#throwing my kinky little hat in the ring

[spicycinnabun]

your little rebel 1/2

@tommykinardweek for brat/brat tamer ♡ rated e ♡ read on ao3 ♡ tags: sex toys, sexting at work, d/s, daddy kink, brat!buck, sugaring (more tags tba for pt. 2)

Tommy had finished performing routine maintenance on his bird and was sitting down for a quick lunch break in the hangar. He was just about to bite into his sandwich—pastrami on rye, nothing fancy—when his phone chimed. He dug it out of the pocket of his jumpsuit.

Tommy’s lips quirked when he saw the notification was from Evan. He had the day off. He’d said he was going to go grocery shopping, hit the gym, and then run a few errands. They were planning on seeing each other that night. 

Evan had a key to Tommy’s place. Though they hadn’t moved in together and still spent time at Evan’s loft, Evan seemed to prefer it at Tommy’s. 

Tommy didn’t mind. More than not minded, actually. It made his chest ache to come home to the lights on, warm homey smells, lively chitter-chatter, and someone who’d missed him and was happy to see him. He was trying not to get too used to it.  

Evan was going to cook dinner: chicken parmesan, a recipe of Bobby’s he’d made his own creative tweaks to. 

“I’m calling it chicken plantmesan. You’ll be amazed at how good it tastes,” he’d told Tommy. “You won’t even be able to tell the difference.”

Tommy had mentioned wanting to cut dairy from his diet for a while to see if it’d help with some bloating, and Evan had said he would do it with him. It was sweet, especially since Tommy knew Evan liked dairy products even more than he did. Evan was the guy who told the waiter to keep going when he came by the table with the cheese grater. 

“Bet it won’t taste as good as you,” Tommy had flirted, pitching his voice low on purpose just to see the blush light up Evan’s cheeks. 

Smiling a bit wider at the memory, Tommy put his sandwich down and opened the text. 

Finished my errands early.

Beneath that was an image. Usually, Evan sent him random pictures. Stupid memes, a photo of a stray cat he’d seen during his jog, his breakfast smoothie, Eddie, the rest of the 118 and their daily hijinks. This wasn’t any of those things. 

Tommy stared, a little dizzy, as all the blood in his upper body immediately rushed south. 

It was his bedroom. The shot was taken from a distance, probably from his dresser. Evan was naked on the bed on all fours, long legs spread wide on the mattress. He was down on his elbows, ass up on full display. He was glancing over his shoulder at the camera, heavy-lidded eyes drowsy with pleasure, lips red like he’d been biting them and parted like he was panting. Evidence of how turned on he was hung heavy and visible between his thighs.

But what really caught Tommy’s gaze was what was sitting snugly inside Evan. The flared base of a toy. It was red. The shape of a heart.

Tommy quickly zoomed out (when had he zoomed in?), saved the image to his photos and then deleted it from their conversation, just in case some busybody snuck up behind him without warning. He'd almost forgotten where he was.

He typed out a message with fingers that shook only slightly, heart pounding, mouth dry.

Evan. You know I’m at work.

Evan had never been so bold as to send him something like that while he was on shift. They’d sent dirty texts before; that was nothing new, but this was. 

Couldn’t wait to show you what I bought. 

Sorry, Daddy ❤️

Tommy’s arm slipped, and like an idiot, he knocked over his steaming hot coffee. “Shit!” 

He grabbed the napkins from his lunch pail and quickly mopped up the mess before it reached his keyboard or monitor. He recovered swiftly when one of the other pilots walking by gave him the stink eye.

“You okay, Kinard?”

Tommy nodded, stone-faced. “Fantastic.”

He squeezed the damp napkins in his fist and took a bite of his sandwich to occupy his mouth and seem normal. He obviously wasn’t thinking about the food anymore.

The pilot shrugged, accepting it.

Tommy’s phone buzzed again. He waited until the pilot was gone before picking it back up. “Christ, he’s going to be the death of me,” he muttered. 

