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[dental1234]

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[glimmerlofsea]

Jason Scott x Reader

RANGER WHAT?

PT. 2.

Warning : Nothing, don't worry! ;D

WC; 1,3k

#TALKISSA; Have you ever come across Jason Scott (Dacre Montgomery ver) fanfic? I made it a few months ago! Hope you like it!

"I'm leaving." You said to your father who was still lying on the sofa munching on his snack.

“Wait, Y/N.” he says.

He walked over to you and straightened your clothes.

"Perfect."

You smile, your father is not a bad person, he is the best father figure in this world. Your mother is abusive, always beats you if you don't achieve the target grades she wants. And you hate her. You wanted to be stuck in Angel Grove with your Dad forever.

“So… How long will this tourism last?” Ask your father.

You chuckled, "Why? Missed me already?"

Your father nodded and hugged you, "My little Y/N, you are the only one I have, and I am so proud to have you, my little angel. Please keep yourself safe, and be happy with your friends."

'Friends' the word always makes you laugh a little, your father thinks you have lots of friends at school- you say you do, but in reality you don't have any of them. You're just considered Y/N a new refugee, Y/N old-fashioned, and so on.

You're called old fashioned because you don't know what happened in Angel Grove before, they said they had some kind of 'super hero' to protect them. And your little brother, Jeremy really likes one of them.

You chuckled at your father's words, he let go of his hug, "You too, be safe with Jeremy, okay?"

Your father nodded,

You adjusted your backpack for tourism, "I love you, Dad. See you!"

"Be careful! I love you more!"

And here you are.

Being on the bus for school tourism, as usual, you are always alone. You use earphones to get lost in your own thoughts.

Until you feel someone land beside you,

He smiled at you and stretched out his hand,

You took off your earphones and just stared at his hands, there's no way 'Jason Scott', who is famous at school, asked you to get to know him, right?

He shook his hand again, "Are you going to ignore my outstretched hand?"

You chuckled, "Oh! Sorry," You raised your hand to shake his.

"Jason. Jason Scott."

You nodded, “Yeah. I know."

"I'm-"

"Y/N Y/L/N." He cuts you off.

You frowned, “How do you know my name?”

He chuckled, “I quite noticed you in art class, Y/N.”

You smiled, “Okay then, nice to meet you, Jason.”

“You too, Y/N.”

"Why are these girls' 'dream boy' sitting next to me?" you asked with a face full of curiosity.

He made a thoughtful face, "I don't know, separated from my flock?"

You chuckle at his answer,

“I would love to get to know you better, Y/N.”

You smiled, touched by his words.

“So… You moved to Angel Grove not long ago?” He asked while munching on his snack.

He offered it to you but you shook your head and smiled kindly at his offer,

"Um.. Yes."

"What do you think of Angel Grove?"

You narrowing your eyes, "You sound like you're interrogating me, you know?"

You continued your conversation, "I don't really blend in here, I mean after the Angel Grove heroes are good enough, my father doesn't need to worry about my safety."

“Multicolored heroes?” he asked.

You nod.

"Who's your favorite?"

You showed your thinking face, "Um..."

He looked very curious—which you thought was a very cute expression.

You shrugged your shoulders, "It doesn't look like there is. You know, maybe you can ask my little brother who is really that heroes maniac... He really likes red!" You exclaim happily.

He chuckled showing his perfect teeth, "Yeah, I can't blame your little brother, the red one sure eats."

"But seriously, I wonder who your favorite is." He says.

You looked at him and raised an eyebrow, not expecting the topic of conversation with your new friend to be about the heroes of Angel Grove.

"I'd say Yellow."

"Why?" He asked, looking disappointed, his lips slowly pursed.

You chuckled, “Oh, God, why are you pouting?”

He adjusted his lips, "No, I'm not."

You just smiled, "I said yellow because it looks like Bumblebee? Maybe. And I love Bumblebee."

He nodded his head, "I destroyed him once." It's definitely a whisper you can hear.

You frowned, “What?”

"Nothing, nothing."

You just chuckled.

Not long after you arrived at your destination, all the students walked in droves, jostling until you were pushed here and there almost losing your balance, but luckily someone was holding you up— Jason.

You smiled and rebalanced your body, "Thank you."

He smiled.

Mrs. Norei as your tour guide explains several ancient artifacts that once fell in Angel Grove, you see them all and they all look very unique and beautiful.

Until you heard someone call you, "Y/N..."

You looked to the side, there was a room that led to another part of the museum, you didn't pay attention to it and continued listening to Mrs. Norei. Until another voice was heard, "Y/N!"

This time it was louder and more powerful, you decided to turn around again in the same direction, because you felt like no one really cared about you, you approached the source of the sound.

There you see a white coin lying on the floor.

You looked around and realized there was a security guard there, your intention was to take the coin and give it to the security guard— but your intention was not fulfilled. After you took the coin, suddenly someone pushed you into a dark room.

You panicked, “HELP-”

Someone covered your mouth with a hand, suddenly the lights came on, you saw Jason standing in front of you—fucking shit you didn't think he was a pervert. You feel a little sad.

You were about to kick his feet with your foot, but he held your foot, he removed his hand from your mouth,

Your temper flared, “YOU PERVERT-”

“Hey, Y/N.”

Someone calls your name, you turn around and see 4 people standing in a row near an empty cupboard.

You know two of them, Kimberly and Billy.

You looked at Jason, “I'm sorry, Y/N.” He said, you turned your gaze again to Kimberly and Billy, you knew you were going to get bullied- because from there you started getting bullied by the popular girls at school. Pulled into an empty room and verbally abused.

You took a deep breath, you took out the coins you were holding, "Listen, I'm sick of being bullied and if you guys want to take these coins, go ahead."

The tall Asian guy chuckled, "Odd girl."

Your memory comes back to play, where your mother beat you and said that you were some kind of bitch, odd girl, unlucky, idiot, and other inappropriate words.

You clenched your jaw and stepped forward, grabbing the collar of the boy's shirt and pushing him against the side of the cupboard until the item on top of the cupboard fell.

"You know, maybe I'm easy to get bully but I won't stay silent if I'm stepped on by a guy who doesn't know how to treat a girl, and you're one of them, aren't you?"

"Zack?"

You were surprised, and so was he, “You know my name.” He said while chuckling.

You let go of your grip, "I know your name." You whispered repeating his words with a panicked expression.

You heard Jason speak, “Zordon said that the White Ranger have the ability to have strong skills when it comes to tactile contact.”

You frowned, "What? White Rander? What?"

"What is going on?" you asked, fear spreading through your body.

Kimberly approached you and grabbed both of your shoulders, “Calm down. Girl, you're a ranger.”

You chuckled softly, "What?"

A Power Rangers? Like the hero your brother dreams of? Oh my God, what is this, what is actually happening. At least that's what you think.

"Jason, should we show her?" Billy asked.

"No. Don't. Let me talk to her first."

Your life is already considered abnormal, and this shit is happening. What could be even weirder?

Author Note : Since this is my old writing on Wattpad which hasn't been posted yet, I apologize if there are any typos or mistakes. There's a part two if you're interested... Hihi, see you, issea!

[hummingbird-of-light]

How I met my Vampire (Part 3)

(Edit: Stupid me only now realizing that tidbits is plural XD Changed it to tidbit)

Scotty was still staring at the vampire in disbelief as the creature straightened his back again and wiped away the tears.

"Okay, seriously now, what are you doing here, tidbit?"

Tidbit?! Scotty was a priest! He certainly wouldn't end up as this monster's dinner... or lunch... or breakfast. Whatever time it was for a vampire!

"Y-ye cannae h-hurt me. G-god p-p-protects me."

Slowly, the Scotsman took a few steps backwards, moving closer to the altar.

The vampire just grinned, exposing his shiny teeth.

"Really now? Your little cross over there wasn't much of a protection, was it?"

They both glanced at the cross which lay a few feet away from them. Scotty could try to grab it, but what good would it do.

He still had some garlic in his pocket, but somehow he doubted that it would be helpful.

"L-listen, I... I'm here t-to help ye."

That made the vampire laugh again.

"You? Come on, tidbit. How could you help me?"

Scotty gritted his teeth. That nickname again. It sent shivers down his spine, but he didn't dare to speak up.

He should just make his point clear and then get away as quick as possible.

"If the head of the church or the other priests find out about ye, they'll kill ye," the Scotsman hissed, finally stopping his stammering.

The vampire's face darkened slightly.

"How would they kill something that's already dead?"

Scott swallowed.

"Ye know what I mean! They'll burn ye or... or exorcize ye."

A crooked smile crossed the vampire's face.

"In order to do so... they'd have to catch me first."

Only a moment later, the creature turned into a bat and flew around the sanctuary.

Scotty looked up and followed it with his eyes. Up and down. Left and right. That beast was really fast.

Still, the trainee had his doubts.

"They have their ways!"

The bat stopped in midair and suddenly it let itself fall. Just before it hit the ground, it turned back into the human form. Right in front of Scotty.

"So? Why do you care?"

Scott backed away slightly. Their faces were only inches away from each other.

Intense eyes stared him down and he gulped. These eyes... were gorgeous.

"I... I think that e-every creature should get a chance to l-l-live."

Out of nowhere, the vampire placed a cold hand on Scotty's cheek and tilted his head.

"Aww, that's so sweet, tidbit."

Okay! Enough was enough!

Scott pulled his head back and glared at the creature of the night.

"Stop calling me that! I have a name!"

A sly grin crossed the other's face.

"Wanna tell me?"

Scotty didn't know why he gave an answer to the question, but somehow he couldn't stop himself.

"Montgomery. But... most people call me Scotty."

The vampire seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head and shrugged.

"Nah, I prefer tidbit."

Scotty gave up.

"Fine. Whatever. Just... leave this church, will ye?"

The vampire sighed.

"Listen, my home has been destroyed by your oh-so-perfect priests, because they built a holy treasury in my cave. So? I've gotta find a new place to live. And this is it."

Scotty blinked in surprise. The trainees had been told about the treasury, but... Pike had said that no animals had lived inside that cave. Maybe... the vampire had stayed hidden?

"But-"

"You want me to leave, tidbit?" The vampire moved his face closer to Scotty's again. "Make me!"

Only a second later, he turned into a bat once more, flew upside and landed on a stone bar.

Scotty looked after the creature.

"Alright, uhm, what's yer name?"

"Khan."

The voice had come from upwards, but the bat hadn't moved its mouth.

"Alright, Khan, I will make ye leave!"

It was a promise. A promise Scotty would keep.

If this stubborn vampire didn't want to be saved, then the Scotsman had to force him.

[dark-breakers]

Shattered Star Chapter 21

"Here we are! Welcome to the Rebellion," Gibbous said as he, Lunar, and Eclipse got out of the purple magic circle that had stopped glowing.

"Woah..." Lunar said as he looked around.

The camp had seven tents, a bonfire area, a flag that had Lord Eclipse's symbol on it crossed out with a bright blue X.

The first tent was blue and yellow that seemed to clearly belong to Gibbous.

"Home sweet home," Gibbous said as he went into the tent.

The second tent was blue, white, and brown that was a bit smaller than the other ones.

"Whose tent is that one?" Eclipse asked as he held onto the straps of his new yellow and burgundy red backpack that held the blanket from before in it.

"That one was... Caden's..." Gibbous replied with a sad tone as he emerged from the tent into a new outfit.

He now wore a blue vest, a white collared shirt, a pair of black pants, and a pair of brown combat boots, but still kept his nightcap on.

"Who's Caden?" Lunar asked.

"Gibbous? Is it really you?" a male voice that both Eclipse and Lunar found familiar asked.

They looked to where the voice came from and saw someone coming out of an orange and blue tent.

Both of their eyes widened as they realized this was another Glamrock Freddy.

He had the same bright orange and light yellow skin, blue eyes, white teeth and fangs, red shins, and red tongue as the original but also had vertical scars on both of his eyes.

He wore a black fedora with a blue ribbon tied around it, a blue bow tie, a pair of large blue shoulder pauldrons, a pair of black and white spiked bracelets, a blue hoop earring in his right ear, and blue and white face paint.

"I'm here, Ford," Gibbous replied with a smile.

Ford smiled back and rushed to the group.

He then lifted Gibbous effortlessly and embraced him in what seemed to be a gesture of love.

"I thought I lost you, too," Ford said as tears began to fall from his eyes.

"Should we..." Eclipse trailed off.

Ford and Gibbous blushed in embarrassment as Ford put Gibbous back down on the ground.

"S-sorry, you two," Gibbous stuttered as he straightened his sleeves. "Ford, this is Eclipse and Lunar. Eclipse, Lunar, this is Ford Fazbear, one of the Rebellion's best fighters."

"Hiya!" Lunar said as he held his hand out.

