sensitive ears twitching back at the onslaught. This is way above his paygrade, but he used to babysit younger kids in the caravans while their parents were busy or drunk, in exchange for a hot meal or a few coins. He’s not totally out of his depth here.

“Hey, little man,” he says by way of hello. “Trying to bring the roof down, huh? No, I dig that. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but this house of yours is ugly as hell.”

Taako doesn’t raise his voice, because what the hell would be the point? There’s no way he’s winning that contest of wills, and nobody wants some lunatic shouting at them when they’re this fucking distraught, anyway. He just crosses his arms on the side of the crib and leans down to get a good look at the kid.

The baby’s face is tacky and snotty, dusky skin flushed darker with exertion, curly hair a tangled mop. But he’s a cute little guy despite himself, probably a year old or thereabouts, not that Taako is in any way a decent judge of that sort of thing. As Taako talks to him in a conversational tone, his awful, heaving sobs peter out.

The tearful gulps are better. The way he lifts pudgy arms up to be held, not so much.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taako says, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. “I’m not even supposed to be in here. You have no idea how culturally insensitive people are when it comes to elves and babies. Your mama walks in and sees me holding you, and then she’s calling the guard, and I’m getting hauled off for attempting to spirit her little heir away, and we both perpetuate an archaic myth that all elves are equally capable of and greedy for voluntary childcare. Let me just say—from personal experience—that is not the fuckin' case.”

But he reaches a hand into the crib and lets the little human clutch at it. Tiny, clumsy fingers wrap around Taako’s much bigger ones and hold tight. The baby’s eyes are wide and curious now, soaking up Taako’s every word without a damn clue what any of them mean.

Taako almost forgot he knew how to do this. It’s been months since Glamour Springs, since Sazed ditched him on the road. Taako’s been living a half-life, made up of odd jobs and never staying for too long in any one place, and for all that it’s absurdly one-sided, this is the longest conversation he’s had since then, too.

“One of us is pretty fucking pathetic,” he confides. “And it’s not the screamy baby.”

“Ah, this is where you’ve gone,” a voice from the doorway says.

Taako jumps in alarm, and looks around in time to watch a man step into the nursery. He bears a striking resemblance to the baby in the crib, though he’s graying at the temples and his face is lined with too much age for him to be an immediate parent. Grandparent, probably. Distinguished, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the entire cumulative worth of everything Taako currently owns, leaning heavily on a walking cane.

He doesn’t look as though he’s about to ring the alarm, but Taako is still a little keyed up. Given the way he’s been living, the feeling of getting caught, even for a moment, activates his fight or flight response.

“Sorry,” Taako says lamely. “I heard him crying.”

“I don’t doubt it. His parents, my daughter and her husband, died recently. An accident on the road,” the man says. There’s some sorrow there, but it’s pushed back and away. Compartmentalized. “He came to live with me, but the transition hasn’t been an easy one. It seems as though all he’s done is cry.”

Taako doesn’t melt even slightly for the poor kid, because he’s made of sterner stuff than that. But he does let him hold onto his hand for a little while longer. It’s not hurting anything.

“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”

Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”

It wasn’t a nanny ad. It was just a ‘general help wanted in exchange for room and board’ type of deal. He wouldn’t have shown up to take the job in the first place if it had specified providing 1) cooking, 2) companionship, or 3) childcare, and that’s for damn sure. He believes in playing to his strengths, and while vapid charm is certainly one of them, being personable and likable for any extended period of time is not.

And Taako absolutely doesn’t know what to think of this old rich guy who seems to be operating under the illusion that thirty seconds is plenty of time to get enough of a read on some rando to then trust your child to them. For real, and from the bottom of Taako's heart, what the fuck?

He’s only been acquainted with this particular child for about five minutes, but his ears go back and his hackles go up at the idea of someone just walking in off the street to take charge of him.

Maybe there’s some crucial insanity element to parenthood that Taako just isn’t fucking picking up. Maybe total and complete willingness to just ditch your kid at a moment’s notice is part of the package. Sure would explain a few things about Taako’s childhood.

But… this old manor house is clearly in the middle of nowhere. Two hours from the nearest settlement, where the job posting was hiding beneath other flyers on the board in the square. Taako wandered the woods all afternoon and almost gave up finding the place before the chimney smoke tipped him off.

It’s remote. Safe. And, at a glance, more comfortable than any of the inns and caravans Taako has lived out of since his auntie died.

He’s not qualified for this position, but since when has that ever stopped him? It’s not like he went to culinary school, either, and for awhile he was one of the most famous chefs on the continent. A baby can't be that much work.

Fake it till you make it, he thinks, and then faces the old man with a smile.

“Hell, I’m already here. Might as well start now.”

#

Aside from Taako, there are three other members of staff on the books, and none of them are full-time. The maids come in every other day to do the cleaning and the laundry and bring in groceries, that sort of thing. The groundskeeper only works the weekends.

They like Mr McDonald well enough, the girls confide in Taako over tea on his first night there, and the pay isn’t bad, but he’s forgetful. Doesn’t think to eat until he feels hunger pains, that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you get paid twice some weeks, or not at all others.

“He’s just not interested in running a household, I think,” the older of the two imparts, ancient at seventeen for all the weariness in her eyes. “I’m glad he finally found someone to take care of the baby. I felt bad about him crying all the time.”

Baby Angus had seemed to surprise both teens by being agreeable and downright adorable, perfectly content to be tucked into the crook of Taako’s arm and soothed to sleep by the rumble of his voice.

Did any of you try, like, holding him? Taako wants to ask acidly. Seems a little fucked up that Taako, of all people, is more on top of this than anyone else. But the maids are little more than kids themselves, and it seems as though grandpa isn’t completely with it.

About a month after Taako first wandered in, grandpa proves it.

“It was before Angus was born,” Mr McDonald says, digging through the many drawers in his study, looking for some expensive rich person thing he’d acquired at auction four years ago. There’s an empty crystal tumbler sitting on the liquor cabinet, next to a half-empty decanter of whiskey. “We went to Goldcliff for a charity fundraiser. Marquis proposed to my daughter that night. You remember, Taako?”

Taako, halfheartedly poking through stuff on the desk while Angus chews on the end of his braid, replies, “Sure do, homie. Hell of a party.”

He finds a photo in a stack of letters and pauses. Two humans are pictured with their arms around each other, handsome smiles on their faces for the camera, a baby cradled tenderly between them.

At the bottom, in looping handwriting, someone wrote ‘Marquis, Angela, and Angus.’ There’s a little heart drawn under the names with such care that it, in itself, is something of a revelation.

Angus’ parents wouldn’t have let him cry himself sick in a faraway room. They wouldn’t have let some stranger be holding him now. They abandoned him, but not on purpose. Not the same way Taako’s family did.

This kid was loved. He’s due love. And all he has is an absent grandpa and a shitty elf looking after him.

“Check it out, Ango,” Taako says quietly, holding the photo up so the baby can see, carefully out of reach of those sticky fingers. “Your genes are killer. You’re gonna outshine the whole damn world.”

He pockets the photo with a sleight of hand he perfected at ten years old, and then guts some ugly painting in the service hallway in the name of repurposing the frame, and then he and Angus stage a tactical retreat.

The nursery was too depressing, just in general, so one of Taako’s first acts as nanny was to move all the baby stuff in with his. He had his pick of any of the second floor bedchambers, and he chose one overlooking the overgrown gardens, with a pretty bay window that it only took like two hours and a handful of stubborn Prestidigitations to scrub clean.

He enlarges the photo, slides it into the frame, transmutes it to look like a more professional job, and then sets it in place of pride on one of the empty shelves.

“Gang’s all here,” he says. He bounces Angus a few times, eliciting a toothy smile from the kid.

Lordy, Taako thinks, she’d be laughing her ass off if she could see me right now.

The thought comes out of absolutely nowhere and disappears just as quickly, sliding right out of his mind like water through a sieve. Then Angus makes a sudden dive to grab one of the charms hanging off the brim of Taako’s hat, and he has more immediate things to worry about.  

#

Living in a house is weird. Having the run of the place is even weirder.

Taako is certainly not the type to sign up for extra responsibility, and he’d be the first to say as much to literally anyone who asked. Keeping himself alive has always been trouble enough, and now he has a whole ass extra person he’s in charge of, too.

But as time drags on, he realizes he’s been pretty solidly assimilated.