You like it though? It has a remote. Thought you might enjoy controlling it.

And now it was time to get out of plain sight before he completely embarrassed himself. Tommy dropped his garbage in the trashcan and walked briskly to the washroom, locking the door behind himself. He leaned against it and tried to maintain his cool before he replied. But he was starting to sweat.

I was wondering what that charge on my card was, he answered.

He was lying. He hadn’t actually checked his statement, but upon looking now, there was one purchase of $59.74 from Cupid’s Closet. 

It had taken some cajoling for Evan to let Tommy buy things for him—little treats, clothes he wanted, toys—especially since he’d been a bit pushy about Evan paying for things at the start of their relationship—but eventually, Evan had given in. He’d even started buying for himself without needing to ask. Evan acted like he didn't deserve any of it, of course, that he didn't need any of it, but Tommy could tell the attention was doing it for him.

Tommy never thought it’d be his thing, but he loved sugaring Evan. It felt nice. Cliché, sure—the whole ‘go ahead, baby, go wild with Daddy’s credit card’ thing—but who cared? Turned out it gave them both joy. Tommy liked spoiling him. Marie Kondo would be proud of Tommy for not throwing that shit away.

Haha, yeah

Tommy could hear the faltering, uncertain gears turning in Evan’s head, so he quickly sent another message. 

I love it. Pretty. Keep it in. But you know the rules, honey. Hands off. Wait for me.

The bubbles started and then stopped. Started and then stopped again. 

I’ll try to…

Evan.

Fine. But you better make it worth my while. 

Tommy smirked. What a brat. 

Keep talking like that, and I’ll leave you all on your lonesome tonight.

This time, Tommy received a selfie of Evan’s exaggerated pout. His cheeks were flushed strawberry pink, his blond curls looking soft and tousled against one of Tommy’s dark green pillows. 

Mean.

Oh, Evan had no idea how mean Tommy was capable of being. 

You have to behave if you want my attention.

Evan’s reply was lightning-fast. Smug.

That’s not how I remember it.

Tommy chuckled as he thought of what had gotten them to this point. Touché.

And I already said I will! Evan continued. …But it feels kind of amazing. 

Tommy sighed, wishing he was home already. 

I bet it does.

♡

A little while later, Tommy received a new text. He made another escape to the washroom with the excuse that he’d drunk too much coffee, feeling like a teenager and not almost forty as he hid from his crew.

This time, it was only a photo of Evan’s naked torso. A close-up of his abs and pecs in all their glory, painted with streaks of translucent white that dripped down muscled valleys. He’d come all over himself. 

All the accompanying text said was Oops.

Tommy exhaled a noisy breath. “Do not get hard at work, jackass.” 

Honestly, he never thought he’d have to scold himself regarding that. 

Tommy put his phone on the edge of the sink, turning on the taps to give his face a quick splash of water. He wiped off with a paper towel, willing his body to cooperate and calm before he texted back.

Guess you don’t need me now, huh, hotshot? I was going to have fun playing with you, but maybe I’ll catch the game on TV instead.

Evan's bubbles started bubbling. They seemed to be moving wilder than usual, somehow. 

It's not like I can’t get it up again. I’m not an old man like someone I know.

Tommy’s brows rose sharply. He almost barked a laugh, but that was just what he needed: people outside thinking he’d lost his fucking marbles. 

There was silence for a few more moments and then a series of dings, each coming quicker than the last. 

Wait

I didn’t really mean it about the old thing

I want to be with you tonight

And your refractory period is remarkable for a man your age!

Tommy snorted. 

Wow, thanks.

I was thinking about you the entire time and how sexy you are and what I want you to do to me when you get here. I just couldn’t control myself.

Next time, I promise I won’t come until you're here and you say so.

Tommy? 

Tommy grinned to himself. He needed to make Evan sweat for a bit. It was all part of the game.