Eclipse merely waved his hand as Ford shook Lunar's.

"Thank you for saving Gibbous. I don't know how I can ever thank you enough," Ford said with a smile as someone came out of a yellow and green tent.

"Well... you could help us save our brother Sunny," Lunar said.

"Who the hell are these two?" a male voice asked as he walked up to the group.

Lunar smiled and Eclipse flinched as they saw it was another Montgomery Gator.

He had the same green and light green skin with black spots all over it, white teeth and fangs, red eyes, red mohawk, pink tongue, and long yellow and green striped tail.

He wore a purple sleeveless jacket, a pair of purple scale-textured pants, a black belt with silver circular studs and a silver belt buckle, purple lightning-like paint on his muzzle, black fingerless gloves, a pair of black and white spiked bracelets, purple star-shaped sunglasses, and purple shoulder pauldrons.

"Hi! I'm Lunar! Me and my brothers are like from another dimension," Lunar said as Eclipse facepalmed.

"Another dimension? That would be impossible," the other Monty said with a growl.

"Why would it be impossible?" Eclipse asked.

"Because you made it impossible!" the other Monty yelled as he pounced at Eclipse.

Eclipse gasped and put his hands in front of his face.

Suddenly, yellow electricity appeared from his hands and it made the other Monty stop his assault.

"Maverick! The hell's going on out here?" a female voice yelled as they came out of a red and purple tent.

It was another Roxanne Wolf who had the same grey skin with lighter grey accents, long light grey hair with a green streak in it, white teeth with fangs, golden yellow eyes, and a purple tongue.

Her makeup consisted of purple lipstick, purple eyeshadow, black mascara, and red nail polish on both of her fingers and toes.

She wore a red t-shirt with a black star shaped object, a black belt with white spiky studs, a pair of purple tiger-printed jeans, a pair of black and purple tiger printed arm warmers, a gold hoop earring on her left ear, a red hoop earring on her right ear and two more red earrings on both of her ears, a pair of black bracelets with white spiky studs on both of her wrists, and a purple leather jacket with a red wolf on the back.

"Stay out of this, Riley! I'll finally get to kill the bastard who took everything from us!" Maverick yelled as he prepared to pounce at Eclipse again.

"Mavy, stop!" a male voice that sounded similar to Lunar's commanded.

Maverick did in fact stop as Lunar and Gibbous stood in front of Eclipse who was now just staring at his hands in awe.

"Lord Aibek..." Maverick trailed as the owner of the voice came out of a light blue and pink tent that seemed to be the biggest out of all of them.

[dentistsselma]

How To Choose The Right Invisalign Doctor In Bangalore? 

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[takimopharma]

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[bunni-99]

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[tejkumar-20]

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[dentistmontgomerymd]

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[imagine-darksiders]

On the Ropes - Chapter 5

Five Night’s at Freddy’s: Security Breach

Montgomery Gator X Female Reader

Summary: Monty finally gets his hatch and his room cleaned, unaware of the bond forming inextricably between you.

Tags: Fnaf, Montgomery Gator/Reader, slow burn, cleaning lady Reader, female reader, sentient animatronics, friends to lovers.

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

Or you can read it here, on AO3.

---

Montgomery Gator had expected pain.

He'd expected you to do something wrong, pull a wire, or spill a liquid all over his insides. Hell, he half expected to simply turn on you for little to no reason, only to wake up later with your hand clenched between his teeth and a look of abject terror in your eyes.

All of this he expects, because his trepidation is well-founded.

Those things have happened before, so what's to stop them from happening again?

However, what he hadn't expected – what really flummoxed him – was that a human's touch could be so, astonishingly gentle.

Chica and Roxy had been right. Getting cleaned isn't an altogether unpleasant experience at all – not that he'd ever dream of telling them that aloud. He's just glad to at last know what all the fuss was about.

Mesmerised, he sits ramrod straight on his couch, barely able to pinpoint your hands as they move around inside his hatch and carefully scrub away layers of cake and icing from his wires, circuits and metal framework.

Even had he known nothing of your background, he would still be able to tell within seconds that you have the hands of a manual labourer.

Years of hard work have worn rough, weathered calluses into your palms and fingertips, each of which create a strange, prickling sensation when they drag up and down his chest cavity with gentle yet practiced strokes.

And funnily enough, Monty isn't sure that he hates the feeling as much as he'd like to.

After countless, trying months, he finally feels like he can just... relax...

“How're you doing up there?”

Monty's body gives a sudden jerk at the sound of your muffled voice filtering out of his chest and he throws his optics open, wondering when in the world he'd let them slip shut.

Your hands falls still inside him, and he cranes his neck down to see you retrieve your head from his hatch, your lip caught between your teeth.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” you ask as you straighten up, twisting a cloth between your fingers.

One of the animatronic's eyebrows clicks higher up his forehead. “What?”

“You flinched,” you reiterate cautiously, eyeing the teeth that hang just a few inches above you, “I... thought I'd pulled a wire loose, or something.”

Ah. Perhaps your expectations aren’t miles away from his own. Glancing askance, Monty expels a redundant puff of air through his nostrils.

He is not about to tell you that you'd caught him off guard and made him jump, merely by asking a question, no less.

“Yer fine,” he huffs instead, glowering at the window.

For a few, terse seconds you continue to watch him closely before you lift your shoulder in a half shrug and duck back into his chest, instantly moving to pluck out a stubborn strand of confetti that must have been left from the party.

Either that, or whoever had cleaned him last did a terrible job.

Even without the layers of cake, his internal framework is littered with the remnants of parties gone by.

Confetti, the trails of a party popper, silly string... it's all stuck behind or underneath his wiring, some of which are nigh-impossible to get at with your fingers, and you suddenly find yourself wishing you hadn't left your tweezers in the locker downstairs.

You aren't especially content to be stuck halfway inside the chest cavity of a bad-tempered animatronic, but whatever discomfort had lingered over you like a dark cloud, soon vanished, replaced by satisfaction at seeing the results of your effort come away with every rinse of your cloth.

There's a tub of warm water sitting beside Montgomery's feet, though the liquid inside it is considerably more pink than it had been when you started, while there's significantly less cake gumming up his insides.

Once again, you let out a little breath and pull yourself from the back of Monty's hatch, dropping your cloth into the tub and rinsing it out, twisting the sopping fabric between your fists to ensure that most of the water has been wrung from it.

You'll be no good to him if you get yourself electrocuted.

Monty is loathe to acknowledge the impatience gnawing at his CPU, not for you to finish cleaning him, but for you to continue cleaning him. The last rung of his tail keeps thudding loudly on the couch, and he finds himself cursing the engineer who programmed him to simulate embarrassment.

He didn't know that human contact could be... nice...

When the mechanics handle him, he's always offline, and after his regular maintenance checks, he's usually left in a state of discomfort, like something hasn't been put back quite the way it should have been.

And then there are those few children who aren't afraid to interact with him - those with sticky hands that leave marks and residue all over his finish, and they're usually at the age where they haven't yet been taught not to grab at things.

He loves kids. Hell, he's fairly sure that even if he hadn't had it programmed directly into his CPU, he'd still love them.

But there's something very different about having a child roughly snatch his sunglasses from his snout, and having somebody treat him as though he deserves a gentler touch, something he didn't even know he's been lacking.

“Nearly done,” you tell him, garnering his full attention once more as you stick your arms back inside his hatch.

He merely offers you a vague grunt in response, valiantly ignoring the twinge of disappointment that shoots through him at hearing you're almost finished, though it's quick to fade once your cloth begins digging icing sugar out of the seams where his chest and stomach would connect.

Monty's jaw snaps shut just before an honest-to-goodness purr can escape his throat.

'Get a hold of yourself,' he thinks, reprimanding his own voice box as he sees you pull an arm from his cavity and hold it blindly out towards the box.

“Hey, you mind handing me that yellow bottle, and a dry cloth?”

With a blink, he twists his head around and eyes the products inside the tub before heaving a mental shrug and stretching out an arm, deftly swiping the neck of an almost empty, yellow spray-bottle and holding it up in front of his face, peering down at the label.

“Uhh, 'Multi-purpose cleaning spray?” he reads, squinting harder at some of the smaller writing, “...'Lemon?'”

“That's the one!”

Monty places it in your proffered hand, snatching up a cloth from the box afterwards and dropping that into your palm as well, earning a cheery, “Thanks!” for his efforts.

He has to stifle the pleased hum he nearly lets slip.

You swiftly bring the items inside his hatch and chirp, “A couple spritz of this stuff, and hopefully we can stop you smelling like a bakery for the rest of the week.”

“So, you're gonna make me stink of a sour fruit instead?” he quips, slouching backwards and spreading his arms over the top of the couch.

There's a pause from his chest. Then, your voice reaches his audials again, significantly more subdued than before. “Sorry. I can leave it as it is, if you want? The mess is gone... I just... figured lemon smelled cleaner than cake.”

The gator's snout crinkles with a wince. He did sound a little accusing...

He's been reading human vocal patterns for long enough to tell that there's the barest hint of a tremble in your tone.

You're still afraid of him.

“Nah, go ahead,” he tells you gruffly, staring down his reflection in the window, “You're the expert.”

He feels the gentle 'tap,' 'tap,' 'tap,' of a finger against the floor of his hatch as you mull over his words. Evidently, you must decide that it's safe to proceed.

Monty's head cocks to one side upon hearing the soft sound of the spray bottle, and a moment later, the dry cloth is pressed delicately to the rear of his frame, sweeping back and forth across the metal casing in long, soothing strokes that force his optics to flicker offline.

Beside him, his tail begins to thump insistently against the couch cushion and he peels his eyes open again, letting out a vexed grunt and pinning the wriggling appendage down with his hand.

Another second passes before he hears you hesitantly ask, “What was that?”

What, indeed. An embarrassing reaction to positive stimuli? His tail wagging like a dog with a bone? How can he say that out loud without looking like a fool?

Digging his claws into his tail's casing to keep the appendage still, he snaps his fangs together, growling out, “Nothin'.”

Inside Monty's hatch, you ease your jaws apart and hiss a steadying breath from between them. Every grunt and growl he emits would set your teeth on edge in the best of circumstances, but whilst your head is currently shoved inside his chest cavity, each sound from the animatronic is amplified. A grunt thumps brusquely through your ears. A growl seems more like a rumble of thunder...

You have to remind yourself that you offered to do this for him.

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you angle the spray-bottle at the cloth in your hands, giving the lever another few pumps and feeling your nose burn as a strong whiff of the lemon scented liquid fills the animatronic's hatch.

Muscling down a sneeze, you make quick work of the metal inside, dousing it in cleaner until it sparkles, a far cry from how it had looked when he first opened it up.

“Okay, I think you're good!” you announce, pulling yourself away from the gator and stretching out your spine, “How does that feel?”

The animatronic chuffs as he picks himself up off the couch and rises to his feet, slotting his chest and stomach back together and sealing the hatch with a decisive click.

For several, long seconds, he doesn't say a word, and the quiet sends your pulse skyrocketing before he at last lets out a soft, “Huh...”

The vague sound does little to clue you in on his satisfaction, but still, you wait in cautious apprehension whilst he twists his torso first to the right, then all the way to the left, head cocked to one side in concentration.

After apparently reaching some sort of verdict, Monty faces you once more, a quizzical frown marring his expression.

For a terrifying moment, you're sure you've done something wrong.

“It feels... better,” he admits with a huff of surprise.

And shockingly enough for the animatronic, it really does.

The awful stickiness that had clung to his frame and sensitive wiring is completely gone, allowing his parts to slide smoothly over one another again without resistance, and the uncomfortable twinges he's been putting up with for several weeks now have all but vanished.

Giving you an appraising glance, he stretches his lips into a lopsided grin and adds, “Better than it's felt in a long time.”

At his approval, your heart stops thrashing in its cage.

The smile he's giving you is nearly a match for the one in his poster on the wall, lazy and puckish. You find it suits him far more than an angry snarl.

“See? Told you nothing bad would happen,” you retort as you step around him and start placing all the products back inside the plastic box, allowing him a few moments to give his torso several more experimental twists and turns.

Clicking your tongue, you rub your fingers together and scratch at the back of your hand. It would appear you won't be leaving Monty's green room without suffering some damage after all, superficial though it may be. Having decided to forgo rubber gloves, the cleaning products have left the skin on your hands irritated, blotchy and tingling from the chemicals.

No matter though.

With a job well-done, you can't bring yourself to mind much.

You've had worse, after all.

Shoving determinedly past the stinging sensation, you're about to spin on your heel, ready and willing to tackle the rest of Montgomery's room, when all of a sudden, you abruptly find your wrist nabbed by large, green fingers that freeze the blood in your veins, killing your optimism dead.

Whipping your head up, you have to bite on the inside of a cheek to hold back your yelp when Monty lowers his snout towards your captured appendage and stares at it over his star-shaped glasses.