When McDonald forgets to give Catherine the grocery allowance before he fucks off on one of his bi-monthly business trips to Neverwinter, Taako forks over his own gold without feeling the sting of it too badly. He practically writes his own checks around here, anyway. He can make up the difference whenever.

When crotchety old Boniface came in from the gardens looking for an answer about the freshly broken fountain, he bypasses McDonald’s closed office door entirely to demand guidance out of Taako instead. Taako is in the library, laying on his stomach to supervise Angus’ painstaking and artistic destruction of a probably priceless but unfortunately racist oral history Taako found on one of the shelves, and gives Boniface the go-ahead to gut the old eyesore.

“If it dies, it dies,” Taako says plainly, passing Angus a new red crayon. Boniface, pleased that he’s allowed to demolish something, makes it a point to ask Taako about these things first from then on.

When Ezra shows up in Taako’s suite one morning with tearful eyes and an ugly burn from the temperamental furnace in the basement, neither of them stop to question why she ran all the way up here. They’re both reasonably intelligent people, after all, and Taako is quick to cast a nonverbal Helping Hand. He doesn’t need to overthink it. The burned skin on Ezra’s arm is shiny and red, but repaired.

The girl surges forward to hug him, visibly rethinks it, and then changes course and scoops Angus up for a hug and a noisy kiss on the cheek instead. Angus shrieks in bald delight, and Taako finds himself smiling.

So, yeah. It’s weird, the whole thing is weird, but he wouldn’t say it’s bad.

McDonald is a kind but largely absent presence in their lives. When he’s home, he’s shut up in his study. Angus hardly seems to recognize the man anymore, only watching him with solemn brown eyes from the comforting circle of Taako’s arms. It doesn’t really sit well with Taako—he didn’t take this job to upstage any relatives or be a replacement parent—but he’s already nanny to a precocious two-year-old, he can’t also be nanny to a seventy-something-year-old retired scholar. If McDonald wants to be a part of Angus’ life, that’s on him. It can’t possibly fall on Taako’s shoulders.

“And even if it did, I have a bad back,” Taako informs Angus. “You’ll have to do the heavy-lifting for me, sweetpea. How’s that sound?”

“Okay, Taako,” Angus says gravely. If there’s a tiny part of Taako that’s fucking delighted every time this tiny miracle says his name, he squashes it down good and hard and no one is the wiser.

It feels a little bit like nothing exists outside this spacious manor house. The extensive grounds might as well be a magic barrier between Taako and the rest of the world. It won’t last—nothing good ever does—but for now he allows himself to pretend that it will.

#

Taako and his little shadow swing into the kitchen around noon one day to find Catherine in tears.

This is so far from the norm that Taako actually draws up short in the doorway. Angus toddles right into the back of his leg, loses his balance, and plops down hard on his padded bottom.

“What’s this all about, darling?” Taako asks warily.

Catherine is sharp in all the places Ezra is soft, and while it makes her much easier to understand—a girl after Taako’s own black, shriveled heart—it also makes her approximately one million times more difficult to comfort, as likely to bite at a helping hand as accept one.

At the first sign of her vicious temper, he’s gonna grab his kid and bail. There’s fruit and bread in the larder that’ll see them through to dinner, and if not, he's not above bribing Ezra to run interference.

But Catherine just lifts her head out of her hands and says, “I burnt the stupid soup!”

Taako blinks. He stands still so Angus can use one of his legs as leverage to pull himself back upright, and cups the back of the boy's head in silent praise when he manages it on his own.

“Okay,” Taako says slowly. He can piece this shit together. “The soup is burnt. And you’re cheesed about it because…you feel really strongly about soup.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snaps, but it’s without any real heat. “I just. I can’t get anything right today.”

Ah. Okay. So it’s one of those.

He hesitates for a moment, and then leans down to scoop Angus up and balances him on a hip. Angus knows not to toddle into the kitchen unsupervised, and rarely gets to toddle in at all when there’s cookery going on.

Taako himself rarely goes in. It feels too much like tempting fate. But his feet carry him forward, and he leans over the pot of thick and creamy chicken and dumplings, and right away he can smell the problem. It caught on the bottom of the pot and scorched.

He’s never worked in this kitchen—and he never will—but he remembers the steps. It’s mise en place. He reaches into the spice cabinet and withdraws a small tin shaker.

“Cinnamon,” he says at length, offering the tin to Catherine.

She stares at him, losing some of her steel for a moment. “Really?”

“Really,” Taako says, and firmly steps back. The six-second exchange has left him feeling tense and sick, his appetite fully and completely fucking out of the picture.

Angus is a perceptive little monster, and settles more heavily into Taako’s arms. He heaves a very pointed sigh, something he started doing to communicate that he’s feeling particularly safe and content. It makes Taako’s chest hurt in a much different way than impending panic attacks tend to, and he presses a kiss to the kid’s curly head.

“Thanks, angel,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

“Holy shit, Taako,” Catherine says, looking up from the soup with awe in her eyes. As he watches, she tries another spoonful, and then she actually laughs out loud. “It worked!”

He finds himself searching her face for—sickness. Shortness of breath. Something.

It’s stupid. The people he killed in Glamour Springs didn’t show signs of death for days.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” Catherine goes on. “Could you teach me?”

“I don’t,” Taako blurts. It comes out sharper than he meant for it to, sudden and a little bit too loud. Catherine’s smile tapers. Angus lifts his head off Taako’s shoulder. Breathe, idiot, Taako tells himself. Be a fucking person for two seconds. “Cook, I mean. I don’t cook. Or, uh, teach. I’m kind of useless. Pretty, though.”

He flips his hair. It makes Angus giggle, but Catherine isn’t an easily-amused toddler, and she’s not buying it.

Her eyes are sharp, and seem to peel through layers of Taako’s bullshit like a knife. And then she scoffs, and mimics his hair flip with her wrist even though her hair is only about two inches long, and the tension drains out of the room like someone pulled a plug in the floor.

“You’ve been teaching Mango to read,” she says dryly. “And Elvish. And magic. But okay, Mr I Don’t Teach.”

“He’s my fucking protege. That shit’s different!”

“Shit!” Angus agrees cheerfully.

“Whatever. Now that I know you’re secretly a fountain of knowledge, I’m dragging you in here the next time I fuck up a recipe.” She studies him for a moment, and adds, “You don’t have to cook, Teach. If it bothers you. I just…I need help sometimes.

Taako feels himself relenting. This house is turning him into a fucking pushover.

“I know, Cat,” he sighs. “Try to find one person who doesn’t.”

#

“Alright, little man,” Taako says, tugging Angus’ collar straight. “What are the rules?”

“Hold your hand, don’t talk to strangers, aim for the eyes if I can reach them, knees if I can’t,” his boy recites gravely.

Next to him, Ezra stifles a snort of laughter. Boniface, waiting by the loaded carriage, looks reluctantly amused. Catherine says, “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to give you a kid?”

“Uh, your boss,” Taako says without looking at her. He stands up from his crouch as the front door closes, and they all turn as McDonald comes down the steps to join them in the crumbly courtyard.

“Are we ready, boys?” he asks with a smile. “Neverwinter is waiting.”

Honestly, Taako has been sick with dread over this trip for the past two weeks, but he wouldn’t know how to go about explaining that. And he sure as hell isn’t sending Angus off alone with his absent-minded grandfather. The kid probably wouldn’t make it home.

It’s not as though Taako has been sequestered in the manor house for the last five years. He’s ambled into the settlement with the girls now and then, has gone farther up the road to buy from caravans for Candlenights gifts, has let himself be bullied, cajoled, blackmailed and bribed into helping Boniface lug imported plants home from the train station.

But this is fucking Neverwinter. The Jewel of the North.

“Taako? You okay?” Angus says from somewhere near his elbow.

“Just dreading three hours on the road playing I, Spy with you, boychik,” he lies smoothly. “Go pet the horses so we can get that out of the way.”

Angus looks mulish for a moment, but he does insist on petting the carthorses before they take the carriage literally anywhere, so he lifts his head and crosses the courtyard with great dignity. Taako watches sharply until Boniface rolls his eyes so hard Taako can practically hear it and hefts Agnus up in one huge arm to better reach the giant creatures without running the risk of getting fucking trampled.

“I’m making the salmon at home tonight,” Catherine says abruptly, a non-sequitur that takes Taako by surprise. “If I don’t fuck it up, I’m gonna cook it here, too. So don’t be late, Teach.”

“I’ll a hundred percent eat your share if you’re late,” Ezra adds. Her smile looks a little strained.