Tommy knew it. He’d played it before with other men, but…

None of them had excited him like this. Not at this level. Not like Evan did. Evan was a little (well, big, muscular, and adorable) firecracker. He was impulsive, curious as hell, and wanted to dive headfirst into all sorts of new situations. He was exploring his kinks and surprising them both with what he was learning he liked. 

Tommy was learning a few things, too. Funny because he thought he’d figured out all there was to know about himself years ago. He guessed even old dogs could learn new tricks.

Evan let Tommy drive and followed every safety precaution—for the most part. Sometimes, he tried to push too hard, too fast. Sometimes, he tried hiding his discomfort to gain Tommy’s approval and wouldn’t yellow or red light. That people pleasing, low self-worth, and fear of rejection clear as day in his every action.

They’d learned that bratting was a tangible way to break out of that mindset, at least a little. Something Evan had never let himself do. Stop trying to be good all the time. A cathartic release to say no, go against the rules, be bad, and take what he wanted. In a healthier way than maiming his best friend, of course.

But Tommy didn’t push too far in his punishments. There was only so much Evan could handle. Tommy was careful with his limits.

And… well, he felt too much goddamn affection for the kid to be as cold as he had been with previous partners. That side of him just wasn’t meant for Evan.

You’re still in trouble. 

Tommy let that sit for a minute before sending a final message.

I’ll be home soon, sweetheart. You can make it up to me.

He chuckled at the litany of heart emojis he received approximately five seconds later. Oh, cute.

[mostlymarvelgirl]

Imagine If Magneto's *Private Moment* With You Was Released Into The Internet (Fem! Reader)

WARNING: MATURE CONTENT IG?

Erik sighed. This wasn't supposed to happen at all. On one hand, he really didn't mind, knowing that at some point, this would happen due to his fame in mutant politics, but on the other hand he didn't want you to be shown to the entire world like this in a private scenario.

The things you would have to face in public, what you would have to go through. While being deep in thought about how to deal with the scenario, a door with you running inside crying angrily. The door was slammed closed.

"Did you know? Did you know that someone motherfucking asshole recorded us having sex and released it? It's apparently the hottest sextape released in the century.', you screamed at him as if you were accusing him.

He felt guilty. Of course, he would never show that, but he ended up with a comment catastrophic enough to ruin the rest of his personal life. Not that he meant what he said, but clearly not thinking through.

"Well, I warned you not to try anything new and kinky. You should've listened.", Erik said immediately, regretting what came out of his mouth.

"What?", your voice became small, not being able to believe what he said.

Before he could apologize and explain, and your anger clouded mind lost patience, the ring from your was thrown into the sink, and you turned your heels walked out the door.

****3 Months Later****

"As we recall the recent steamiest s*xtape of magneto and his wife released into internet which gained over 3.8 billion views has been deleted by the cyber crime from all platforms. The culprits had been caught but died in an accident. Was it planned by Magneto? Or was it just an accident? I'm Sarah Moon reporting in six o clock evening news and I'll see you tomorrow."

The TV was switched off.

Y/N sighed. She knew who killed them and knew Erik wouldn't be arrested. She should've known that Erik was not good expressing and should've seen the expression. She regretted throwing the ring he made for her. She regretted what she had done.

"Regretting some past actions, I suppose?", the sarcastic voice spoke up.

Of course, it would Charles Xavier showing up behind her. That annoying British accent.

"For the record, my accent once wooed your husband to my bedroom, so I would take it as a jealousy or compliment coming from you.", Charles replied while sticking his hair back.

"What do you want?", you ask him with annoyance. You didn't want to aggravate your guilt more than it already was.

Charles smiled. That bitch. You knew, well, everyone knew, if they were in trouble and needed to solve the problem quickly, Charles would do the *smile*, and it'll be like it never happened.

"You're not wiping the entire world's memory about this, that's damn near impossible and dangerous.", you replied to his reaction.