“This 'cause you didn't wear the gloves?” he rumbles, inspecting the minuscule rashes that are speckled across your fingers.

Belatedly, you realise that he hasn't grabbed you because of a lost temper.

He's only asking you a question.

“Well, yes,” you admit warily, hastening to add, “But it's nothing I haven't dealt with before.”

The corners of his mouth slowly draw down. “S'it hurt?”

You're taken aback by how genuine his question seems, nothing at all like the reluctant, mechanical suggestion you'd received earlier after you sliced your finger open.

The words, “No, I'm fine,” topple off your lips automatically, as if you were always born to say them, no matter the context.

“Hm...” A rumbling hum builds in his throat as he subjects your hand to his unrelenting stare. After a moment or two though, his aperture pupils expand and he raises his head, expelling a hot gust of lemon-scented air over your face. “Good.”

You aren't given a moment to feel pleasantly surprised by the unexpected, near-human display of compassion because all at once, with a 'click,' his crimson eyes snap open wide and he reels back, promptly dropping your hand as though it had burned him.

“Uh, I mean, it's good 'cause, err...” He nearly fries his CPU rushing to come up with a reasonable explanation for the intrusion of fondness. “I just... don't want to give 'em another reason to yell at me, y'know?”

It would be easy to pretend that you don't know what he means, but it's no secret that the animatronic has drawn the ire of many an employee or guest for all manner of reasons.

You've been privy to a few instances from afar whilst you clean – an invisible, ignorable shadow at the back of the room, listening as the gator is reprimanded, sometimes by a parent whose child he'd allegedly frightened, sometimes by a security guard who would tremble as they tell him he can't keep breaking things because its costing the company too much money.

Perhaps he deserves a few telling-offs every now and again, like most people do.

But to be rebuked and rapped over the knuckles for every, trifling fault? That would wear even the toughest person down to their knees eventually, be they animatronic, or human.

You can't find it in you to blame the gator for his bitter tone.

“Don't worry,” you say, and Monty has to fight the knee-jerk reaction to insist that he does not worry, before you continue, “They're not going to yell at you. You've been very helpful all evening, and I'll be sure to pass that along.”

The animatronic is ashamed of how easily hope slithers its way into his systems.

He gives himself a quick shake, as if he can physically dislodge the bright, little sliver of hope before it can wrap its tender hands around his core.

Lifting a clawed hand, he scratches at the back of his neck and grumbles, “Yeah. Well, I ain't been that helpful yet.” Hesitating, he gestures vaguely at the room around him. “Could be though, if you got somethin' you need me to do.”

“Oh, you don't have to help me, Montgomery,” you point out, ambling away from him and marching towards the garish, blue arcade machine that has been tugged from its corner, leaving the wires connected to the wall stretched taut, threatening to snap with just the tiniest pressure. “It's my job.”

Monty curls his lip in response and he prowls up to you, hovering over your shoulder as you plant your hands on your hips and frown at the arcade game. “Well, maybe I wanna help,” he challenges, earning himself a look of unabashed shock.

“Yeah?”

Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his snout away from you and retorts, “S'why I'm offerin', ain't it?”

It's difficult not to stare at him in bewilderment. It occurs to you, belatedly, that you may need to have a word with the mechanics, because what you've seen and what you've been told are not in any way consistent with one another.

Regardless, you're not about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, even if this particular mouth is filled with rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.

“Okay, well, if you really don't mind –“ You wave a hand at the arcade machine with 'Monty's Mini-Golf' plastered in bold red letters all over its surface. “- This needs pushing back against the wall.”

After a second, you hastily tack on, “Please.”

The animatronic swings his head around to study you from the corner of one, luminous eye before it swivels forwards again.

Rolling his shoulders, he steps right up to the game and slides his arms around it to grasp its edges, planting one, bulging bicep against the front of it. Then, after checking over a shoulder to see if you're still watching, he gives the whole thing an almighty push, digging his feet into the carpet and sliding the machine backwards towards the wall, his fangs cinched shut to silence a grunt of exertion.

Taken aback, you stare agog at the herculean display.

With a final shove, Monty has the machine back in its rightful place in the corner of his room, safely out of the way.

“Wow. You are, like, crazy strong!” you commend as he lumbers around to face you, half impressed, half perturbed at the reminder that you're alone with an animatronic who could break you like a china doll.

If the gator's chest could puff out any further, you'd worry he might explode. “Well,” he chuckles, scratching at his muzzle, “Maybe I just ain't felt this fresh in months.”

You deem his mood safe enough that you can join in on it, pushing out your own, little laugh. “Ha! Months? Don't they give you a clean like, every week?”

“Beats me. I don't know what they do to me durin' weekly checks.”

Moving away from the arcade machine, you stoop over a cardboard cutout of some bullrushes when his words suddenly register with you, giving you pause for several seconds whilst you crank your head around to smirk up at him. “You don't know what they do to you? What d'you forget to pay attention or something?”

“Kinda hard to pay attention when you're offline,” he drawls back snidely.

“They take you guys offline to do maintenance checks? That seems...” You hesitate, casting your mind about for the right word, eventually settling on, “..unnecessary.”

He snorts as he moves around you to grab his yellow bass guitar, grimacing at the scratch he must have left in its paint as he lays it carefully on his desk, “What d'you mean, 'you guys?' You think they take the others offline too?”

“Well, I assume they'd-...” Your sentence trails off at once, melting into silence.

A cold, uncomfortable comprehension settles over you, and you avert your eyes, placing the cutout upright against the wall and uttering a timid, “Oh.”

Careful not to look at Montgomery, you rove an eye around his room, frowning down at the tiny, glittering mirror shards that still lay strewn about the carpet.

There's something inherently uncomfortable about learning that Monty is taken offline for maintenance whilst his bandmates are allowed to retain their autonomy.

“That doesn't seem fair” You turn to face the animatronic and find him standing closer than he was before, staring at you with an unreadable look plastered across his elongated face. Undeterred, you ask, “How would anyone know that something's wrong if you couldn't tell them about it?”

In response, the gator scoffs and crosses his arms. “You think they'd give a damn?”

“Well, surely there must be someone who does?” you press, “I mean, there's enough staff here to build a small army, odds are there's at least one person who gets along with you?”

“I get on with Roxy, n' Chica,” he grumbles, stalking past you to the mirror frame and glaring down at it for a moment before he begrudgingly adds, “And... Freddy too, I guess. Even if he's a wuss.”

Nodding, you decide to follow his lead and cast your gaze about, searching for the next object that needs clearing up. “Okay, you're friends with your band, and that's great,” you tell him honestly, “But I was talking about humans. Don't any of them like you enough to care about what happens to you?”

“Nope.”

You can't tell whether he's being deliberately petulant, or if he's actually telling the truth. You know the gator has a bad reputation, but even a low-ranking cleaning lady like you has friends here, it seems strange that one of the main cast has nobody he can turn to.

Pursing your lips, you grab a small, golden figurine laying on the ground and place it neatly at the centre of his table, asking, “What about you? Is there a member of staff you like?”

The bark of laughter he throws across the room says otherwise.

Rolling your eyes, you rephrase the question. “Fine. Is there anyone you tolerate then?”

Monty remains stubbornly silent as he grabs the edges of the mirror frame and heaves it up over his desk to hang it back on the wall fixings. All the while, you patiently continue to pick up loose objects, predominantly an array of soft toys that bear a striking - if not adorable - resemblance to the gator they're meant to portray.

There are four of them, in total, you take a moment to position each one carefully on his righted couch, save for the last, which you keep a hold of as you throw a surreptitious glance towards the animatronic, only to find that he's finished with the mirror frame and has turned around to watch you, his jaws working open and shut several times, as if he wants to tell you something.

“S'you,” he says, his voice box so thick with static that you can't quite understand him.

With the Monty toy still clutched in your hands, you furrow your brow at him. “Come again?”

Sharp claws dig like nails into his palms and he forces himself to meet your eye.

“There's you.”

A pin could have dropped to the carpeted floor and you'd probably be able to hear its gentle tinkling.

Monty watches you for a moment, his fists clenching even tighter until the metal frame creaks in protest while you merely gape back at him, wide-eyed. Eventually though, the animatronic raises a hand to scratch behind his mohawk and drops optics to the carpet, mumbling through gritted teeth, “I guess I... tolerate you, or whatever.”

At last, you blink, giving your head a little shake.

Well...

That's hardly the answer you'd been expecting.

“Me?” you laugh incredulously, placing a hand on your chest, “But we only met like, an hour ago, I hardly think-”

“- Three times.”

Falling abruptly silent, you give a few, rapid blinks, your expression turning quizzical. “What?”

“You've thanked me three times already,” he explains slowly, inching closer with a small step.

You knead your hands into the fabric of your skirt, never once taking your eyes off him. “Oh. I'm... sorry? I can stop if-”

“-No!” The gator lurches forwards another step, throwing a hand out towards you, only to freeze when you flinch away from him.

For some time, neither of you move.

Then, ever so slowly, Montgomery begins to lower his hand.

“No,” he continues in a far quieter voice, “You don't gotta stop. It doesn't bother me.”

Wetting your lips, you risk a brief glance around the room, as if something inside it will lend you the words to respond with. “Is... that why you tolerate me?” you ask, grimacing at the crack in your voice, “Just because I thanked you a few times?”

All at once, Monty's gaze hardens and his optics seem to burn with an underlying ferocity as he stares at you, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “You don't understand... We don't get 'thank-you's.' Not from anybody else, 'cept ourselves.”

“Ourselves?” you echo, “You mean, you and the other animatronics?”

“Yeah. Freddy gets 'em, mostly. Not enough, for all he does for this place. Says it don't bother him or Chica like it does Roxy and me, but you should'a seen his EMF field when you said you appreciated him invitin' you to Jazzercise.”

You watch his chest rise and fall with an eerily human quality that would have made you balk if you weren't already so on edge. And yet, you aren't inclined to interrupt. This is probably the most he's ever said to you. Hell, to anybody, for that matter.

Clearing his throat, he thrusts his chin out and subjects you to a stern glare. “So, er.. Yeah, don't you stop sayin' it now. Not if you want me to keep on toleratin' you, y'hear?”

You can't help but feel that he's giving you a thinly-veiled threat, but bemused, you respond at once. “Loud and clear.”

“Hrn. Good.”

It takes several, quiet moments before Monty sees your face light up with a hesitant, yet genuine smile. For a selfish instant, he basks in it, the knowledge that he'd put it there. Inevitably, however, he realises that he's grinning right back at you, and immediately hurries to schools his expression into something vaguely impatient, raising an arm and coughing into his closed fist. “So, uh, we gonna finish cleanin' my room or what?”

The change of topic, though brusque and clumsy, puts a hesitant smile back on your face and you pry your fingers away from the soft toy you still have clutched between them, throwing it a quick apology for the crushing grip.

“Good idea,” you nod, sucking in a lungful of air and exhaling it all in a gush, “Looks like we've got most of it cleared up. Just need to hoover the floor...”

Your loyal hoover waits patiently where you'd left it leaning against the vanity desk. After tossing the Montgomery-lookalike back onto his couch, you amble over to the hoover and wait for the animatronic to move aside, grabbing the plug and tugging it towards an empty socket beside the doorway. Once you've jammed it into place and made your way back to the desk, you take up the cool, metal nozzle and stoop over your hoover with one finger hovered over the green switch on its side.

Pausing, you shoot Monty a cursory glance. “You okay with loud noises?”

The look he gives you in return should have clued you in to the oncoming snark. “I'm a rockstar, lady,” he snorts derisively, levelling an unimpressed look at you, “You tell me.”

Wrinkling your brow, you huff, “Thought it best to ask,” and heave a mental shrug, flicking the switch.

With a puttering growl, the hoover shudders to life.

As you meander to and fro across his room, Montgomery collapses back down on the couch to twiddle his thumbs, waiting in silence whilst you finish dragging the clunky hoover around his room.

First, you focus on the mirror shards, all of which are swiftly and easily lifted from the floor before you find your way over to Monty's plant pot next, sweeping the nozzle over his carpet and relishing in the tinkling sound of soil hitting the metal tube as it gets sucked up and into the body of the hoover.

By the time his internal clock reads '22:45,' you drop the nozzle with a loud sigh and drag yourself over to the wall, pulling the plug and plunging the room into silence once again.

“Well, I think that about does it,” you announce, dusting off your hands and placing them on your sides, “Wouldn't you say?”

Monty pivots his head around as he gets to his feet, scanning the room with a languid expression. “Hmph,” he grunts, “It'll do.”

Cocking a hip, you open your mouth to speak, only to find yourself cut off when the room suddenly explodes with a loud ringing noise that emanates directly from your skirt and sends the animatronic's hackles straight up with an instinctive hiss.