Taako has not been subtle. He’s been freaking out right out loud where anybody could see it. Get it together, asshole, he coaches himself helpfully.

“Cat,” he says earnestly, “your salmon is literally the only thing I have to live for.”

She groans and pushes him away from her. Angus has finished with the horses and returns to Taako at a run, even though they’re all going to be walking back across the courtyard to the carriage in like one minute anyway. 

McDonald is handing out a few last minute instructions. They’re mostly things that have already been taken care of, errands that have already been run, the ushe. The girls nod along politely, but there’s a level of uncertainty lingering above them like a cloud. They look as nervous about Taako leaving as Taako feels.

Now, Taako is many things—an elf, a failed chef, a murderer, a dime-store wizard, and one lucky nanny—but he is not some mercurial fairy tale creature. He’s not going to vanish from their lives the second they lose sight of him. He could if he wanted to, and he will if he has to, but he doesn’t want to. For now, he doesn’t have to.

So he lifts a hand and says, “Back soon.”

But for some reason, it fucking hurts.

#

The trip is about everything he expected it would be: long and boring. Angus gets bored with I, Spy within about ten minutes, the interior of the carriage is a little too tight to practice his cantrips, and Boniface seems to be aiming for the roughest parts of the road on purpose. Taako tries reading aloud from one of the Caleb Cleveland books, but McDonald keeps interrupting every time they get to the good, mysterious parts, so Angus and Taako trade a loaded glance and wordlessly agree to save it for later.

Still, it’s not awful. Angus at six years old is bright-eyed and relentlessly clever. He wants to be a detective like Caleb, and has taken to solving little mysteries around the manor house, like who left the jam out on the counter (Taako, and what are you going to do about it, pumpkin?) and who tracked the mud inside the undercroft (Boniface, obviously, that’s where all the booze is, and he literally works in mud all day. You didn’t have to put on your detective cap for that one).

Needless to say, Taako would burn the whole world down for this kid.  

With no choice but to spend time in his grandson’s company, Taako can see Angus’ innate charm going to work on McDonald. There’s something wistful in the old man’s eyes, affectionate and more than a little bittersweet. He stops interrupting as Angus starts to describe his latest case in great detail—the mystery of the missing tarts!

The tarts are wrapped up and waiting in Taako’s bag for when they inevitably get snacky during the trip, but he's not going to tell. He kinda wants to see how far the kid takes this one.

By the time they board the train, Angus is tuckered out. The excitement of a trip so far from home is wearing off after hours in a carriage, and Taako ends up carrying him into their sleeper car and putting him to bed in one of the bunks.

McDonald takes a seat at the small table and watches without commentary as Taako extracts the boy’s hat and glasses and wand without waking him, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. And then, out of habit more than anything else, he murmurs the only Elven blessing he remembers, quite literally ‘sweet dreams.’ He remembers Auntie saying it to him, and…someone else, maybe? He remembers that it always made him feel loved to hear it.

“Hiring you was the best thing I could have done for him,” McDonald says suddenly.

Taako turns with a trademark smile on his face, only as charming as it needs to be. “Hiring me was the best thing you ever did, period.”

His boss smiles back, but there’s an edge to it that Taako can’t translate. This is the most present and aware he’s looked in the last five years. Taako isn’t sure he’s ever had this much of McDonald’s attention.

“There’s another reason I wanted to take the two of you with me this week,” he says. 

It’s ominous as fuck, and as the train lurches into motion, pulling away from the station, Taako realizes that he’s effectively trapped here, in a way he never was at the manor house. Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because McDonald’s smile warms a bit, and he gestures at the other chair. 

“It’s a good thing, son. No need to be nervous.”

Taako sits in an irreverent collapsing of limbs to prove that he isn’t nervous, actually. McDonald pulls a bunch of papers out of his briefcase and sets them on the table. They look official as fuck. McDonald’s signature at the bottom draws Taako’s eye—huh, so that’s his first name. After this long, it would have felt a little awkward to ask. Beneath that is the signature and seal of a notary.

“What am I looking at here, Charlie?”

McDonald’s lips twitch. He probably cottoned onto the name thing. 

“Well, this isn’t an easy conversation to have, and I probably could have picked a better time for it, but.” He glances over Taako’s shoulder at where Angus is sleeping. “It’s probably better if the boy doesn’t overhear until it’s sorted.”

“I hear ya. That little bugbear is all up in everyone’s business all the time,” Taako says proudly. “Just the worst.”

“He’s amazing,” McDonald says. That sorrow swims into his eyes now, an ancient, ruinous thing. “He reminds me of my daughter every time I look at him.” Oh. “It’s been…hard to look at him sometimes.” Oh.

Taako carefully reevaluates his opinion of Angus’ absent grandfather. Not too much, because the dude still should have been around, but, you know. Some.

Taako tries to imagine losing somebody, how much it must hurt. He tries to imagine looking like somebody, a family resemblance, a belonging at face-value. He’s never experienced either, but there’s still a bitter pit in his throat, a feeling like if he swallows too hard he’ll start to cry. So he sits very still instead.

“But still, he’s my only grandson, and I want him to be taken care of when I’m gone,” the man goes on. “I’m getting on in years, and I probably don’t have much longer left—oh, Taako. It’s alright.”

Taako is certain he didn’t move. He’s still doing the sitting-very-still thing. Then he realizes his ears betrayed him, pressed back flat against his head. Goddamn things.

“No, it’s uh. Taako’s good, don’t. Just.”

It’s the human age thing. He doesn’t want to think about it. He waves McDonald on, a tight rolling gesture. They really need to power through the rest of this conversation while Taako still has enough self-control left to not do something really embarrassing in front of his boss, like have a whole emotion.

McDonald takes pity. Thank fuck.

“It’s normal to want to get your ducks in a row,” he says. “I’m not planning on kicking the bucket any time soon.”

“Alright, let’s organize these ducks,” Taako says with unwarranted enthusiasm. He’s trying to trick himself into it. “Fucking ducks, am I right?”

“Angus is my heir. When he’s of age, he’ll get the estate and everything that goes with it, as well as his parents’ properties,” McDonald says, once again reminding Taako that he’s a rich old fuck. Istus. “But that’s still more than a decade away. If something should happen to me, I don’t want him to end up a ward of the state.”

Taako blinks. In the back of his mind, he realizes that he has become one of those elves that would one-thousand-percent kidnap a human baby if it came down to it. Leave Agnes in an orphanage? His Agnes? It would literally have never occurred to him.

“Custody cases can be so long-winded. The easiest way to circumvent the whole mess would be to adopt you into the family,” McDonald says, super nonchalant about flipping the world upside down. “That way Angus has an immediate next of kin that no one would question.”

He looks up when Taako doesn’t say anything and frowns at whatever Taako’s face must look like.

“You don’t have to use the surname if you don’t want to. It’s mostly just for the sake of paperwork.”

“I can’t,” Taako blurts.

“Of course. I wouldn’t insist that you change your family name if it’s important to you—”

“Not—not that, who gives a fuck about my family name,” Taako says too loudly. Angus shifts around for a second, like he might wake up, and Taako snaps his mouth closed so hard it hurts his teeth. In a whisper, because it’s all he can manage without giving into the urge to scream, Taako forces out, “I—I’m—I can’t.”

In the nightmare scenarios that still sometimes plague him in the middle of the night, when everyone else is asleep and he’s alone with the voice in his brain that fucking hates him, the choices always boiled down to either leaving Angus behind or taking him on the run. Both choices were fucking awful for a myriad of different reasons, and left Taako pacing his room tirelessly trying to think his way out of an unsolvable problem.

The idea that he could become a legal part of Angus’ family as simply as signing a piece of paper is so far-fetched and ridiculous that he can’t wrap his mind around it.

But bringing all his shit into Angus’ life? Signing up for this only to get snatched away the second the paperwork goes through and the militia finally finds him? Leaving his dirty laundry all over the front yard like the worst fucking house guest imaginable, and then peacing out to spend the rest of his long-ass fucking elf life in jail, while Angus was left to just…deal with that?

He couldn’t. He can’t. Every single option is bad. He shouldn’t have stayed. He should have known he would fall in love with that baby on day one. It’s really fucking stupid that he stayed.

“—aako. Taako.”

Taako jerks his head up. His ears are twitching and his hands are shaking and McDonald has probably been saying his name for awhile.

The man’s eyes are bright and steely. They look exactly like Angus’ do sometimes, when he wakes Taako up from a miserable meditation, when it’s just the two of them in a huge house surrounded by a crumbling garden.