"Well, it is for the better. Think about it. Or well, I should say actually, discuss about it.", Charles wheeled back slowly and opened the door.

"What are you-", you were cut off with Erik standing outside the door soaking wet with...............blood.

Silence.

There was no sound. All, the both of you wanted to do was to reach to one another and cry, Apologize, and comfort, but, the ego and guilt in both of you prevented all the bottled emotions and feelings of 3 months.

"Well, I will be leaving and give the both of you sone privacy. I'll be waiting right outside. Let me know when you've decided.", Charles said while wheeling out and closed the door.

"Hi."

That was it to pull the trigger inside you.

"WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN BY SAYING HI???!!! YOU COCK-SUCKING, TWAT-WAFFLED SON OF A MOTHERFUCKING BITCH-ASS- HATTED CUNT! YOU'RE FUCKING KILLING AGAIN???!!! HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED CLEAN THIS MESS UP?!!!", you blasted at him.

"Listen i-", Erik was cut off.

"NO. YOU LISTEN, YOU LITTLE DICK! I DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT THE TAPE. OKAY?!", you stated before he could ask.

You started to tear up and your voice broke and became small and vulnerable.

"I don't want you to kill around people. We could've done this together. I don't care what other say about me. Please j-just stop.", you started to cry.

Erik walked near you and hugged you tightly as you hugged him back.

He apologized to you and held you. You felt a something slip in your ring finger. You smiled and cried more realizing how horrible you must have looked.

"Y'know, you smell really bad like some old metal furniture. You need to get showered.", you pushed him away for fun.

"We could shower toge-", Erik got cut off.

"NO. Absolutely not.", you stated while laughing.

[pm-my-hubbies]

Lani’s Crown | H.C.

Summary: Reader and Henry’s daughter has landed herself in a bit of trouble and needs to understand the importance they put into her hair.

Pairing: Dad!Henry x Black Mom!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

I knew this day would come and unfortunately, I hadn’t prepared myself for it. “Hey, don’t forget you gotta have that talk with Lani pretty soon,” my conscience would remind me as I stared in awe at a queen with a head full of kinky hair. Like the snap of a hypnosis’ fingers, the task would slip away from me and I would return to whatever I had on my plate for the time being. Apparently, this “talk” wasn’t at the top of my to-do list.

My eyes shift from the shoulder length hair on the right side of my five year-old’s head to the gapped up left side. Something tells me she was reenacting Halle Berry’s notorious transformation scene from Catwoman as it’s become a favorite of hers in the past couple of weeks. This idea prompts me to hold in the snicker threatening to fall past my lips because right now is not a laughing matter.

“I honestly don’t know what to say Ailani.” I speak. It’s not that I’m mad at my baby because that’s what she is: a baby. She’s still struggling to steady the handlebars of her bicycle when she rides and her tongue has begun poking out the side of her mouth as she attempts to loop her shoe laces together. She doesn’t know how special her hair is because I hadn’t told her. And even if I did, it’ll take her brain ages to digest the information.

“I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean it.” she whimpers.

“I know baby but... why did you go for the scissors? You know you’re only supposed to use them for cutting paper and when adults are around. What happened?”

Today had been a good day at the restaurant. As the manager of the small-staffed bakery not too far from Lani’s school, majority of the tasks outside of sitting behind the desk fell onto me two weeks ago when three of the employees decided “a mental break” was necessary (I would’ve been fine if I hadn’t seen one of them chugging down beer after beer when I went out for drinks with some friends on a Friday night). Garlic wafted up my nostrils the moment I stepped over the threshold into our home and I knew something was up as my husband was cooking my comfort meal. He didn’t say anything when I asked of our daughter’s whereabouts. A nod in the direction of our dining room that was connected to the living room was all I needed to know something had happened. Lani has already placed her crayons to the side of her paper on the dining room table and peeked up at me with solemn eyes.

“Charlotte and I were play—” she began.

“Wait, Charlotte?”

Lani bowed her head in shame. “Yes.”