“Dammit,” you curse, shoving a hand into your pocket and rooting around inside, “I thought I put that on silent.”

The gator's fans slow down as you pull out a mobile phone and shoot him an apologetic glance. “Sorry, you mind if I take this?”

Collecting himself at once, the animatronic shakes the aggression from his stance and tosses you a brisk nod, earning your grateful smile in response before you swipe your finger across the phone's screen and lift it up to your ear. “Uh, hello, Y/n speaking?”

With your focus elsewhere, Monty cocks his head at the device, curious.

He's seen parents and some of the staff use a phone, but he's never really seen one up close before. Its appearance is worlds away from the standard Fazwatches that all employees are 'encouraged' to wear.

Roving his optics back to your face, he watches the way your expression shifts abruptly from suspicion to relief in the blink of an eye. “Oh, Shannon!” you exclaim, letting out a breathy laugh and listening to a muffled voice on the other end of the phone for a moment. “- No, I didn't even look at the caller id... I know. Sorry...”

Montgomery stalks a little closer, tipping his chin back to peer down at the device against your ear.

The movement has you flicking your eyes up to the gator, and they widen, almost as if you've only just remembered that he's in the room with you. “Yeah,” you say carefully, turning away from him and lowering your voice, “Actually, Shan. Could we talk about him some other time. I'm with company at the moment.”

A longer pause ensues.

Suddenly, you blurt out a nervous laugh and bark, “Not that kind of company, no! He's a colleague!”

It's somewhat refreshing for Monty to be referred to as a colleague instead of a 'bot,' for once, and not by one of the other animatronics, but by a human, of all things.

Crossing his arms, he regards you in amusement as you wander around to face him again and throw your head back with a groan. “Yes, Shan. 'He.' Now, are you going to tell me why you're ringing, or do I have to hang up on you?”

The threat is met with more, muffled talking, faster than before, and far too quiet for Montgomery to make out.

After another minute, your face lights up with a smirk. “Date night?” you coo, “Where's she taking you?..... Holy hell. You're kidding. Say no more, of course I can babysit Stella. What time-?”

Babysit? Montgomery tilts his head to the side. He understands the term, of course. He just hadn't realised you worked two jobs.

“Oh.” You hesitate, sucking your teeth. “Well, I'll still be on my shift then – No, don't be daft, it's not a problem at all! She can go to the daycare while I finish up. Sunny's been dying to see her again. Won't stop pestering me about it, actually. I reckon he thinks she's my kid.”

Monty snorts and you throw him a glare. “Okay. Yeah... Okay, Shannon, I can manage. You two deserve some luxury. I'll look after Stella. Meet by the front doors at four thirty?”

Whatever 'Shannon' responds with must be an affirmative because your face softens into a warm grin. “I'll see you then... You too. And give Bianca my love, yeah? Okay, bye~!”

With a quick stab at the phone's screen, you end the call and allow your shoulders to slump, blowing a sigh out through pursed lips.

“Didn't know you had a second job,” Monty remarks, reminding you that he's standing right beside you with a smirk pulled across his jaw.

Quirking a brow at him, you emit a confused hum and reply, “I don't work two jobs? Oh! You mean the babysitting thing?”

When the animatronic nods, you wave a hand through the air with a soft laugh. “Not a job. A favour – well, not even a favour, really. I enjoy looking after Stella from time to time.”

“Stella that lady's kid?”

“Shannon's her birth mother, yeah,” you nod, glancing distractedly at your watch, “She's been a good friend to me. Helped me get out of a bad situation and move to the city, and we've been fast friends ever since.”

Monty's metaphorical ears give a twitch and he narrows his optics, raking them over your face. “Bad situation?” he hisses carefully.

“Hmm?” Tearing your eyes off the Fazwatch, you blink owlishly up at Monty until you suddenly realise what you'd let slip, feeling your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth. But, with expert composure, you peel it free and forge ahead, blustering past his question as you pivot about on your heel and grab your hoover, bustling it away towards the utility room at the back of his pad.

“I'm so sorry, Montgomery, but it's getting late, and if I don't get going now, I'll miss the bus, and god forbid I have to walk home in this weather!” In your own ears, the laugh you emit sounds strained and false, but you reach the door without the gator commenting on it, although his heavy footfalls do plod after you even when you move back and forth between the back room and the couch to hide your cleaning equipment away until you can retrieve it tomorrow.

Finished at long last, you scan your card at his front entrance and step through it, still feeling his looming presence at your back,

Monty draws to a halt just inside the door to his room. “Hey!” he calls, unable to miss the way your body stiffens before you turn to look back at him, fingers fumbling with the zip of your coat, “It's Monty.”

Your hands falls still and you seem genuinely baffled, forehead puckering as you blurt out, “Huh?”

“You keep callin' me Montgomery,” he elaborates, pretending to inspect his claws so he can avoid your eye, “But, uh... f' you want, you can call me Monty. S'just easier.”

At once, the tension melts off you like ice cream on a hot summer's day. “Okay then... Thank you, Monty,” you beam, “For helping me out tonight.”

“Yeah. Sure...” Raising a hand, he pushes his glasses further up his snout and coughs. “You know, uh, you ain't so bad. For a human.”

Flashing him a smirk, you coyly reply, “Likewise, gator.”

And with that, you spin around once more and march briskly for the exit, leaving the animatronic behind you to lean against his doorway, head thunking against the wall as a lazy smile softens his hard, jagged features.

[dental1234]

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[vampiresuns]

The Main 6 as Poetry + Other Bits of Literature That Reminds Me Of Them

[link meme voice] This is my post and I get to choose the poems

Asra

“Will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other for as long as we live?” — Walt Whitman, Song Of The Open Road

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I’ll write in waves. In skies. In my heart. You’ll never see, but you will know. I’ll be all the poets, I’ll kill them all and take each one’s place in turn, and every time love’s written in all the strands it will be to you.

But never again like this” — Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone, This Is How You Lose The Time War

“Friendship is more tragic than love. It lasts longer” — Oscar Wilde

“The centre of every poem is this: I have loved you. I have had to deal with that” — Salma Deera, Letters to Medea

“If someday the moon calls you by your name don’t be surprised, Because every night I tell her about you” — Shahrazad al-Khalij

Nadia

“All palaces are temporary palaces” — Robert Montgomery

“You know, they straightened out the Mississippi river in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. “Floods” is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding: it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.” — Toni Morrison.

“We’re each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?” — Ursula K. Le Guin, “Nine Lives”

“The first desire is to feel that one is Desired, not just wanted but preferred” — J. D. McClatchy, The Dialogue of Desire and Guilt

“If I can’t have love, if I can’t find peace, give me bitter glory” — Anna Akhmatova, Rosary

“I send my soul through time and space to greet you. You will understand” —  James Elroy Flecker, To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence

Julian

"Time for you and time for me, and time yet for hundred indecisions” — T. S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

“I over came myself, the sufferer; I carried my own ashes to the mountains; I invented a brighter flame for myself” — F. Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

“To have been on earth just once — that’s irrevocable. And so we keep on going and try to realise it, try to hold it in our simple hands, in our overcrowded eyes, and in our speechless heart” — Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies; The Ninth Elegy (tr. A. Poulin, Jr.)

(have I been walking in circles again?) — Margaret Atwood, Journey To The Interior

“Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt–marvellous error!– that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures” — Antonio Machado, Last night as I was sleeping

Muriel

“I am a very boring and unpleasant man, drowned in literature... but I do love you” — Vladmir Nabokov in a letter to his wife Vera, written in 1924

“Rejoice! Our times are intolerable” — Jenny Holzer

“We disappear as stars do, soundless, without a trace” — Charles Wright, Drone And Ostinato

“You don’t want to hear the story of my life, and anyway I don’t want to tell it, I want to listen” — dogfish, mary oliver

“—the way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.” — Mary Oliver, We Should Be Well Prepared

“History is a man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of. I know history. There are many names in history but none of them are ours” — Richard Siken, Little Beast

“The consistency of hurt is what makes it so comforting” — William Nu’utupu Giles, “what do you want? it’s not that simple”

Portia

“I exist as I am, that is enough“ — Walt Whitman, Song Of Myself

“I will plant myself in the garden / I will grow I know I know I know” — Forough Farrokhzad, Another Birth

“When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?” — Ocean Vuong, On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous

“I am doing my best to not become a museum of myself. I am doing my best to breathe in and out.I am begging: Let me be lonely but not invisible“ — Natalie Diaz, American Arithmetic

  Here, we worship      the hot pot; stuff our bellies             with blessings. My auntie says—

If we’re gonna suffer,      we gotta do it over good food.

— ode to enclaves by Chrysanthemum tran (she/they)

Lucio

“Abuse of power comes as no surprise” — Jenny Holzer, Truisms

“You spit on them because the taste left of on your teeth excites. You showed hope all over your face for years and then killed them” — Jenny Holzer

“And on a pedestal, these words appear: ‘I am Ozymandias, King of Kings; look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remain” — Percy Shelley, Ozymandias

“Lucifer: It may be thou shalt be as we.

Cain: And ye?

Lucifer: Are everlasting.

Cain: Are ye happy?

Lucifer: We are mighty.

Cain: Are thou happy?

Lucifer: No. Art thou?” — Lord Byron, Cain

“Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens” — Robert Montgomery

[pascalispretty]

As Yet Unsaid

Frederick Chilton x Female Reader

Rating: Teen 

Warnings: Mention of nudity, that’s about it. 

Summary: Frederick spends a Saturday morning in bed, attempting his crossword puzzle while you sleep next to him. Unfortunately, he gets a little distracted. 

Happy Valentine’s Day to @lannister-slings-and-arrows​. You have her to thank for this tooth-rotting fluff. (ao3). 

The first time that Frederick had gone to view the property, tucked away at the end of Montgomery Avenue, he had known that it was the one for him.

Not just because of the location- close enough to Baltimore that he didn’t have far to travel for work, or social events in the city, but far enough away that a lush, verdant wall of foliage cut the property off from any hustle and bustle.

Nor had the lure been in the wine cellar tucked discreetly on the lower level, or the elegant sweep of the spiral staircase, though he greatly appreciated both features. The thing that had drawn Fred the most to the house he now occupied had been the windows.

There truly was an abundance of windows, allowing sunlight to pour in. After spending so much of his day at the hospital, with its dim hallways, and thrumming fluorescent lights that gave him headaches and made his eyes hurt, coming home to so much natural light made it easier to separate his home from his work.

Fred was particularly thankful for the windows that morning. He had woken slowly, still half asleep as he reluctantly slid out of bed in search of coffee. It was only when he had returned, cup in one hand and New York Times tucked under his arm, and pulled the curtains back that he realised how pretty you looked in the late morning light.

You were still fast asleep, still lying on your side from where Fred had been curled around you as you slept. You were bathed in the sunlight that poured through the windows, looking so peaceful and relaxed that Fred was half-tempted to abandon the paper for now and wrap himself around you to try and go back to sleep again.

Instead, he slides into bed beside you, taking a sip of his coffee before setting it on his bedside table. Your back is to him, your bare shoulder just peeking out from beneath the covers. His eyes lingered, all too aware that you were naked under the sheets, claiming that he ran too hot for you to want to put pyjamas on. 

Fred sets the paper in his lap, and leans forward carefully until his lips just barely brush your shoulder. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to waking up to you, to spending whole weekends with you, to your presence adding much needed warmth to his house. His home. 

When he straightens up again, he plucks the Montblanc pen off his bedside table and flips straight to the crossword. His weekends almost always start with coffee and the crossword, except on the rare occasions that you wake up before him and are in the mood for something less staid and more sportive to start your Saturday with. 

While you sleep steadily on, Fred fills in the blank squares, occasionally tapping the pen thoughtfully against his lips while he considers his next move. Some of the answers come easily- really, who doesn’t know the name of the estate in Gone With the Wind?- while some require a little more thought. 

It’s not until he gets to seven down that he gets stuck. 

The coffee is almost all gone, and were he not so comfortable, he’d consider getting up to fetch another cup. He has one letter, an ‘A’ in the penultimate square, but none of the words he can think of have an ‘A’ in that place. 

Even after he’s put it aside, and swept through a dozen other clues, his eyes keep returning to the empty squares of seven down. It frustrates his perfectionism to leave it blank, and he’s far too proud to look up the answer on his phone. 

You shift in your sleep beside him, and Fred finds himself staring at the curve of your bare shoulder as though the clue he’s seeking might be hidden on there somewhere. Without thinking, he rests the very tips of his fingers against your shoulder blade, almost as if to convince himself that you’re really here, tucked into bed with him. 

He had more or less resigned himself to bachelorhood, yet you had been a very welcome interruption. If having you here spending the weekend with him and sleeping beside him, means he can’t mutter to himself or listen to Handel while he does the crossword, he’ll consider it a very small price to pay.  