“Tell me,” the man says sternly.

At a fucking complete loss, Taako just…does.

When he’s finished, McDonald looks at him really hard for what feels like a long time. Then he pulls a pair of reading glasses out of an inner pocket of his coat, poises the business end of a fountain pen against a fresh sheet of paper, and starts asking questions.

It’s a business-like, no-nonsense exchange. Taako is wiped out, emotionally he is the equivalent of a damp rag wrung out to dry, and he has no wherewithal left to lie or deny or deflect.

When they’re done, McDonald has filled three notebook pages of blocky handwriting, and Taako is swaying in his seat. He watches somewhat vacantly as McDonald nods to himself and rummages in his briefcase for a stone of farspeech.

“We won’t reach Neverwinter until morning. Get some sleep,” he says, and his voice is kindly again, the way it was before. Taako stares at him. “And don’t tell me elves don’t need it, please. I wasn’t born yesterday, and you nap twice as much as my grandson ever did.”

Well, it would be nice to get one last unnecessary snooze in as a free man, Taako supposes, and he doesn’t hesitate to climb into Angus’ bunk. It’s a familiar ritual. The kid squirms to accommodate him without fully waking. Taako tucks an arm around him and buries his nose in that riot of curly hair.

He hears McDonald say, “You’re not much more than a kid yourself, are you?” but that might have just been part of a dream.

He hears someone else say, “That can’t be broken or lost or taken away, it’s always going to be so important,” but Taako thinks that, whoever that was, they were very clearly wrong.

#

Taako wakes up to a six-year-old’s warm brown eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners in an urchin sort of way, and it’s the only tell Taako needs. His kid has been up to some mischief.  

“Grandpa said you were tired and I should let you sleep,” Angus reports cheerfully. “He also said that there was a nice lady selling flowers a few cars down, and I ought to go buy a few!”

Ah. Taako glances down at the ruin of his hair. It looks like about a hundred snowberry blossoms were worked into the thick flaxen braid. It’s going to be an absolute pain to brush out later. He’ll probably find bits of plant in his hair for days. He loves it.

He risks a glance in McDonald’s direction.

The man looks amused by their whole general existence, which is fair. He also doesn't look like he's about to summon the guard to have Taako hauled into the brig, which is a fucking relief and a half.

“The world changed while you were asleep,” he says significantly. “Would you like to sign the papers now or with your pardon?”

Angus says, all in one breath, “You should sign the papers first! Grandpa says then you’ll be my family! I mean, you already are, so I’m not sure what the point is, but it must be important. Look at how official they are!”

Taako feels about four cups of coffee behind this conversation. He scoots off the bed, spilling into one of the chairs at the table, and folds his hands.

“Charlie. Buddy.”

“I stepped out for two minutes,” McDonald says defensively, “and I thought he was asleep!”

“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” Taako mutters. His heart is doing something really complicated and largely unnecessary, fucking backflipping in his chest, at Angus’ thoughtless ‘you already are.’ Like it was a given. What the fuck. “Can you go back to, uh—the world changing? A pardon? What’s up with that?”  

“An old friend of mine is a cleric,” he says pushing a steaming cup in Taako’s direction. “Level nine, or thereabouts. She owed me a favor from when we were in school together, when I—well, that’s not important. What is important is that she was happy to cast Discern Location to find your old stage manager.”

Taako fumbles the cup, almost drops it. He sets it down hard.

“What the fuck? No, hold that thought. Angus, I love you. Get lost.”

He’s really banking on the kid being more stir-crazy than curious, and sure enough, Angus hops right off the bunk and sprints for the door.

“Okay, I’ll be in the dining car! You’re not s’posed to take food back with you, but I’m gonna see how many pastries I can fit in my pockets so you won’t be hungry when you sign the papers that make you my family! Love you, bye!”

“A three-hour carriage ride followed by six hours on a train was the worst fucking idea,” Taako says severely. “He’s gonna be on eleven when we roll up to Neverwinter. They might not let us in.”

“He’s just excited,” the old man says, with the tranquility of someone who isn’t going to have to child-wrangle all day long. “I told him I had good news for you.”

Taako is fidgeting, turning the cup of coffee around and around in his hands. It’s leaving a ring of condensation on the table.

“You found Sazed?” he asks, and hates how small his voice sounds.

“We did.”

“He probably hates me,” Taako mutters. “I ruined his life.”

McDonald takes the cup from him and sets it down on the other side of the table with a firm clunk. 

“Pardon my language, but you didn’t ruin crud.” Taako mouths ‘crud’ in bewilderment, but McDonald isn’t finished. “I was suspicious of your story when you described the way those people died. Those aren’t the typical symptoms of deadly nightshade, and I’d never heard of a transmutation spell failing in that way before. So I looked into it. Or, I should say, I had a few friends look into it.”

“Are you in a cult?” Taako asks. He can’t help it. He’s one part genuinely curious and two parts hardwired to deflect any time someone tricks him into having a serious conversation. “We frown on cults in this family. Mysterious shadow organizations are never a good thing, no matter what greater-good shit they’re peddling.”

“I’m very rich and belong to very elite social circles,” McDonald says dryly. He’s unmoved by Taako’s general everything. “This whole thing took about three calls. I wish you would have told me about this five years ago, but I do understand why you didn’t.”

Taako doesn’t have a cup to fuck around with anymore. He stopped wearing jewelry when Angus was a baby and literally everything smaller than an apple was a choking hazard, and he never really got into the habit of it again, so he doesn’t have rings to twist around his fingers, either. He wrings his hands instead.

“If it wasn’t the elderberries,” he chokes out, and doesn’t make it any farther.

“It was arsenic,” McDonald says. His voice is kind again, but not so much so that it’s painful to hear. “Sazed was questioned within a Zone of Truth. He admitted to—okay,” he cuts himself off, putting a hand on Taako’s shoulder. “We’re done talking about it for now. Just take it easy.”

Taako doesn’t uncurl from his chair until the door rattles open and Angus’ voice fills the room. He’s found a dozen things to talk about in the ten minutes he’s been gone, and is very proud of himself for all the contraband pastries he managed to make off with. There’s a cheese danish wrapped very carefully in a napkin, only slightly squished, that he presents to Taako with a showy flourish that he really only could have picked up from too much time around one particular idiot.

Taako accepts the danish, and then hauls Angus up onto his lap, and then says, “Charlie, baby. Pass me that fancy pen.”

#

For the first time in almost eight years, Taako is cooking for an audience again. His hands are shaking, but as long as everyone else is politely pretending like they don’t notice, he can do himself the same favor.

I fed those people their death, but it wasn’t on me, he recites inwardly for the seven millionth time, a nervous mantra. My magic was good. My cooking was good. I was good. It wasn’t on me.

He looks up from the counter where all his tools are laid out and his ingredients are arranged. Ezra is bouncing in her seat, Boniface is lingering in the doorway like he doesn’t care but he also isn’t leaving, and Catherine’s eyes are wide and moonlike and younger than Taako has ever seen them. Angus has place of pride, a seat on the counter by the sink with the best view in the house.

“Okay,” he says. “What are the rules, pumpkin?”

“No swiping ingredients, no magic in the kitchen, and no taste-testing until you say it’s okay,” Angus rattles off promptly. “Autographs at the end of the show are three gold apiece, photos are ten, and the overall experience is absolutely priceless.”

Over the sweet sound of the rest of his audience groaning at him, Taako goes on blithely, “And what are we cooking today?”

“Macarons!”

“And who’s your dude?” Taako asks, pointing a whisk at him. Angus giggles, and Taako’s hands aren’t shaking anymore.

In a month, Angus is going off to a summer camp out past Rockport. It’s Caleb Cleveland-themed, and the whole thing sounds extremely nerdy and book-cluby, and Angus is desperately excited. He’s also desperately nervous about being away from his family for three whole weeks but he’s trying to keep that on the down-low. He’s very grown up at nearly ten years old.

Taako can respect that. He also bought the kid a stone of farspeech, because actually fuck that.

And while Angus is off having his first away-from-home adventure—since the girls think that Taako’s just going to be useless and mopey the whole time, and Boniface already threatened to bury him in a flowerbed the first time he whines about literally anything—Taako is going to go do something cool, too. There’s always some interesting jobs posted on Craig's List up in Neverwinter. He’ll be able to find something to occupy his time.  

But for now, he’s gonna make some goddamn desserts.

“Come on, Ango,” Taako wheedles, “who’s your dude?”

“You, papa.”