God fucking dammit. “Lani, why would... why would you play with Charlotte after Mommy told you to not be around her anymore?”

Her head was still low but I managed to catch the next statement clear as day. “Because she said I could make more friends if my hair was short like her and the other girls.”

I felt as if I were on fire. My body burned with anger and once again, it wasn’t directed towards Lani. Charlotte was once the little girl you wanted your children to play with every single day. But after some time, her true bad habits made an appearance and next thing you know, you were constantly disregarding the ringing of your doorbell as she shouted for your child. To add on to her pest-like behavior, Charlotte’s parents could never recognize the wrongs in her actions.

I shouldn’t be surprised such words could come from a child’s mouth but I am. Maybe it’s because it’s been a while since I allowed another kindergartener to bully me and I assumed times have changed for them to not talk out of their asses. Yet, here we are.

“Ailani, can you look at me? Please?” I calmly asked.

My daughter finally picked her head up and it was in this moment that all frustration I felt for her former friend dissipated. Her round cheeks were wet with fresh tears, brown eyes the size of saucers.

“Oh Ailani.” I cooed, walking around the coffee table dividing us to plant myself on the floor next to her. I pulled her onto my lap, her face pressing against my chest as her body racked with sobs. “Shhh, it’s okay.”

“I hurt your feelings, Mommy.”

“You did baby but that’s beside the point. Your feelings are hurting right now and it’s landed you in some mess.” I explained. Internally, I was chanting to not let the waterworks flow.

Lani continued her moment of sadness at most likely destroying the pride I held for her hair. The left side was the only destruction, which left more on her head. Still, blades made contact with the kinks at an inappropriate time.

Eventually, her body ceased the shaking and all I could feel was the large gulps she took as she calmed down. I guess now was the time to talk to her.

“You did hurt Mommy’s feelings because I love your hair. But at the same time, Mommy never told you how special your hair is so you wouldn’t do what you did.” I began. “Most girls want a crown to look like the Disney princesses they see on TV. I was one of those girls but I only wanted the tiara to be like the other girls. Do you hear me?”

She nodded. “Mmhm.”

“Good. Your grandmother told me that I didn’t need a crown to be pretty or like other girls because I already had one with me that followed me everywhere. And that, my Love, is my hair. Sit up for a second.” My daughter did as told, straddling my lap with bloodshot eyes looking into my watery ones. I placed my hand in her hair to massage her scalp. “The thing about your hair and my hair is that it’s unique. It’s what makes us beautiful. Some days we’ll braid it and other days we can wear it loose. The best thing about our hair is that it’s like a magicians hat to people that don’t look like us.”

“A magicians hat?”

“Mmhm. See, the only thing you know about a magicians hat is that it’s the same one they always wear. And every time they reach into it, it’s something new they pull out that amazes the audience every single time. With you, people will always see you with the same hair style until you straighten it. And every time you straighten it, it’ll be longer than before and amaze people each time. And that, my Darling, is because people are idiots when it comes to us and our hair.”

The cutest of giggles escaped Lani’s lips and I couldn’t help but to grin at the sound I got out of her. “Mommy no!”

“It’s true Lani! A lot of people don’t know much about our hair except to tell us how to style it. Your dad’s an exception, even though he can be a little dumb at times.”

“I heard that!” Henry exclaimed from the kitchen.

I chuckled as I leaned to the side to respond with, “Mind your business!”

“Can’t do that when you brought me into it.”

I glanced back at Lani with a smirk on my face. “You know what, your dad is right for once.”

Heavy footsteps echoed throughout the lower level of our home as Henry exited the kitchen to enter the living room where Lani and I sat. He held a similar smile to the one I wore when mocking his correctness. “Is this how you discipline our daughter when I’m not around? Throw me under the bus?”

“Not exactly.”

“Goodness woman.” He chuckled, treading over to where we rested. He swung his legs around my shoulder to plop down behind me on the sofa and place his hands on my shoulders. “Everything good now?”