When Fred pulls his fingers away, he realises he had still been holding his pen. A little black line, barely a half inch long, has been left against the smooth skin of your shoulder by the accidental slip of his pen. 

He glances back at the crossword, at the clue he’s wrestling with, before looking back at you. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, he leans forward and gently turns the inked line on your back into a love heart.

The psychiatrist in Frederick wants to examine the gesture, to pull it apart and dissect it; is he drawing on you as a desire to mark you? Has he chosen a heart because he knows he loves you, but he’s reluctant to admit it to you just yet? The frustrated crossword enthusiast in him puts it down to idle doodling while he tries to figure out the elusive seven down. 

Beside the first, he finds himself adding another heart, slightly smaller this time. He freezes when you shift, the nib of the pen still pressed at the point of the heart. To his relief, you’re not waking up yet; just getting comfortable, your legs bumping against his under the sheets as you rearrange yourself a little. 

He waits a few minutes, just to confirm that you’re still asleep, and then goes back to his doodling. Part of him is tempted to attempt an anatomically correct heart, a stark reminder of his undergrad days at Harvard, copying the diagram out of a page of Grey’s. He resists the urge- you might not be best pleased by the little heart-shaped doodles when you wake, much less by an anatomically correct one.

Seven down still eludes him, the word he’s looking for right on the tip of his tongue. If you were awake, he’d ask you. He knows he’s seen it recently, and that only frustrates him more. 

By the time it comes to him, you have a little constellation across your shoulder blade, a whorl of carefully inked love hearts outlined on your skin. Frederick can’t help himself; he bows his head again to press his lips against your shoulder. 

He nuzzles a little closer, drawn in irrepressibly by how good you smell. Something unmistakably you, it lingers on his sheets long after you’ve left and finds him pressing his face against the pillow you’d used when you’re unable to spend the night. It’s only accented by your perfume, and the sweet smelling shampoo you use- 

Frederick sits bolt upright in bed, scrambling for the paper that he had let go of to kiss you. You stir sleepily beside him, but he’s too busy scribbling in the answer to notice. 

“Fred?” You ask, your voice still thick with sleep as you turn slightly to face him. 

“Argan! I knew I’d seen it somewhere. ‘An evergreen tree known for its oil’.” He crows, more to himself than to explain anything to you. With seven down filled in at last, he can finally put down a definite answer for five across, and more solutions slot into place. 

You roll your eyes affectionately at him once you realise his excitement was due to a crossword clue. 

“I’m going downstairs to grab a drink, and then shall we watch TV in bed for a bit?” You ask, trying to stifle a yawn. One of Fred’s luxurious robes is hanging off the back of the bedroom door, and you go to slip it off the hook. 

“Whatever you like.” Fred beams at you, though you’re sure it’s more to do with his glee at finishing the puzzle- in ink, no less- than anything you’ve done. As you tug on the robe, you happen to catch a glance of yourself in the mirror, and you freeze when you spot what looks like a dark smudge by your shoulder. 

Frowning, you step closer to the mirror for a better look, only to realise that it’s not a smudge at all. While you slept, Frederick has drawn love hearts across your shoulder. You peek up at him, but he’s still engrossed in the paper; he hasn’t noticed that you’ve spotted them. 

Your stomach swoops at the sweetness of the gesture. Frederick had undoubtedly come across as an asshole when you had first met him; you were glad you had decided to press past that awkward first impression. Deciding not to draw his attention to it, you smile to yourself as you slip out of the room, still covered in the love hearts Fred had left behind. 

[ratchedspeach]

An Ever Fixed-Mark | READ ON AO3

a quick little character study about everyone’s favorite problematic duo. CW for alcohol and tobacco use. Other than that, angst abound, and not much else. Enjoy!

“I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

“How can you not feel like yourself when you don’t even know who you are?”

It’s a rare, unexpected omission - one which Cordelia Goode had not been prepared for, but her mother, apparently, had. Cordelia doesn’t look at Fiona, her eyes stay trained on a spot on the cement wall. Still, she can feel the smoke spiraling off her cigarette, and the satisfied smirk playing her mother’s features. Cordelia’s thumb worries against an ash leaf, tracing the veins and soft flesh of the plant all the way to its stem.

“I could have done without your opinion, mother.”

Fiona grunts. “Then might I suggest not saying it out loud?” She says, smoke steaming between her teeth like a serpent.

Cordelia’s thumb stops. Ash: strength, power, protector of youth, she thinks. The sapling dies - shrivels and rots in a matter of seconds. Fiona tuts, brushing past her daughter and taking the pot in her hands.

“Oh Delia,” she simpers, “always so dramatic.”

The plant hits the wastebasket with a dull thud. Cordelia thinks it should make her flinch, thinks she should feel anger, or contempt, or goddamnit something, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t, and she knows that should scare her, but it doesn’t, either.

It scares Fiona, though.

Not that she’d ever admit to it - fear is too weak, too fragile an imbalance. No, Fiona will not bend to it. She straightens her back, lips curling into something akin to a snarl as she presses the stub of her cigarette into the soft soil of another pot. Even this offense against her daughter’s most prized possessions does not faze Cordelia; and so it is that Fiona’s hand is forced.

“I need a drink; smells like shit down here.” Fiona mutters, spinning on her heels, before calling over her shoulder. “I’m not gonna drink alone.”

Fiona has never waited for an invitation to open (or finish, for that matter) a bottle of liquor, nor can Cordelia recall a time when she has been invited to join in on her nightly escapade. Were Cordelia more at home in herself, the statement would strike her as uncharacteristic. But she isn’t, and she doesn’t, so instead she merely follows her mother up the stairs into the great hall of the Academy. It’s still bright out: light pools through windows and between the crevices of the front door. Dust speckles and shimmers like snow in the air, but all Cordelia can fathom is that she should add vacuuming to the chore list. Fiona is in the study pulling the cork out of a particularly old bottle of rye; one which Cordelia is certain she’s never seen before.

“Well, are you joining me, or are you just gonna watch?” Fiona snaps as she pours the dark liquid into the second crystal glass.

Cordelia surges into motion, practically sending the whiskey sloshing onto the carpet in the fervency with which she picks it up. She stares at her mother, who stares at her own glass, and bristles under the intentness of her daughter’s pooling eyes. When Fiona finally meets her gaze, she thinks Cordelia looks like a child searching for permission. It’s not an uncommon thought for her to have about her daughter, but it strikes something in her which Fiona doesn’t expect - a sort of warmth that trickles into her stomach and burns. And so they are forced into a stalemate of sorts; each woman uncertain and protecting a secret of their own, each completely dependent on the other for their next move. It will be Fiona who acts first (as it often is), bringing the glass to her lips and swallowing the double shot in a single, unceremonious gulp. Cordelia looks at her own whiskey and licks her lips before following suit. She does not finish it, a fact which she is certain Fiona adds to the ongoing tally of reasons the woman simply could not be her own daughter.

“It’s good.” Cordelia rasps against the burning in her throat.

It isn’t a lie, though. The alcohol, though practically strong enough to make her breath fire, holds a distinct sweetness which she hadn’t expected - a smooth, buttery aftertaste that lingers on the insides of her mouth and coats her throat. She doesn’t hate it, and, well, that’s something.

Fiona pours herself another glass before gliding over to the couch and sitting. “Kentucky Whiskey. Been in this Coven since … Christ, at least since I was a kid.”

“I’ve never seen it before.” Cordelia mumbles, chancing another sip.

“Anna Leigh caught me in the liquor cabinet - yelled at me until the little gargoyle was practically blue in the face; something about finishing a three thousand bottle of tequila.” Cordelia can’t help but giggle. “She charmed the more expensive bottles in the coven’s possession after that. Only the Supreme can access them now.”

“Sounds about right.” Cordelia snorts, bringing the glass level with her eyes and studying its contents.

The whiskey is amber in color: like honey or browned butter. There’s a thickness to it, a richness even in appearance that the younger woman cannot help but marvel at.

“So,” Cordelia smiles, “how many bottles are back there, anyway?”

“Seven, I think. A couple whiskey’s, tequila that’s older than me, cognac, vodka, and a few bottles of wine.”

“Does tequila get better with age?” Cordelia’s brow furrows.

Fiona shrugs, finger tracing the rim of her glass. “Don’t know. We can try that next.”

It’s then that Cordelia realizes she is still standing, and what’s more, that were she to continue, she might topple over from the sheer volume of liquor she was about to consume. She doesn’t dare sit on the couch, Fiona having already claimed that her domain. Instead, she opts for a chair opposite her mother, and perches on the edge.

“You gonna finish that?” Fiona’s eyebrows quirk towards the liquid still sloshing between her daughter’s fingers.

“Hm? Oh, yes, I —“ Cordelia stutters, bringing the whiskey to her lips and swallowing in one fell swoop.

She tries to stifle the cough as the liquor hits her throat. Fiona, on the other hand, does not stifle her laugh. Were it not for the rare quality time that she found herself sharing with Fiona, she might have commented on the crudeness of it. Cordelia’s cheeks redden, and she holds her tongue.

“We should really go to a bar.” Cordelia scolds, mostly at herself. “I don’t know that it’s right for the headmistress to be drinking on school grounds … especially with Madison -“

“Oh Christ, Delia, you don’t really still believe she’s sober, do you? I raised you better than that”

“I … what?”

Fiona rolls her eyes, pulling a pack of half-empty cigarettes out of the inside pocket of her leather jacket. She taps the carton in the palm of her hand. “That girl is about as sober as I am.”

Cordelia’s shoulder’s tense. “How would you know? Mother, you’re never here.”

“I’m the Supreme, Delia.” You’re a drunk, is what you are. “I don’t need to be here to know that this place is falling apart at the seams.”

Cordelia catches her lower lip between her teeth in order to bite back the vitriol threatening to spill off of her tongue. Fiona takes the opportunity to light her cigarette. When she inhales, the stuttering burn of tobacco seems to mock Cordelia. Foolish girl, blind, stupid child.

“Madison Montgomery has been sober for one —“

“Day? Hour?” Fiona teases.

“One month, two weeks, and twenty-four days.” Cordelia finishes with atypical confidence.

Fiona glares at her daughter for a moment, cigarette perched between her fingers. “Alright, Cordelia. Whatever you say.”

Cordelia huffs, leaning back in her chair like a petulant child. “And to think, we were starting to have a nice time, too.”

“Speak for yourself.” Fiona dabs the cigarette on the mahogany coffee table, before huffing a sigh. “Fine, if you’re so keen on getting out of here, I’ll drive —“

“No. Jesus, no. You win. We can stay.”

Fiona smirks. “Thought so.” She pours them both another drink.

Typical Delia, she thinks, always so focused on the rules. Sometimes, Fiona wonders if her daughter understands the definition of the word ‘witch’. If she does, Cordelia does little in the way of using such a gift to her advantage. I’m not drunk anyhow. And even if she was, Fiona could think of at least four ways to remedy the situation that would take little more than a flick of her tongue, or an inhale to the right part of her ribcage.

“Why are you here, Fiona?”

She isn’t shocked by the question. Christ, if anything, she’s confused why it took so long for Cordelia to ask. Still, Fiona ponders it, if for nothing else then dramatic effect. It’s true, she had shown up at Miss Robichaux’s Academy that morning unannounced. But she was the Supreme, goddamnit, who said she needed a reason to show up to her own coven?

“Why are you, Delia?” Fiona counters.

Cordelia, for her part, sets her jaw. Her cheeks tinge red, as do the rims of her practically black eyes. She pinches the skin of her left palm. She blames herself for even considering that she could get a straight answer out of her mother.

“Because you aren’t.”

Fiona rolls her eyes. “I am now.”

Cordelia shakes her head, frustration rising like bile in her throat. “But you won’t be. Not forever. This is just a blip.” And an unwelcome one, at that.

“Christ’s sake, Delia, what do you want from me?”

“I want an answer. An honest one. Why are you here?”

Fiona gives her daughter a knowing look - the kind Cordelia has seen so many times before - the kind she’s come to expect and loath. Whatever comes out of her mouth next, Cordelia knows it won’t be the truth. Not entirely at least.

“To see you.”

And oh Cordelia doesn’t mean to laugh, but she can’t help herself. It’s just too … too potently underhanded. So she does: she laughs, and hard, at that. So hard that she has to put her glass down. So hard that she thinks she might pass out. So hard that she doesn’t even realize when she starts to cry.

But cry isn’t really the right word for it.

She’s sobbing — sobbing in earnest, and she can’t stop herself. So she buckles at the waist instead, and rests her forehead on her knees, and lets herself get lost. She’s not sure why she’s crying, but Cordelia can’t help but feel a little relieved, because at least she’s not numb anymore.