I’m good, Taako reminds himself. He looks at his kid, who only deserves the best this piece of shit world has to offer, and thinks, I can be good.

Sihaya & Co. Candles--2021 Autumn Collection

I used to love burning candles, but for the past decade I haven't used any because I had a pet bird. <3 I've heard great things about Sihaya & Co., and I wanted to get into the snuggly autumnal mood, so I went a little overboard this year. Honestly I first bought only about half of the collection, but I was so impressed with them that I decided to buy the rest...and also I wanted to review them all (for science!). Let my fiscal irresponsibility help you to choose a scent that's right for you! It's going to take me awhile to burn through all of these, so I'll come back and update my reviews as I burn them.

Lamplight Burning Low

Scent description: A candle for the aspiring writer or the voracious reader. The perfect autumn evening curled up and lost in reverie.

Top layer: The perfect London Fog. Steaming hot Earl Grey tea with a dollop of vanilla cream. Middle layer: A cozy library brimming with antique books. Notes of leather, polished woods, and parchment. Bottom layer: a softly crackling fireplace with a subtle note of spiced pumpkin.

These tiered candles are gorgeous! I couldn't pass this one up, as it sounds (and looks!) delightfully cozy. There is little better than reading a good book with a cup of hot tea on a gloomy day. Since I haven't melted this one yet, I only smell the top layer, which is the London Fog scent. I love this one so much that I immediately purchased it in the full glass tumbler. It does smell like Earl Grey tea with a fine vanilla musk! The bergamot note is lovely, and combined with the tea makes for a very elegant scent that will be suitable for any time of year.

Mist & Bramble

Scent description: A journey through a mystical, mist-filled woodland as day turns to night. Top layer: The mist rises in the early morning. Berries, sage, and spice combine with the blond wood of cedar and aspen leaves upon the forest floor. Middle layer: A cabin is reached deep in the heart of the forest. A crackling hearth is laid with aromatic wood, mingling with the faint scent of vanilla and warm amber. Bottom layer: Evening descends, and the mists again rise. You settle in for the night amidst the scent of apple and cinnamon, cooling embers, and a gentle musk.

Mist & Bramble is another beauty! This is the first candle that I chose to burn, because it's so very pretty, and also because I thought the scent would be a nice scent to transition from summer to autumn. It's a lovely subtle and misty berry scent. When unlit, it smells a little cool--like a cool, morning mist. When burning, however, it really blooms and begins to smell magical. It's still misty and a little cool, but the flame brings a lovely warmth to the blend. I smell dry, silvery, oak branches and very subtle berries. I've burned this one for about 3 hours a night for maybe seven total nights, and I'm onto the middle layer of scent, which is just as lovely as the first. I do smell a warm and crackling fire along with the mist, dry woods, and light berries. I will note that this candle is burning beautifully. I've been trimming the wick before each burn, and allowing it to burn for about three hours at a time, and I have experienced no tunneling. The pool is even and spans nearly the entire candle.

Autumn Glory

Scent description: Soft cashmere, toasted vanilla, nutmeg, ginger, amber, tonka bean, and a gentle hint of polished leather.

Autumn Glory is the perfect pumpkin spice blend candle to my nose! It's neither too sweet nor too spicy, but is smooth and snuggly-- basically the perfect typical autumnal candle. This smells much the same when burning, but is extra warm and snuggly!

Ember & Mallow

Scent description: Vanilla marshmallows toasted over a smoky Autumn bonfire.

Oh heavens. I'll admit that this one sounded a little basic/foodie to me, and I at first skipped ordering it. Ember & Mallow is stunning, however. It is the perfect scent of a crackling fire on a cold night in the woods (unlocking some major happy memories from my girl scout days), with just the tiniest hint of floofy sweetness from the marshmallows. This is all about the crackling fire, and it's glorious and atmospheric.

Equinox Reborn

Scent description: Softly falling leaves pair perfectly with a mug of hot apple cider spiced with clove and ginger.

I very nearly did not purchase this one because I don't have a good track record with apple scents, but I was lured in by the falling leaves. I'm glad that I ordered it, because it may be my favorite of the collection! Equinox Reborn is another perfectly autumnal scent. It smells just like hot apple cider, which is a seasonal favorite of mine! The spices are potent, but not overwhelming. I don't speceifically smell the leaves, but there's a soft fuzziness around the edges that may be attributed to their presence. I'm really looking forward to burning this one!

London Fog

Scent description: The perfect drink for a drizzly, gray day. Steaming hot Earl Grey tea with a dollop of vanilla cream.

This is the same scent as the top layer of Lamplight Burning Low, so I'll just copy and paste here! London Fog smells like Earl Grey tea with a fine vanilla musk. The bergamot note is lovely, and combined with the tea makes for a very elegant scent that will be suitable for any time of year.

Persephone Descending

Scent description: Pomegranate, cranberry, and just a touch of dragon's blood to soften the edges.

Okay, this is the perfect autumnal berry blend. It's rich, tart, and juicy all at once. The pomegranate and cranberry combine in such a way as to resemble those super fancy currant candles that were popular years back (made by Votivo or Diptyque maybe? I had the knockoff Williams Sonoma brand version and I loved it!). If I think about it, I can pick out a rich, sweet resin tying everything together, but this is all about the berry. This candle would also be perfect for the holidays!

Sacred Autumn

Scent description: A magical blend of golden amber, pumpkin, sandalwood, and sweetened incense smoke.

Sacred Autumn is stunning! It's a beautiful, non-spicy pumpkin blend. It's so well-blended that it's hard to pick out individual notes, but it's definitely a resins and woods blend with autumnal foodie botanicals (I smell the fresh, sweet pumpkin and also something that I swear smells like acorns!). This is gorgeous and I'm very much looking forward to seeing how it transforms when burned!

Samhain Dusk

Scent description: Dry amber, cassia, clove, the smoke of distant bonfires, and the faintest breath of orange peel.

Samhain Dusk rivals Equinox Reborn for favorite scent of the collection. It's a perfectly moody and atmospheric scent that does evoke nightfall in autumn! It's dry and fragrant with smoldering, smoking woods and resins, and a zesty nip of citrus. A beautiful, haunting, and atypical blend.

Secret Society

Scent description: Leatherbound books, rich mahogany and teak woods, smooth bourbon, and a crackling fireplace.

This smells like a mahogany-paneled fancy smoking parlor in a Victorian mansion! Polished dark woods mingle with a smooth, luxurious leather and sharp bourbon and cigar smoke. I imagine this one will transform when burned, so I'm looking forward to trying it!

Sihaya & Co. candles may be found at https://sihayaandcompany.com/

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Swell 17 oz Marble Water Bottle Tumbler.

That Is MY Morty!

AN: This is a really old something and I've finally decided to post it even though it's really dumb. I just wanted to write a scenario where Morty encounters Rick/Morty relationships…in a special strip club of all places. Warnings: very strongly hinted Rick/Morty, molestation/sexual assault (but it doesn't get too far) Summary: Rick has to make a business deal at some weird club. Morty has the urgent need to use a restroom and can't wait on Rick any longer inside the car. So, he also enters the club, which might not be such a good decision…