Although her original hairstyle was jacked up now due to the scissors, I continued rubbing my hands through her beautiful hair. “I think so. But before I tell you to go upstairs and start running your bath water, I want you to remember something: girls like Charlotte are not your friend.”

“Your mother is right Lani.”

My head tilted up slightly so I could toss him a smile of appreciation for backing me up. “Friends do not tell you to change how you look so you can hang out with them. They chose to be your friend and should deal with it. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” Although it was meant to be a statement, she answered it more of like a question.

“Can you try to repeat that back for Mommy and Daddy but in your own words?”

She rapidly nodded her head. “Um... Charlotte should play with me because she likes how I look?”

“That’s our girl!” Henry praised her with a pinch to her cheeks.

“That’s right. And if she tells you what to do again, you either tell the teacher or tell her to stop. Yes?”

“Yes.” She affirmed.

“Good. Now go run your bath water for Mommy and then I’ll be up to wash you before we eat dinner.”

As soon as she hopped off my thighs to disappear up the stairs, Henry wrapped his arms around my neck. His lips landed on my cheek for peck. “You handled that well.” He mumbled.

I gently massaged his forearms with my hands. “You think so?”

“Yes. I was expecting the worse. Yelling, maybe a pop or two.”

“Some people will think I’m the worst parent for restricting my daughter from doing such a thing as today but that’s the thing: she’s not their daughter. If she cuts her hair, I have to bend over backwards and find styles for her hair and I really don’t have the time for that.” I elaborated, a huff following right after. “She’s lucky she did this today because now, she has an excuse to see her auntie Marilyn.”

“Oh but your Saturday.” I wasn’t looking at him but I could hear the pout in his voice as he pressed another kiss to my skin but this time on my neck.

I deeply exhaled. “I know, I know. I’ll just reserve it for Sunday like we’re supposed to anyways.”

Silence filled the spacious room now. Within seconds, the faint sound of water hitting the hard surface of our bath tub upstairs interrupted the peace that had quickly formed between Henry and I.

“Now that I’ve given her the heart-to heart talk, it’s your turn to talk with Charlotte’s parents.”

“What? Why me?” He groaned like a child restricted to the confines of his home on a Friday evening.

“Because I can’t catch a case. That little girl pissed me off and I won’t be so nice if I talk to her parents. And even if I did play nice, they’d still say something. When it’s you, there’s less backlash.”

“I— dammit. You’re right.”

“Get to work Superman.” I playfully ordered as I stood up between his legs to stretch my cramped limbs. A giggle my lips as his hand lightly connected with my ass. I felt like a love struck high schooler all over again when I spun around to lean against his strong frame and place my hands on his pecs. “You’ve got some saving to do and for once, it’s not me.”

“Indeed I do.” He mumbled before leaning down to deeply kiss me.

[honestsycrets]

Behind the Door

↳ modern au

Author’s Notes | for @lisinfleur

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader, abusive!oc x reader

❛ word count | 4750

❛ genre | oneshot with some angst

❛ summary | the girl in the hall, he wants to know her. the only one in his way? her abusive boyfriend.

❛  warnings | emotional abuse, physical abuse, abusive relationships, some violence

Money talked.

Hvitserk knew that it did and he had gotten lucky with his father’s reputation. His job was to play and travel; kicking his soccer ball across a dewy field every day. It was something natural and freeing to him, almost like if he was flying like mother’s falcon across the field. A pop and twist of his foot and he could whizz a ball with the soaring wind into a white knit net.

A life of salads, long practice days and a flight from Copenhagen out half way across the world led up to this moment carrying up suitcases to his new apartment. Luckily, the furniture was all moved in a few days before but-- fuck, he was preparing to be here for the long haul. That meant lots and lots of clothes being brought up this metal box of an elevator.

Ding! Fourteenth floor. The doors whizz open.

“--Really? You don’t think that’s too short?”