Fiona pours herself one more double shot, then puts the rye back in the cabinet. She doesn’t touch Cordelia - doesn’t dare give any omission that she know she’s done this to her daughter. Yes, she has, she’s done this, and it's not the first time. Probably not the last, either. Instead she just waits for Cordelia’s wails to reduce to low whimpers, and for her back to straighter, and her hands to wipe a trail of mascara across her cheekbones.

Then, and only then, does Fiona speak: “Some headmistress.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Cordelia snarls amidst the bile rising in her throat. “You’re lying.”

Fiona scoffs: “Honestly, Delia, you’re so paranoid.”

“You aren’t here to see me. Torment me, maybe, but not see me.”

And, well, Fiona can’t argue with that. She’s not here to see her daughter. If she’s being honest with herself, she’s not sure why she’s here. To run away, maybe. To ignore her imminent death (which she still has not mentioned to Cordelia). To remind herself of where she came from — of who and what made her; and part of that puzzle is Cordelia.

It always comes back to Cordelia, doesn’t it?

“Fuck it, I’m going to bed.” Cordelia staggers on her feet.

She hadn’t realized she was drunk; the alcohol must’ve been waiting for her to exhale fully before it took effect. She has to use the banister to ascend the first flight of stairs. Her vision wobbles, her tongue is dry against her teeth. When she gets to the first landing, she stops. And there, silhouetted by the moon, Fiona sees the angel of death in her daughter.

“Do you remember the sonnet you used to read to me?”

Maybe it’s the slur in Cordelia’s voice, the promise of alcohol keeping this part of her daughter’s memory locked away, but Fiona nods. She thinks she might even smile a little.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Sonnet 116.”

Cordelia’s tongue darts across her upper lip, and she mumbles something under her breath, before adding: “Your room is made up if you plan on staying the night.”

“It is?”

There’s a pause — a deafening silence. Cordelia glares at her mother in somber resignation. “It always is.”

She ascends with her back straight and a sobriety that Fiona had not expected. Maybe she really was her daughter, after all.

“Love is not love …” Fiona says to herself, eyes trained on the fading outline of her daughter.

Her palms shake. She reaches for another cigarette.

[lokimostly]

Polaris (Ch.16/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU

Word Count: 4,466

Warnings: violence, language

Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: As promised, this chapter is entirely from Loki’s perspective! Don’t worry, we’ll get back to our debutante reader soon. For now, this is his part of the story. Let’s let him tell it.

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three  ~ Chapter Four ~  Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen ~ Chapter Fifteen

The sun was making its first appearance over the glass sea, turning the sky pink and lighting on the waves with a rosy glow. The clouds were as pale and wispy as stretched cotton. As the sunrise dimmed the map of stars above, it burned bright in the reflection of Loki’s bloodshot eyes, staring out at the waves as they turned to gold.

His hands were already blistered from rowing. The sinew of his muscles had been stretched to their limit a few hours ago, and so he had let go of the oars to hold his head in his hands instead, filled with a despair that felt larger than the ocean around him. Hot, frustrated tears fell from his eyes, more to try and soothe their dryness than to curb the aching in his chest. Perhaps it was a mix of both. It was only in raising his head to dry his eyes, blinking away the water and fatigue, that he saw the merchant ship approaching.

Loki’s brows pulled together. It was a trading company ship; not Odin’s. Rather small. The bell on deck was ringing, signaling a man overboard as they approached, and a few seconds later, a rope landed in Loki’s lap.

Several pairs of hands helped haul him over the side, pulling him onto the deck, but they were quick to leave him; Loki’s reddened eyes and haggard look gave him a frightening aura, one that the men obviously weren’t keen to hang around. He slowly straightened his posture, rolling his sore shoulders and looking down at the Captain, standing in front of him. 

Loki gave him a single glance, surveying him without much consideration. He was small and portly with receding hair, hardly intimidating– though clearly he was doing his best to look nonplussed by Loki’s sudden and unexpected arrival.

“Glad to have you aboard, sir,” he greeted, as warmly as he was able. “I’m Cap’n Montgomery, and this’s my ship The Duchess. How’d you wind up all the way out here?”

Loki didn’t answer. He stood still on the rocking deck, his posture stiff, looking out at the pale dawn sky with a hardened expression. 

Captain Montgomery waited awkwardly for his response, shifting his posture. Then he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to talk elsewhere?” He gestured to the doors that led to the Captain’s cabin.

Loki’s eyes trailed to the left, and he nodded. He followed the Captain inside, walking slow and cat-like with a look of apprehension as he stepped over the threshold. His eyes were quick in surveying the small room, unadorned by lavish decor. The only notable object of interest was the mahogany desk that Captain Montgomery sat himself behind, setting his elbows atop its surface and waiting for Loki to close the door.

He did so, and stepped over. The ship’s charter laid open-faced by the Captain’s hand, and Loki’s dark eyebrows pulled together. “Where is this vessel headed?”

Captain Montgomery’s eyebrows raised and he held out his hand in a stopping motion. “Now, hang on a minute. I have some questions to ask you first–”

Loki reached forward and spun the paper to face him, scanning the lines. “Kingston?”

The Captain’s eyes flickered. “Aye, that’s right, sir.”

Loki’s frown deepened. “That is exactly the opposite of where I need to go,” Loki muttered in annoyance.

The man shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. “Well–”

“What day is it?” Loki interrupted again, looking up at him. His gaze was sharp enough to cut glass. They might have been a different color, but when he wanted them to, Loki’s eyes could hold just as much chill as his father’s. 

The Captain blinked. “Uh– the first of August, sir.”

“What was your name again?”

“Mont– Montgomery. Captain Montgomery.”

Loki hummed shortly, leaning on the desk. He glanced back at the closed doors, then returned to the paper in front of him, running a finger over his lip in thought. The captain watched him uneasily as he stood there, still as stone, with nothing but the rocking of the ship to mark the passage of time.

Suddenly Loki reached forward and grabbed the captain by the collar, slamming his face into the mahogany and twisting his arm behind his back in one fluid motion. The Captain shouted in surprised pain, only to be silenced when Loki twisted his arm further, his lips curled in a snarl.

“Listen to me very carefully, Montgomery,” he threatened between his teeth. “It is in our mutual best interests that you take this ship to St. Thomas immediately. One more inch in the wrong direction and this arm will break. If you don’t do as I say, the same thing will happen to your neck.”

The Captain struggled fruitlessly beneath Loki’s grip, his face squashed against the desk in a contorted expression of anger. “You – you bastard!”

“Pirate,” Loki corrected, applying the slightest fraction of pressure. It was enough to make the captain gasp and pant in pain. “Do we understand each other, Montgomery?”

“It’ll–” The Captain wheezed, struggling to speak. “It’ll take more’n three days to get there. The wind… the wind’s against us.”

“Then you should bear a hand and tell your men to come around,” Loki suggested coldly, and let go of him. Captain Montgomery stood up so fast that he stumbled backwards, holding his arm and staring at Loki with frightened eyes. He darted past Loki and out of the cabin, running faster than Loki suspected he ever had in his life. Judging by his portly stature, it was probably a good thing for him. Nothing like a healthy fear of death to keep you fit.

Loki stood in the empty cabin and listened to the muted sounds of the captain shouting orders above, and he tightened his jaw, reaching into his pocket. The cold coin was there, safely stowed away. He rubbed it between his fingers, smoothing over the serpent’s pattern with the pad of his thumb. His eyes drifted to the window. Somewhere, out there, you were being held in a cell – stuck behind rusted bars while the sand in the hourglass slowly sifted through.

August the first. That meant he had until the end of the month to secure your safety, with at least four days already spent by the time he reached St. Thomas. Loki’s grip tightened on the coin. If fate had pushed you together – and he firmly believed that hit had – then fate would keep you from being pulled apart.

~

Nearly a week later, The Duchess floated into the rainy port of St. Thomas. The sun peeked out occasionally behind the clouds while it showered. It was one of those odd, rainy summer days before hurricane season where the weather couldn’t quite whip up enough energy to storm with full rage and intensity; not yet.

The sailors were still tying the small merchant ship to the dock when the gangplank dropped and Loki descended from the ship, running down the slippery wharf so fast that he nearly stumbled. He dodged the men loading crates, ducking underneath a load of lumber carried between two sailors, and climbed the cobble stairs with exhausted determination.

Home was only a few hours away, but Loki wasn’t headed there; not yet. Instead he headed up the street, doing his best to keep his tired legs from giving out underneath him. He made a right and found the corner bar, stumbling inside. This was the place you and Loki had first encountered one another, but also somewhere that he’d frequented long before your fateful meeting. The creaking floorboards beneath his feet were as familiar as the mattress of his own bed, and the heady smells of mahogany and beer reassured his senses that he was safe. Home. 

Being the middle of the day, the corner bar was totally devoid of customers. Light streamed in through the fogged windows while the building’s only occupant, the bartender, polished glasses behind the counter with monotonous repetition, glancing up only when Loki pulled himself into one of the barstools and leaned against the counter, his hair and clothes dripping wet. The only sounds were the steady shower of light rain outside and the squeak of fabric rubbed against glass.

“You’re a bit early in the day, young master,” The bartender observed curiously. The man sported a heavy accent behind his mustache, but his tone was good-natured and amiable. He was as much a part of the bar as the polished countertop and neatly lined bottles on the shelves behind him.

“I need a drink,” Loki said hoarsely, dropping his head into one hand and massaging his temples. His whole body ached, inside and out. Beating slow inside his chest, Loki’s heart weighed him down as though it was made of lead.

The glass slid down the counter and Loki caught it with his free hand: cold, polished glass with dark liquor inside. He tilted his head back and downed it in one go, setting the empty cup down on the polished wood. The bartender refilled it without asking, handing it back to him before returning to his former task. He polished the cups until they sparkled like crystal, despite the fact that they were already clean; no doubt it was a soothing, repetitive notion to help the empty afternoon hours pass by. “You ‘ere to talk, or just drink?”

Loki scoffed. “What’s there to talk about?” He asked, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them tiredly. Dull sparks floated behind his vision, signs of dehydration and an oncoming headache.

“Fair ‘nough, sir. I won’t press you.”

Loki dropped his hand and regarded the man with a flat expression. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he dropped his gaze, spinning the glass of liquor in his hand. He stared at the distorted wood pattern of the bartop through the brown liquor. 

The bartender watched him with soft, dark eyes for a moment longer before he tried again. “Is it a woman?”

“Of course it’s a woman,” Loki snapped, though his words didn’t have much bite; they never did when he was telling the truth. He thumbed the rim of the glass. “It’s the woman,” he admitted, more quietly.

The bartender nodded knowingly, tossing his rag aside and fetching a fresh one. “She leave you?” He asked, his tone conversational and unassuming, from decades of practice with discussions far more delicate than this one. 

Loki shook his head. His wet raven hair slipped past his shoulders when he did, falling in gentle waves past his ears and smelling of saltwater. “No. I lost her.” He frowned at the sudden blurriness in his eyes, downing his second glass and setting it down with a gentle thud. He sniffed. Straightened in his seat. “I’m getting her back.” Whether he said this to reassure the bartender or himself, Loki wasn’t entirely sure.

The city bell tolled out the hour, bringing him back to a state of clarity. It was later than he’d thought. Loki reached into his pocket for money to pay – and then realized he didn’t have any, apart from the serpent coin. The coin he couldn’t give away. Loki stalled, his elegant fingers still at his sides while he tried to think of a solution to this sudden dilemma. 

The bartender noticed his hesitation and extended his hand with a polite shake of his head. “You’ve been generous in the past, young master,” he stated. “I trust you’ll be back.”

Loki met his eyes. Normally he would take offense to a gesture of charity; Loki had never lacked for money, not once in his life, and he never intended to. But if he’d learnt anything from the past weeks, it was that even his best intentions didn’t guarantee the future. He met the bartender’s eyes and found them to be soft and reassuring. He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged, like it wasn’t any problem to him, taking Loki’s empty glass and polishing it alongside all the rest. “Bring your woman next time.”

Loki laughed once, humorlessly, and stood. “I will,” he promised, with a final nod of thanks before he turned his back to the bartender and walked back out towards the drenched cobblestone street, feeling renewed somehow – perhaps by the drink, though more likely by the man’s kindness. Not everyone in the world was bloodthirsty and rotten.

Not everyone in the world is a pirate, Loki thought. Of course, he considered himself a rare exception: Loki was a pirate, yes, but a reputable one. Honorable, even. However – somewhere deep in his heart – Loki was beginning to come to terms with the fact that getting you back might permanently soil that reputation. He intended to do whatever it took, however foul, even if it meant killing Vane and all his crewmen with his bare hands.

Would you be able to love him, if it came to that? If he became a murderer? Would you let him touch you with bloody hands, or would you turn away in fear and disgust?