That Is MY Morty! Morty looked with furled brows down at a dark-gray asteroid that looked sparse except for one single building and an adjoining parking lot. "I thought we were going to Blips and Chitz, Rick." He complained as his grandfather landed the space car in one of the empty spots. "Yeah, we will. I'll just have to do a little business here first." Rick explained as he turned around and started to fumble for something below the backseats, the sound of empty bottles clinking against each other reverberating in the small space of the vehicle as he did so. The boy's frown only deepened at the mention of "business". As far as he knew the scientist, that business thing would be something shady again – probably a weapon or a drug deal, he could bet. Instead of reprimanding his grandfather how wrong that was, he looked over to the singular building on this lone space rock. It had a flashing neon sign at the top that read "The Crazy Rick". So, Morty in his curiosity asked instead, "What is that place?" "That's just a little club that's frequented by Ricks who don't like visiting the Citadel. Even the Galactic Federation won't find this place so it's pretty safe." Rick answered as he finally found the object that he was looking for – a simple, black briefcase. The old man burped briefly before he continued. "See here, I-I-I don't really like this place, but the owner said that he couldn't leave and so we have to make the trade here. You just wait in the car. I'll make it quick." After Rick left the space car with the briefcase in hand, he looked back at Morty to tell him one last important information. "Don't open the doors. Especially not if it's a Rick." With that said, Morty watched his grandfather walk over to the building. He briefly talked to the bouncer, who was a really beefed-up Rick, before he was let inside and vanished from the boy's sight. Morty sank back into his seat and wondered how long he would have to wait. If Rick said, he wouldn't take long, he could actually be away for hours. For all the boy knew his grandfather would get drunk and high with whatever Rick he was meeting in there. Sighing, he rolled his eyes at the thought and could already feel boredom creeping up on him. Searching for something to keep himself occupied, he looked around the parking lot. There were some space cruisers, which looked identical to the one that he currently sat in but some also looked completely different and not like they were made out of trash. His attention was briefly pulled towards a green portal opening next to the entrance of the building as a Rick walked out of it and up towards the bouncer. As far as Morty could see, he wore a yellow button-up shirt with black dots on it, blue tightfitting jeans and high-heeled leather boots. He also seemed to have a few gold studded earrings in one of his ears. The unusual-looking outfit made Morty blink a little before the Rick was also let in. Going back to browsing the surrounding parking lot with his eyes, he noticed that another Rick was standing next to one of the vehicles. From the looks of it, he seemed to be making out with a smaller person that he pressed against the side of the car, but from this angle, it was impossible to see the other. Morty quickly averted his eyes. Seeing his grandfather getting it on with what he assumed must be a space-hooker was not something that he wanted to see even if he wasn't able to spot much more than the spikes of his hair from here. It also didn't matter whether it was his actual Rick or one of the countless other versions of him who was doing it… The boy leaned back in his seat again, feeling bored out of his mind. Having anticipated to spent the afternoon with his grandfather at Blips and Chitz and playing the new arcade game that they made for the Two Brothers Movie, he felt really disappointed. It was just so like Rick to get his spirits up and high and then leave him hanging like that. '"I'll make it quick" my ass.' He thought grittily. Seeing, as he wasn't left to do anything else, Morty kept waiting. That was until his bladder suddenly started to bother him, inching in his focus with an uncomfortable pressure. 'Aw geez… that, too, now…?' Morty looked back to the entrance but there was no trace of his Rick anywhere. Rolling with an idea inside his head and feeling the increase of pressure, the boy slowly made up his mind. There was no way that he could wait till Rick was back and then until they reached the next restroom in space. 'I'll just be quick. Use the toilet and then I'm out again.' Morty told himself as he opened the door. He didn't even think about doing his business out here – not when a perfectly fine toilet would be waiting inside for him. However, as he came closer towards the door, he wondered if he would even be let inside. Rick had said that this was a place frequented by Ricks, which didn't automatically mean that Mortys were also welcome here. If anything, it sounded more as if the opposite would make sense now that the boy thought about it. Still, he only wanted to use the toilet, he wouldn't bother anyone in there. Maybe they would let him in if he just explained properly. As he finally reached the entrance, he fearfully looked up at the bouncer. From close up, he looked even taller and more buff – totally intimidating to say the least. As the Beefcake Rick looked wordlessly down at him through his black sunglasses, Morty almost forgot what he wanted to say. Actually, he felt like he wanted to just go back and wait in the car for his grandfather to come back. Going to the toilet wasn't really that important. Maybe he should just do what Summer always did and just pee in his pants. Feeling stupid for just walking away without saying anything, he opened his mouth and tried to formulate a response to the unspoken question. The first thing that escaped him where just a bunch of useless stutters. Swallowing, he took a deep breath and then said, "M-my Rick went in there. Just a-a few minutes ago." Actually, that wasn't what he had wanted to say and he looked with big eyes up at the bouncer who's face hadn't even twitched a single time since he had walked up to him. Instead of telling Morty off, he moved to the side. The boy's eyes widened a little more. The guy was really letting him in?! Not wanting to waste this chance, he resumed his old plan of just going in and relieving himself quickly. However, Morty really had no idea what would await him inside. Swiftly he found out that it wasn't what he had expected though. Just as he passed the little counter for the wardrobe and went through the door that lead inside the club, the first thing that he noticed was that the place looked actually clean. He honestly had been expecting to be greeted by a cloud of cigarette-smoke (or whatever else the Ricks in here would be smoking) and the sight of a dirty floor, littered with broken bottles or glasses and full of stains of spilled alcohol and vomit. However, the club looked sparkling clean as far as Morty could tell from the entrance. The walls were colored a light blue and the plush carpet on the floor a vibrant pink and everything was covered in the hues of neon lights that were lighting up the place. Right in front of Morty stretched out a bar along the right side of the room. On the stools in front of it sat a few Ricks, idly sipping their drinks or being in conversation, while behind the counter stood a Morty in a fine suit. Obviously, the boy was the barkeeper, as he was making a little show of mixing a drink in one of those metallic tumblers. That was certainly surprising, since the boy hadn't expected to see any Mortys in here. Especially not working in a place that he had at first assumed to be some dirty strip club. The Crazy Rick was apparently a place full of surprises. Morty stopped wondering about that though as he saw the sign that was pointing to the toilets, just past the bar. What a relief that he wouldn't have to make his way through the entire premise, he thought, as he finally dared to step further in. However, as he continued on, he was able to see much more of the club. On the left side, directly opposite from the bar, were tables and round sofas that were occupied by a few other Ricks. What shocked Morty though was not the arrangement or design of the furniture, but the Mortys, who were serving the customers. They wore practically nothing more than underwear! Well, actually it looked like over-sexualized waitress-uniforms, who were barely covering anything. He had seen similar costumes once in one of the many porn movies that he always watched on his laptop. Just that in those videos this outfits were worn by women. Unfortunately, that wasn't even the most shocking sight that would present itself to Morty. Further in the back of the establishment, stood a stage, which was lighted up by spotlights. There were dancing poles on it and he could see some Dancer Ricks in "questionable" outfits. What was more shocking to him, was the sight of Mortys, who were also dancing up there. Surrounding the stage were more tables with comfy sofas and some of the Ricks, who were seated there, had a Morty at their side. One really rich-looking one of them had even two – each on one of his sides. Those Ricks were very obviously groping their Mortys, but the boys didn't seem to mind that. They were actually touching their Ricks all over – one hand vanishing under clothes to touch skin, or lips that would be attached to a neck. It was one of the strangest sights that Morty had ever seen despite having seen a lot of shit in the universe thanks to his Rick already. Unwillingly, his eyes focused on one Morty, who was dancing up on the stage. Since he was standing on the outer, left part of the stage, the boy had a pretty clear view of him. The Dancer Morty wore the typical yellow t-shirt, but it was pulled upwards and tied together, just barely covering his nipples, looking like a crop top. The dark-blue jeans that he wore, had its legs ripped off and were nothing more than really tight and short hot pants. The material was wedge between the crease of his ass cheeks and left nothing to the imagination. At his feet were three Ricks who were wolf whistling and sloshing around the alcohol in their glasses, while the boy danced sensually against his pole. In a fluid movement, the boy slid down on the pole, pushing the cheeks of his perky butt flush against the metal, so that it was rubbing against his cleft. As he did so, the Ricks seemed to go completely crazy. As he was squatting, the old men stuffed a few bills in his too tight pants, before he moved upwards again and continued to dance, grinding his clothed crotch against his inanimate lover. Even from this distance, Morty could hear what they were drunkenly saying – or rather shouting – at the boy on stage. "Fuck, I wish that pole was me!" "Woohoo!" "C'mon! Show daddy what you've got!" 'Oh geez! Just what kind of place is this?!' Morty thought in a panic. Trying to keep himself from hyperventilating, he ripped his sight from the stage and focused back on where he wanted – actually, needed – to go. 'Just a quick dash to the toilet and then I'm out of here!!' With that thought on his mind, he continued his way straight to the restrooms, trying to walk past the bar as fast as he could without drawing any attention to himself. Unfortunately, the not drawing attention part didn't seem to work as a Rick already had set his eyes on him. He turned fully around on his stool and stood up to block Morty's path. "Why hello there. You alone here, cutie?" he asked in a sultry voice as if he wasn't just talking to an alternate version of his grandson. The Rick wore a light blue button-up shirt that was halfway unbuttoned and showed the skin of his chest. He also wore white pants, which were held up by a black belt and matching white, polished shoes. Morty looked up at the man's face as he almost ran into that exposed chest and saw him grin as he looked down at him through his purple tinted, thin-framed aviator sunglasses. "I-I-I just need to use the restrooms." The boy squeaked and hoped that this Rick would just leave him alone. "Oh, I can you bring you there." He said, still in the same tone. This response made Morty panic. He may be dumb, but he wasn't stupid enough to not get the implication that laid in that sentence. "Th-thanks, but I'm fine!" he almost yelled and quickly pushed past the Rick, shoving him back with more force than he intended to and right into the edge of the bar. Morty dashed so fast around the corner that he didn't get to see the sour face that the Rick made afterwards or hearing the chuckles of the few surrounding Ricks, who had watched all of the little encounter. The rejected Rick scowled as he sat back down on his stool and resumed drinking while still keeping his eyes on where the boy had just vanished. As Morty rounded the corner, he walked past a small flight of stairs that seemed to lead to the second floor and then came to a stop in front of two doors. On one was a sign that looked like the head of a Rick and on the other a sign that looked like a Morty head. Morty figured that he shouldn't be surprised that the toilets wouldn't be divided by gender, but by being a Rick or a Morty. Apparently only Ricks and Mortys where at this place anyways. He used the appropriate door, but stopped before he even fully stepped into the restroom and quickly thought if he shouldn't use the other one. The sight that greeted him was that of two Mortys, who were sitting on the sinks on the furthermost right side and were noisily making out with each other. It actually looked like the one on the top was riding the Morty on the bottom, but thankfully they both still had their pants on. For as clean as the club had looked, this room looked just as filthy and Morty feared what the restroom for the Ricks might look like if the one for Mortys was in such a poor state. Aside from that, he was rather scared that he might get assaulted in the other bathroom – or saw something even more mentally scaring than what was happening right in front of his eyes – so he decided to ignore the two boys and just use the stall furthest away. As he sat down and took a leak, he tried to blend out the moans and groans that echoed off of the grimy tiles. This place reeked horrible and the floor was filthy and littered with cigarette butts and used condoms. The large mirror above the sinks had been smashed and there was graffiti all over the walls and stalls – including the little condom dispenser next to the sinks. Thinking about it now, taking a piss outside in the parking lot suddenly sounded much more inviting. Nothing he could do about it now though as he was already in here and had his world shattered once again by the sight of what was going on in this "fine establishment". After he was finally done, he walked over to the sink, using the one on the left to wash his hands and still trying to ignore the dry humping that was going on right next to him. As he hurriedly left the bathroom, he felt relieved and not only because he just emptied his bladder, but also because it meant that he could finally be out of here again. Using the same way that he came, he passed the stairs again and went around the corner. All he needed to do now was get past the bar in one piece and he would be home free. Unfortunately, he didn't get that far as his path was blocked as soon as left that backroom area. It was the same Rick from before again and this time he didn't look so friendly. No, he actually looked pretty livid and the sight scared Morty more than any of the hungry, man-eating aliens he had to run away from on his many adventures before. "I hope you got a little more time for me now?" he asked in a dangerous voice that stated as clear as day that he wouldn't accept a 'no' for an answer. "N-no." Morty dared to say defiantly. "My R-Rick is waiting for me." Morty hoped that the guy would buy the half-lie. Apparently, his answer was the wrong one and it didn't convince the other Rick at all. Suddenly, Morty was slammed against the wall and the Rick held his wrist above his head as he pushed his entire body up against him. The boy struggled against the older man, but was easily overpowered. "No! No! L-let go of me!" he yelled. "I don't think so, my pretty." Rick whispered in his ear. Morty's face scrunched up as the breath that reeked strongly of alcohol wafted easily up to his nose at the close proximity. "NO! HELP! Pl-please—someone help me!!" he shouted desperately. This only caused his assaulter to chuckle. As Morty frantically looked around, he could see that a few Ricks were watching the commotion, but none of them looked like they were even thinking about helping him. Even the Bartender Morty quickly looked the other way as he made eye contact with him. Tears welled up in his eyes as the hopelessness of his situation slowly sank in. No one would come to help him. No one would dare to stop this Rick from doing to him whatever he wanted to do. They both knew it and his attacker moved so that he was pinning both of his wrist with one hand to the wall. The now free hand slid beneath his yellow t-shirt and got a feel for the soft skin underneath. Morty could only whimpered pitifully at the unwanted touch. Even if the boy wanted nothing more than to will it all away, he could feel everything that was happening to him. Felt a finger touching his nipple while his shirt was pulled up. Felt moist lips touch the side of his neck. Felt a knee pressing between his thighs and adding pressuring with a slow grinding motion. Was there really nothing that he could do other than resign himself to his fate? It seemed like his silent prayers were answered though as suddenly all of the sensations vanished. Everything happened so quickly that Morty couldn't follow or quite comprehend what exactly or how it had went down. He only knew that he was released and his assaulter was laying on the floor, sunglasses laying somewhere on the carpet as he was nursing a bloody nose. With wide eyes, he stared at the familiar back that was clad in a white, stained lab coat. "That's my Morty! So fuck off!!" Rick bellowed angrily. The Rick on the floor looked back up and probably wanted to retort something, but stopped just as his mouth opened. Morty wasn't sure, but thought he saw something like fear flash briefly in the other Rick's eyes. As he was told, his assaulter got up, grabbed his broken sunglasses and slowly left the club while mumbling curses loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. As his Rick turned around, Morty could clearly see from the dilated pupils and the glow around the irises that his grandfather was high as fuck. He knew it! He knew that he would take his sweet time and get drunk and high in here! Still, he wouldn't comment on it right now. Not after he felt so grateful that his Rick had come and saved his ass. From the aggravation that was still showing on his face, Morty was actually becoming scared of his grandfather now – fully understanding why the other Rick had backed down so fast – and he was worried that he would be on the receiving end of that anger now. He was supposed to wait in the space car for him after all. To Morty's surprise though, Rick's face suddenly softened, but was oddly enough also still unreadable. "C'mon, Morty. Let—let's the hell get out of here. Blips and Chitz is waiting for us, Morty."