The thought disquieted him, and he shook his head to clear the thought. Whether you hated him or not at the end of this didn’t matter, so long as you got out alive. He owed you that much. 

His seaglass eyes looked up instinctively towards the road that he knew lead home, but he turned the opposite way instead: there was still one more errand to run. 

In order for Loki to both save you and maintain a clear ledger inside his father’s business, he had to find a way to combine the two. That meant enlisting in his family’s help, while simultaneously making it look like he wasn’t involved at all. During his time floating adrift in the waves, waiting for the sunrise, Loki had surmised a plan of action. With some skill, and a great deal of luck, it would prove itself successful.

He hoped his luck hadn’t run out yet.

Loki found himself in a familiar backside alley, the entrance hidden behind empty fruit crates stacked six feet high. He stepped carefully down the narrow cobble path, wrinkling his nose at the stench of city sludge and old bathwater dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. The clotheslines above hung limp in the afternoon, the fabric heavy and wet from the rain – whoever put them out had neglected to retrieve them. He found the heavy wooden door with gold hinges and knocked, twice. Then he stepped back into the rain, no more than a light mist at this point, and waited. 

He was considering turning away when it finally opened. The man who answered the door had dark skin and eyes that shimmered like copper. His hair fell over his broad shoulders in locs, decorated with metal clasps. His face wore a stern expression that revealed exactly nothing, and he waited with one hand on the door – prepared to shut it again at a moment’s notice. “Yes?”

“Heimdall,” Loki greeted solemnly, and glanced out at the alley for listening ears.

“You don’t have an appointment.”

“This isn’t my usual business,” he explained, squinting as misty rainwater dripped down his face and clung to his eyelashes. “It’ll be quick. I only need one page; no forgings, no signatures. It just can’t be my hand.”

The dark man hesitated, gripping the door while he considered this. Loki’s clothes stuck to him, and he silently wished that Heimdall would at least let him inside, but he knew not to press the matter. Their relationship was a strictly professional one, and he knew how much he was asking. “I’ll pay twice whatever you ask,” he added.

Heimdall’s copper eyes met Loki’s, his expression still flat, and then he opened the door further. “Come in. Don’t sit. You’ll ruin the chair.”

Loki obliged, stepping in quickly. The room was dark and smelled of leather, lit only by candles and the narrow, cross-hatched windows that lined one wall. The other three sides of the small, square space were lined by bookshelves, lined with bottles, parchment, and bookkeeper’s tools. Less conspicuously, there were a few shelves full of antiquated volumes, which he knew to contain ledgers upon ledgers of signatures and scripts. A forger’s library.

Heimdall sat down at the desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell. “You’re lucky. I’m not busy today.”

Loki nodded in agreement, feeling relieved. “Yes, I know – it’s short notice.”

“So,” Heimdall began without looking, pulling a clean sheet of plain paper from the desk drawer. “This isn’t a false shipping charter, or an inventory log, or a bank note. What is it?”

“A ransom letter.” Loki regretted revealing this information the moment it left his mouth, but he had no choice – better to tell it now, rather than when Heimdall started realizing it halfway through writing and risked blotting a page.

Heimdall’s metallic eyes flitted up and he frowned at Loki, setting the quill down and leaning back in his chair. “Now, why would you want me to write that?”

Loki looked up and set his jaw, shaking his head slightly. “That, I can’t tell you.”

Heimdall regarded him silently. Whether it was judgement, scrutiny, contemplation, Loki couldn’t say for certain. Heimdall’s expression didn’t change. While Loki respected his ability to be discreet, Heimdall’s strong-and-silent personality made reading him nigh impossible. Finally, he raised one eyebrow. “It’ll cost extra.”

Loki’s mouth opened slightly and he nearly rolled his eyes. “I can afford it,” he grated, feeling a flicker of agitation in his chest that the man would even be concerned about such a thing. “This isn’t a fleeting interest. Give me what I want, receipt it under my private catalogue, and I’ll be on my way. ”

Heimdall sighed and picked up his quill again, leaning over the desk. “Fine.”

Loki inhaled deeply, raising his eyebrows and directing his gaze to the ceiling. He’d been devising a speech from memory for a week, running it over his tongue inside his mouth and sounding it out when no one was around. He dropped his eyes and began reciting the words from memory, watching Heimdall’s skilled hand start painting the words on the page almost as soon as he spoke. “To his esteemed grace who receives this note …”

~

“... I hope it finds in a prosperous enough position to enable us both to get what we want,” Thor read aloud, his elegant brow furrowed in both concentration. He unfolded the letter further and skimmed a few more lines silently. Flipped it over, and found no return address.  He looked up at the maid standing at the door and held it up in the air. “What is this?”

Her eyes were wide with innocence and confusion. “I – I don’t know, sir, it was delivered with all the rest.”

Loki sat silently at one end of the long table, holding a spoon in his hand and stirring the bowl of soup before him in slow, disinterested circles. Green flecks of some kind of vegetable rose and fell from its cream-colored surface; neat chunks of tomato, too, alongside pale meat cooked to perfection and pulled apart. 

It was a favorite of his. He knew this, somewhere in the back of his mind, but even the smell of it wafting up in gentle curls of steam failed to appetize him. Every ounce of his focus was bent on looking unassuming as Thor continued to read the note aloud; the note that he’d carefully hidden amongst the other letters, delivered at breakfast every morning.

“I have in my possession one soon-to-be bride of your eldest son. I understand she means a great deal to you, so let me get to the point: in exchange for 12,000 guineas, I will return her unharmed, so  long as the exchange is made at the end of August…”  Thor’s brow furrowed further. 

Loki had been home for three days– it was the ninth of August now, and an otherwise ordinary Wednesday morning. It felt strange to know the date again after being stuck on an island, where the only sense of time could be ascertained in the rise and set of the sun.

Only last night had he decided to risk delivering the note. Waiting to reveal your situation to Thor and his father was agony, but Loki couldn’t afford to take any kind of risk. The coincidence of his arrival and the note’s arrival on the same day would have been too close for comfort. Loki was cautious to a fault, and he was painfully aware of that fact: he was treading on your borrowed time, after all. His stomach twisted, feeling physically ill, and he abandoned the spoon entirely, staring out the window with a thinly veiled expression of discomfort as Thor finished reading.

“Otherwise, she will die gruesomely, after her usefulness and entertainment to us has been spent. With a letter V as the signit,” he added as an afterthought, setting the letter down carefully, like it might bite him. He reached for the envelope it had been delivered in and tilted it, and the serpent coin fell into his palm. He gazed at it in silence.

Loki was practically crawling out of his skin. “V,” he repeated, breaking the silence with false curiosity and looking between Thor and his father. “Like Charles Vane, perhaps? The pirate?”

“No doubt,” Odin replied amiably, reaching across the table for the letter. Thor handed it to him, his expression stony, waiting while their father read the ransom note over for himself. He let out a derisive scoff and shook his head, letting it drop. “Twelve thousand guineas.”

Thor’s handsome face lit on confusion. “You will pay the ransom, won’t you? Her ship was supposed to arrive in Norway weeks ago. Who knows how long she’s been held captive.”

“That much for one girl?” Odin said skeptically. “A girl who wasn’t keen on marrying you either, I recall. Ungrateful thing. The whole arrangement has been nothing more than a bad business venture.”

Loki’s face was dangerously pale, anger lighting up his veins like fire on alcohol. “But we have the money,” he argued, trying to keep his vocal tone only mildly invested. It cracked. “And you made a deal with her father.”

Thor nodded in agreement, though clearly exhibiting a great deal more patience. “Loki’s right, Father. We have a duty of care–” 

“Silence!” He interrupted, and they both shut their mouths. Odin set down his fork to eye both of them with a steely grey stare. “There is nothing we can do.”

“But we can,” Thor argued, leaning against the table on one hand and gesturing with the other. “We’ve seen the bank ledgers – Loki and I both,” he added, nodding to his brother. “Your wealth would hardly be dented. I don’t see why –” 

“I will not deal with pirates,” Odin groused firmly, his voice icy and cold.

Something inside Loki snapped. He stood abruptly, turning to Odin. The chair scraped on the ground behind him. 

“So that’s it, then,” he began. He was smiling, but in more a baring of teeth than an expression of joy. “You would first resign her to marry a man she doesn’t know, and then let her die when it’s inconvenient to help?” He pointed an accusing finger. “You’re just afraid Vane will slip through your grasp, the same way he did before, and wound your pride more than he ever could your prospects.” Loki realized that he was snarling, his lip curled and tone venomous, cheeks flushed uncharacteristically red but he didn’t care – it was too late now. The man who he called Father stared back with equal animosity, the two of them locked in heated, palpable silence.

Thor excused himself from the dining room with a quiet, grumbling apology, and Loki followed.

When he exited the room and the doors shut behind him, he saw Thor walking down the hall – but his footsteps were slow, and he clearly didn’t know where they intended on taking him. Loki’s eyes flickered, and he sighed, loud enough to draw Thor’s attention and halt his steps. 

He turned around and came to Loki’s side. He watched his brother reach up and press at his eyes, rubbing them none-too-gently, and he glanced back at the gilded door. “It sounded like you know a great deal about her,” he stated quietly, breaking the thin silence between them. His large hands were restless at his sides, wanting for actions instead of words. 

Loki dropped his hand and cleared his throat, and his eyes were distant. “I spoke with her at the ball before she left. You remember.”

Thor grunted, looking out the window. “I didn’t get the chance. I had business to attend to.”

Loki’s lips upturned in a bitter smirk. “You always do.” His gaze found the window, too, staring out at the palm fronds as they blew in the humid afternoon wind. His chest tightened with the reminder of your island – the trees and the cave, of your smaller body pressed beneath his, smelling sweet and tinged by saltwater. Of feeling complete.

Loki could only guess at how much his father knew. Thanks to his outburst, Odin knew Loki was aware of his true parentage – which meant it would only take one line drawn in the sand between Loki and Vane to connect the dots and undo all his work. Your life and Loki’s livelihood, felled in one devastating blow.

Thor was uncharacteristically still, a sign that he was deep in thought. His wide arms were crossed over his barrel of a chest, brow furrowed, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly, silently dissatisfied. “We have to do something.”

Loki scoffed and rolled his eyes, picking at the dark green fabric of his wide sleeves and spreading his fingers, staring disinterestedly at the faint scars that lined the back of his hand from years of seamanship. “Don’t humor me. You would never act outside father’s orders.”

“I would,” Thor argued, and paused, glancing over his shoulder at Loki. “If I had help.”

Loki’s expression flickered and he looked up, meeting Thor’s gaze. The two of them shared a silent exchange; the same kind that they had since boyhood, a silent discussion and a mutual agreement. Perhaps your cause wasn’t lost after all.

The corner of Thor’s mouth turned up in a smile, and he shrugged his broad shoulders, returning his gaze to the window. “Besides,” he added, “What kind of husband would I be if I couldn’t keep her alive?”

At the same time as a humoring chuckle left his lips, Loki’s breath was punched from his lungs. Realization hit him like a hollow bell – something he had forgotten to consider when he decided to enlist Thor’s help. The two of you were, by all accounts, still engaged. If Thor and Loki succeeded in rescuing you, you would wed him all the same, hopelessly stuck in the same trap as before. His mind searched frantically for an easy solution, some weakness in this sudden and unexpected obstacle, but to his growing panic he found none, and a feeling of utter hopelessness rooted inside his chest that was too deep to claw out.

Loki might yet be able to save your life. But it wouldn’t be a life with him that you’d return to.

~~~

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[nelllraiser]

seal you later | lucky & nell

LOCATION: al’s diner. PARTIES: @lvcky-charms and @nelllraiser. SUMMARY: lucky is on the lookout for a tracker that can find his selkie skin, and is led to nell. she knows we all get by with a little help from our (black market) friends. 

Al’s Diner had always been a staple for Nell. Growing up this had been the place she’d always come whenever she had a burger or milkshake craving, and that happened more often than not with the appetite and sweet tooth that she had. Tonight was no exception as she settled into a booth, having no need for a menu. She waited impatiently for the waitress to arrive to take her order, foot jiggling in place as her stomach let out a low grumble. Was it possible to die of starvation in the span of a half hour? Of course not. But that didn’t keep the witch from pondering the dramatization of how she was wasting away in this booth, wishing for nothing more than for food to magically appear in front of her. Finally, it seemed that a man was approaching her table, and she waved eagerly before realizing she didn’t recognize this face. Had Al’s gotten a new hire? “Are you new here?” she asked with her head tilted to the side, harmlessly intrigued. Maybe this was Celeste’s replacement. After all, hadn’t Ariana said that she used to work here? It was grim to think about how easily a person could be replenished when it came to things like this. The Hunter might be gone and dead, but the world still moved on, and Al’s kept hiring new people. 

Tracking someone or something down in this town was no easy feat. Lucky had been snooping around for the greater part of a week when someone had offered up a name that might provide more leads. Penelope Vural. Thankfully, after popping into most food establishments around meal times, he spotted someone that fit her admittedly vague description inside a diner. The anxiety of walking up to a total stranger had his palms clammy with...whatever selkies secreted (honestly, that one was a mystery to him still). Wiping his hands on his pants, he froze at the table when the woman there looked at him. Shit that’s right, pay attention. “You Penelope?” he mumbled, brow creasing as he concentrated on her lips for a reply. This would be painfully awkward if this wasn’t her.

Nell’s innocent curiosity morphed into a slight frown when the man asked for her by name. Had the workers at Al already been gossiping? Maybe they’d inducted him by running the names of regular customers past him. No...that wasn’t right. Everyone here just called her Nell. Instinctively her shoulders squared, and then tensed as paranoia set in. Ever since Montgomery had hunted her down, those that looked for her and she didn’t know posed possible threats, people that might also want to hunt her. “Who’s asking?” she replied defensively, giving the man a cursory once over to take in whatever information she could about him. He looked to be about her oldest sister, Bea’s age. Or maybe somewhere in between Bea and the middle sister, Luce. His lack of eye contact while she readied her reply was also baffling, though she wasn’t sure what to make of it quite yet. 

Lucky mentally noted the shift in posture. That was never a particularly good sign in his experience. Usually, someone was upset, but he hadn’t set anything in particular that would be upsetting. Pushing that aside, he slid into the booth across from her, propping his elbows on the table and offering a tight lipped smile. Humans liked smiles, and Lucky wasn’t exactly sure if she was human or not, so it was worth a try. “I’m Lucky,” he mumbled, nodding. “I lost my--...a thing. You track things? Yeah?” He sniffed the air with an attempt at subtlety. He could smell a lot of things, sure, but none of them were very alarming. It was mostly food and grease; diner smells. Maybe Penelope was human? Difficult to say. 

He just sat in the booth as if he belonged there, and Nell was slightly taken aback by the sheer audacity the movement required. Again she watched him carefully, wondering who the hell this guy was. By now she was positive he didn’t work here, which confirmed that he was looking for her, specifically. “You lost something?” she echoed, realization beginning to dawn. He was here for a job, wasn’t he? Or maybe someone else she’d helped had passed the word along, and he was hoping she might be able to help him, as well. “I’m Nell- but I guess you already knew that,” she said before extending her hand in an offer for a shake. “But yeah- I usually track people. Or....” She darted her head around to make sure there was no one within earshot of them. “Ah- other people-like things?” That was as delicate and vague a way to put supernatural creatures as she could manage. “What were you looking for?” 

Nell, Lucky mouthed, straining to try to get the mouth-feel right. “Nell?” he questioned, aloud this time. Nodding along, he watched her lips intently, then her hand was out and distracting him. His palms were still slimy at best, so he carefully regarded the extended hand and wiped his palms on his jeans again before accepting the handshake. “Nice to meet,” he mumbled and ducked his head a little in efforts to keep his sharp teeth concealed. That was all he needed, to look like a real threat in the middle of a diner during a dinner rush. His head was still down when Nell began speaking again, so he caught just part of it. People or people-like things. Yeah, he supposed he counted as a people-like thing. Lucky’s leg began to bounce under the table and he slouched a little further down in the booth as he considered how to best answer. If he came right out and said I’m a selkie and I need my skin back, it could end badly for him. Best to ease into it. “I...had a something stolen from me. A people-like something.” Gritting his teeth, he awaited a negative response or some kind of attack, mentally preparing his best escape route. The way his body felt, Lucky was in no condition to fight back. 

The more time Nell spent sat across from this man— the more puzzling he became. “Are you...alright?” she asked reflexively, not knowing how else to figure out what piece she was missing here. Nevertheless, she nodded as he said her name, providing another example. “Like Bell but with an ‘N’.” It wasn’t the most straightforward nickname, and she’d had to use the comparison more than once in her life. “Nice to meet you, too.” It was a quick handshake and then she was back to resting her arms across her chest, her confusion only growing by the minute the more Lucky spoke. For a moment he seemed to cave in on himself, growing smaller in his seat while he thought up an answer. It certainly wasn’t all that like her usual clientele. “A...people-like something that was stolen?” she echoed, trying to make sense of what he might mean. “Like...a special...pet?” If it was a supernatural creature that belonged to him, that would make sense, right? “You know we can go somewhere else to talk about this if that makes it easier,” she offered, knowing a place as public as this might not be the best venue. 

Lucky leaned back against the booth, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table when no attack came. “I’m fine, just deaf,” he mumbled dismissively with a vague gesture of his hand. “Nell. Bell. Okay.” Abruptly, he leaned in closer again. How else could he get her to understand without just outright saying it? If she was afraid of talking about this in public, she wouldn’t attack him; it was the thought of what could happen outside of the restaurant that gave him pause. “Public’s fine,” he said, feeling the anxiety swelling again. He folded his hands beneath the table, wringing them as best he could while they were slick. Here goes nothing. “Looking for...my skin. My seal skin,” he clarified and grimaced, letting his teeth show as he did so. 

“Oh,” Nell said without thinking, her gut reaction of embarrassment at having not noticed quickly replacing the confusion that had been dominating her expression. “Ah- I mean- sorry- I didn’t mean to-” Perhaps it was best to let that die on her lips for fear of accidentally putting her foot in her mouth. “Right. Alright. I’m glad you’re fine.” That counted as a recovery, right? His swift and unexpected movement forward, and her subsequent reflexive jerk backwards was a welcome distraction, and she found her hand gripping the outline of one her hidden knives out of instinct. Again her mind pestered her about whether or not he was actually here looking for something, the vigilant beating of her heart in her throat putting her on high alert. It wasn’t fear, but self-preservation that made her wonder. First it was the mention of his seal skin that sparked a flicker of recognition, another soft “oh” falling from her, though it hadn’t completely processed until he revealed his teeth. “Oh,” she repeated a little louder this time, understanding flooding Nell while her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Right, right your-” she cut the sentence off with another glance around them, figuring there was no need to repeat what Lucky truly was for anyone that might be able to overhear it. “It’s lost?” she asked with renewed concern as the cogs began to turn in her mind. “Someone took it?” Wasn’t there only so long that a selkie could go without their pelt before… “Shit,” she cursed aloud. “Yes. Yeah, I’ll look for that. Do you have any leads or anything? Where was it taken? How long ago?” Hunters that took from selkies were the worst sort. Of all the supernatural creatures in the world, the seal-people were arguably the least harmful. Quite literally nothing more than...seals. 

Lucky slowly backed up again as Nell recoiled and made a mental note to slow his movements. Thankfully he’d stopped biting things as a casual test of danger. That would’ve gone over much, much worse. He straightened up in his seat and cocked his head, considering Nell silently for a moment. He let his lips fall back down over his teeth. If Nell posed any danger, certainly his teeth were threat enough, though she didn’t seem to want to fight him at all. He felt a sense of relief wash over him at that realization. Nell seemed intimidated--no, maybe it was an overt sense of caution. That he could respect and relate to. Lucky nodded again as Nell connected the dots aloud. “Been tracking it. Five years. Led me here, so I’m looking for more local leads. Got your name looking for a tracker. My skin might be…” he paused, slowly leaning forward again, letting the stiffness in his shoulders ebb away. “Black market?” he mumbled, more of a question than a statement. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to get connected to that particular part of town. If there was really a skin trade operation, he had to find it as soon as possible. Lucky’s stream of income was running out slowly the less he found himself able to work, and the hotel he was staying at didn’t seem like the kind to accept credit and a promise. Then again...promises seemed to go pretty far around here. “You’ll help?” Lucky perked up, suppressing a pleased wiggle, and grinned at Nell, teeth showing again. This was the closest he’d felt to finding his skin in a long while and he couldn’t help the flutter of excitement that bubbled up in his chest. 

“Tracking it how?” Nell asked, wanting to know just how far Lucky had gotten. The more information she had, the easier this would be, and the higher chance of success they’d have. “What led you here? If I know where it was taken from- I could maybe go check it out even if it was five years ago.” She nodded at the mention of her being a tracker, but quickly amended the statement for him. “To be fair- I usually look for people. They’re easier to find than things.” Plus the usual spells she used didn’t find objects. Maybe she could somehow tweak it? But a skin wasn’t like any normal item. Surely it was bound closer to Lucky’s essence than a misplaced book or jacket might be. Right? She’d have to look into it. Probably experiment a little, and maybe get a little invasive with the man sitting before her. That could wait, though. For now she needed to learn the basics, the rest would come after. “But I can find your pelt,” she said fiercely, as if she could will the possibility into existence. They’d find it one way or another. Nell nodded at the mention of the black market, already knowing how to break into that. “For sure- that’d be a good place to look. I can ask a couple of people I know if they might be able to help with that part.” Felix would surely know his way around it. Maybe even Erin with all the organ trading she’d done. “Of course I’ll help!” she answered with a passion that matched the bright fire in her eyes. She wasn’t going to let the man before her just...waste away into nothingness if there was something she could do about it. “We can start right away.”

“Got a few tips on where it might be, if it was trading hands, that sort of thing. Followed it from California to here, trying to make black market connections on the way.” Lucky’s brow creased and he looked at the table for a moment, the excitement dwindling. He hadn’t been led here with much more than a comment that this was the biggest hub for supernatural activity on the eastern seaboard. White Crest, of all places, wasn’t a massive city by any means, but it was certainly an odd beacon for the strange and unusual. “Came here on a tip that the trade is good. Skins come through here often. You know about that?” Lucky looked back up at her, his eyes pained. The confidence in her voice, in her expression, was something Lucky didn’t know if he could trust. Sighing, he steeled himself again. He didn’t have any other option as he saw it, and Nell was willing to fight for him. That was something he was desperate for; someone who was in his corner. He gritted his teeth and nodded firmly, eyes matching the passion in hers. “Where do we start?”

Again Nell nodded along as Lucky spoke, mind running a mile a minute as she began to plan— trying to choose the best route that would lead to Lucky’s missing skin. It didn’t seem that Lucky’s information was all that specific, but it was still something. She’d find a way to work with it. The corners of her mouth tightened as he mentioned White Crest’s seemingly flourishing selkie skin trade, not exactly surprised to hear such a thing, but also not pleased. A memory flashed through her mind’s eye, going back to the pile of selkie pelts he and Luce had liberated from Montgomery’s disgusting trophy den. She’d known there were more out there that hunted selkies, but the undeniable proof of it sitting in front of her only made her stomach churn uncomfortably. “I’ve seen some pelts here before. They weren’t in the trade, though. And one of the friends I’m thinking might be able to help dealt a lot in selling body parts and stuff- so maybe that includes pelts.” The way he looked at her while he spoke tugged at something in her, a need to help this poor man gain back what had been wrongfully taken quickly finding a home in her. She’d seen it before in the people she’d helped while on her travels, and Nell was eager to get back on track with helping people. So much of what she’d done in the past few months had been harm, and though she didn’t regret any of it...it would be nice to bring about something good via a path that wasn’t blazed by destruction. “Why don’t you come over to my greenhouse later on? We can start ironing things out there. And I can get in contact with my friends, and then I’ll point them to you.”

Hearing that Nell had seen other pelts around town filled Lucky with conflicting emotions. On one hand, the possibility that his skin could be here had him bordering on happy; but on the other hand, the thought that other selkies could be missing such an essential part of themselves was heartbreaking to hear. It was a void not easily mended, and one that grew harder to ignore every day. What pulled him out of that train of thought was the casual mention of dealing in body parts without a moment’s pause. The learning curve of White Crest really was a sharp one. Mimes, invasive postal workers, organ trade… No time for that specific spiral. Nell mentioned a greenhouse and Lucky nodded along. “What time?” he asked, already digging around in his jacket pocket for a pen and paper. He produced both and started scrawling while looking at Nell’s lips expectantly. 

Nell checked the clock on her phone before answering, trying to figure out how long it would take her to be ready to see Lucky again. Finally she settled on a time. “7:30 PM.” That would give her a bit of a window to get ready. It was a little close to a standard dinner time, though. The realization came a bit belatedly, and she quickly made Lucky an offer. “I can make us something to eat too, if you’ll be hungry. I’m assuming most any meat is a good bet, right?” she asked with the beginnings of a grin. Most selkies thrived off a protein rich diet. “You can meet me at this address,” she said before rattling off the location of Bea’s house. “The greenhouse is around back, and it’s kinda in the middle of nowhere so just text me if you get lost.” Then she was giving him her phone number as well. “We’re gonna get it back,” she affirmed once more, iron determination in her voice. “You just wait and see. Soon enough you’ll be back in the ocean before you know it.”