AN: And after that Morty asked Rick for the catheter ^^' (Ironically, I did see that promo video shortly after I had finished writing this.) Also, this was written before I played Pocket Mortys, so I was really amused when I found out that separating restrooms like that is technically canon. Anyways, I'm not very proud of this (especially not with the ending), but there you have it.

Meanwhile everyone is mourning, hating Ressler, squealing, drooling, depressed, angry, I’m just throwing this out into the void of your dashboard because I’m in that mood.

If TBL was on HBO. 18+

Ciudad Juárez, 03:15 AM

“Go!-Go!-Go!-Go!-Go!”

Shots. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Laugh. Tumblers clink. An ass grinds against his cock. Six. Seven. Eightova.

 Wait, what?

“Blow!-Blow!-Blow!-Blow!-Blow! Ye-e-e-ah!”

Lips on his lips, a tongue on his cock; a hookah glows in the dark, his orange eye is winking at them. Smoke, lots of smoke; it seems he has gone blind, lost in the haze of booze and naked bodies. A new kiss, or, rather, a sucking on his chapped, shisha-sore lips, another pill rolling on his dry tongue. He feels wholesome, made up of waves and pulsations, of the pure vibrating speed of sound, cutting through the air and space...

Nipples brush against his nipples, a tongue on the tip of his cock. The mouthpiece is pushed to his lips and then put into his mouth; he takes a deep draw—cherry and peach?—and then licks the crushed, almost a buddy-like pill off someone’s ass. He takes another draw, deeper than before, throwing back his head…

  a smashed jaw, the pool of clotted blood on the broken stones—and the smell of gunpowder and smoke

 (ha-ha-ha)

He catches a breath when someone takes him into his mouth. He winds his fingers into wiry black hair, thrusting deeper, but—

 shattered glass, Chupa Chups on the floor, the blood pool is reaching the edge of his shoes.

 Fuck.

He stares at the ceiling, at the sh... ch… chand… Fuck it. Voices send fake crystals into a quivering, but he doesn’t hear them, those fizzing like static on comms.

Another draw of the hookah, his fingers awkwardly stroking the hair either one whore or another sucking him off in turns. One of them, remembering his move earlier, takes him into her throat so deep his dick rams against her glands.

Bus ticket.

Blood-stained gray T-shirt.

Ripped sneakers.

Glass breaking.

Struck collarbone.

Slivers of glass in the hair.

Face smudged with soot.

Bitch.

Giving no shit if she gags or not, he fucks someone in the mouth—Nina or Anna?—almost hammering into her throat, hair twisting in his fist. Faster, faster, faster. Someone cries out; the pictures are dissolving like sugar in water—he realizes he’s watching one of the chicks fingering herself, her glazed eyes fixed on him.

//Snowblind on AO3 feat @yddraigwyllt​//

Missing you writing for Reggieronnie tbh

vik, my love, anything for u. ty for ur patience, ur a dream

it’s getting harder to be someone, but it all works out/

it doesn’t matter much to me

hiram lodge dies the first real morning of summer, a june day crisp and bloody with promise. veronica walks into her father’s study, heels sharp on marble, gearing up for another round in their endless boxing match, something satisfying about the punch and effort of it. she has a manila file tucked under her elbow, her lipstick dark and immaculate, ready for a clean victory.

“i can hardly believe you’d stoop this low, daddy,” she starts as she walks in, a whiny thread of moral righteousness seeping into her voice. she’s expecting his oily, serpentine grin and pretend obliviousness, but instead her father is slumped over at his desk, neck bent at an angle that strikes veronica as deeply wrong before she can even get to the source of why. his skin is blanched, hair hanging in his face. unmistakably dead.

her father, her own personal devil, a tumbler of rum still at his side like he’s about to wake up and take a sip.

“daddy?” veronica asks, voice stripped of all bravado, frightened and small. she resents her own weakness but cannot help it. the room is strangled of all air, panic thrumming loud in her wrist. she acts on gut impulse, on rare instinct. on that starving, hungry animal that lives in her ribs named lodge.

reggie is her rock bottom guy, despite it all. they haven’t talked besides cursory hellos and polite small talk in the halls in months, and yet, it’s his doorstep she ends up on. it’s not as if they’ve ever been really close, but there’s a weird sense of belonging to one another, exclusively. their upbringings have instilled in them this need to possess without attachment, an ownership that feels better than love. they’re the same sort of monster where it really counts.

“ronnie?” he asks her, toweling off his wet hair, t-shirt sticking to him in damp patches. he smells like cheap boy shampoo and damp air, strangely appealing, tender as a bruise. his eyes flick up her, still immaculately dressed, despite it all.

“i need to leave,” she says, all in a rush. she can’t bear to explain herself further. there’s nothing in her except for this wild impulse to get the fuck out, to leave riverdale like it’s a blade pressed to her throat, threatening to break skin. a vital artery is about to be hit, is already split open, hemorrhaging wildly.

“alright,” he says, and steps out, shutting the door behind him, firm with promise. “let’s go then.”

she wakes up with her hair in her mouth, her boarding pass and passport clutched in one hand. memory flashes vaguely within her- finding her father, going to reggie’s doorstep, slinging old fashioneds at the airport bar and closing her eyes to pick a random flight. reggie is asleep next to her, young looking with his mouth a little open. she sits up from where she’s been slumped against his shoulder, looks down at her boarding pass.

well. she’s always wanted to go to amsterdam.

the city is filled with blood and money. her and reggie get off the flight with nothing except their clothes and shiny black credit cards. it’s probably too conspicuous to pick the grandest hotel she can find, but veronica doesn’t care. they settle into the luxurious suite and veronica sprawls out on the king bed, liking the crisp feeling of fresh sheets against her face. it’s not been twenty-four hours, and yet she’s already a world away. a full-bodied sprint away from the grief threatening to capsize in her chest.

“so,” reggie says, all casual, scoping out the minibar. “you want to talk about it?”

there are sixteen missed calls from archie flashing on her phone. more from her mother. guilt sickens inside her, as real as a bad tooth.

“no,” she says, and that’s that.

in amsterdam they mostly just get high. their hotel balcony has a view of the whole city, and in the late afternoon reggie rolls joints on the terrace, which are honestly bad considering how much practice he’s had, but veronica doesn’t care enough to learn better. they pass spliffs back and forth as the sun sets, and veronica goes as relaxed as she ever can, legs slung in reggie’s lap and breath high and tight in her chest. everything ceases to exist, the world funneling down to the sound of reggie’s voice, telling her about the latest in the hockey season or his stupid-brilliant idea for a start-up.

they both have nightmares so the nights are for clubbing, staggering in and out of doorways, reggie’s face abstracting out under neon lights. they make fast friends with the sorts of boys who always have baggies full of powder in their pockets, and veronica is always off her face, smudged dark and volcanic in her tiny black dresses, chain smoking on the corner as reggie gets a cab.

they keep vampire hours, crawling into bed as the sun is beginning to rise, and veronica wakes in the late afternoons with her head pillowed on reggie’s bare stomach, soft skin under firm muscle. the days begin to loop in a way that could almost become comfortable.

they’re eating in breakfast in a tiny bakery when veronica happens to glance at the television screen behind her. lodge will reading on hold as hunt for teenage heiress continues! flashes across the screen, and panic spikes hot and sour in her stomach, nausea pulsing in her throat.

reggie watches her face carefully, like a sailor watching the waves. “change of scenery?” he asks, and in a handful of hours they’re on a flight to shanghai.

shanghai is warm and unfamiliar, full of crowded street and the pulse of city lights, the skyline strange and neon and absurdly lovely. they buy beer for four cents a bottle from the convenience store and veronica washes her hair with the thin, anonymous shampoo of hotel bathrooms and feels the edges of her personhood coming apart.

for some reason they still haven’t fucked. she doesn’t quite know why- she can see the way reggie watches her in the gray dawn as she peels off her sequined dresses and skimpy black lingerie to pull on his old, soft t-shirts with holes in the collars. she knows in an objective sort of way that he wants her, the same she feels a pulse of need low in her stomach when he places a cigarette in her mouth, or gets out of the shower with a towel slung low around his waist.

maybe it’s out of some sort of respect for archie. or maybe they’re just testing one another.

they’re drinking in the second tallest building in the world, the entire continent sprawled out beneath them as the sun goes down, and veronica is drunk and blinded with her own power, drinking her third martini too fast.

one of the absurdly powerful businessmen comes up to flirt with her, charming and pushing thirty-five, wedding band winking on his finger. veronica puts on her cattiest, big little girl smile, lets her slip dress slide further up her thigh, and watches as reggie grinds his teeth beside her.

they fuck in the men’s bathroom, much too nice for such behavior, thousands of dizzying feet above ground. her head clatters back against the mirror and reggie’s fingers are rough where they cover her mouth, trying to keep her quiet, thumb dipping against her lower lip. she pops four buttons off his white button down, and he has her silky purple dress hiked up to her waist, and veronica forgets the grief that lives salty and hot in her throat, forgets riverdale, forgets who she is at all.

in london they go out to high tea and act like proper young adults, visiting the museums and having extravagant picnics in the gardens. veronica spends absurd, frivolous amounts of time assembling the menu for such outings, fizzy champagne and sponge cake and charcuterie boards. the dreams are still bad, but in the mornings she reads in bed, blankets tucked up around her face, while reggie goes for runs around the city.

these days they are settled into something nearly resembling domesticity. she is fond of the jut of reggie’s ankle and the way he takes his coffee, his tacky watch and the bottle of hair gel left on the bathroom sink. this strange boy who holds her hair back when she vomits and cries in his sleep like a little kid, who always has something in his pocket to slip under her tongue when they’re in line for the club.

it’s reggie who notices one day that they’re being followed, a man slumped inconspicuously behind them in a coffee shop near their hotel, at the table next to them that evening in the restaurant. riverdale never really leaves you, that shadow world of gangs and serial killers and a wild, cartoonish violence, smearing blood on everyone’s hands so bright it was almost orange, ketchupy.

they leave in the dead of night, sneaking out of the elevator of the hotel, and veronica is almost enjoying herself, feeling like a spy or assassin, a heroic figure. for a glittering second she misses riverdale, that cold rush of adventure, but then reggie laces their fingers together and when she wakes up she’s buoyed back to sleep by the comforts of the jet plane around her, humming and steady, dark over the pacific.

in jerusalem they stay in the heart of the old city, and veronica feeds scraps to the street cats, cooing when she wins over their affection. they float in the dead sea and reggie swipes mud across her cheek and she tugs on his ankle as he floats to make him lose his balance. they visit the western wall and watch as the holy men write their wishes down on scraps of paper, shoving them into the crevices on the side of the wall, thousands and thousands of them.

“do you ever feel the compulsive urge to pull them out and start reading other peoples’ wishes?” reggie asks, whispering in her ear, and veronica can’t decide whether she wants to laugh or cry. she has that same tug in her gut, that same steer towards wrongness. they’re made up of the exact same stuff.

reggie hands her a post-it note to write a wish, but veronica crumples it up, lets it float in the bottom of her purse with the broken cigarettes and half empty lipglosses and six types of currency. she has no more wishes.