“I-- I thought it would look nice. I made it myself.”

Couple scuffles-- it wouldn’t be the first time he walked in on one. Usually, no one had the balls to do them in the open. Especially not in a well to do area like this. Hvitserk turns his huge suitcase in a circle and throws the dark duffel bag over his shoulder. As he passes the plasticy tags with black numbers of each door, he realizes that he’s getting painfully close to the couple-- and painfully close to his own apartment.

The man leans over into his girl’s face, tugging the hem of her mid-thigh length dress made of some comfortable sweater fabric. Hvitserk wore sweaters just like the one she had made into a dress-- complete with buttons down to her belly button. The richness of her choice in green made his mouth salivate with a burst of energy.

His synaesthesia was acting up today.

“Hey man, would you let your girl go out looking like this?” The man says harmlessly enough and true, Hvitserk thinks-- he might have been jealous too. Not because something was too short but because the girl looks too good. Dressed to the nines, manicured fingers flirtatiously in her hair and a pair of heels with a strap across cute toes painted black. Edgy. A hint of kinky past her preppy appearance. She must have been a hell of a fuck.

She stares straight ahead, over his shoulder and the nape length blonde hair that tickled the sides of her face. The man stands upright, several inches taller than her. Every once in a while, she would glance to Hvitserk’s jawline, running over the curling hairs of his jaw and then back to her blond haired, sea-eyed boyfriend. Or husband, god forbid. This guy was a complete ass.

“Uh.” He runs his tongue over his tooth. With a vapid smile, he shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t help you, man. Women like what they like.”

It’s the safest bet. The wheels of his suitcases clack as he stops in front of his plain door, draping the duffel bag on his suitcase. If he wasn’t being stupid, he could have sworn she flashed him an adorably belligerent smile, a bit of tooth peeking out from her lips. He shuffles in the pocket of his joggers, knocking away his leather wallet until he found the ring of his new keys.

“Yeah, yeah guess that’s the truth.” The man says looking to Hvitserk who opens the door, balancing with his foot. “You need help, dude?”

“Weren’t you going out?” Hvitserk asks. The woman shifts, a light shake in her head. She opens the door to their apartment and slides out of sight into the ill-lighted apartment.

“Na, I don’t think so.” The man jogs forward and takes ahold of his suitcase. He wheels it in. “I’m Jesper Sørensen.”

“Uh, Hvitserk.” He mutters.

“Number 10! Hvitserk Ragnarsson?”

Shit.

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere, man.” He comes into his crisp apartment. It’s white-- dusty on his tongue as he walks in. He appreciates the calmness of the grey walls and matching dark hardwood floors. Had it been more than that, he might actually get triggered.

“You’re fucking lucky to do work like that. I do pharmaceuticals. Let you in on a secret brother, it’s some boring shit!”

I’m not your brother, Hvitserk thinks. He lets it go, stretching his back out and looking out toward the bright beach outside his window. He catalogues the bend of the beach in his eye knowing that he would most likely spend a lot of time here in the future. Then as to not ignore his new visitor, he turns back toward the column of stacked boxes.

“What can I say? I’m a lucky man.” Hvitserk beams a tall tale fake smile, pulling open a box. One of many, many boxes. Jesper takes a step toward the door— then stops.

“Hey uh, you need some help around here?”

Hvitserk looks toward him, dusting off a picture of his mother modeling.

“I mean you’ll be here forever man unless you got yourself a lady to do this.” Jesper scratches his head. Hvitserk finds it almost cute-- any of the women that he had in the past would only do it for sake of doing it so that they could rub it in his face that, ha! She got it done!

Hvitserk laughs. “Nah, my picker is broke. I get chicks that want me for my money.”

“Beats wanting attention all the time, right?” Jesper picks up a box and settles it on the ragged leather of his couch. “Shit, (Y/N) will be pissed at me all day.”

“She always like that?” Hvitserk makes small talk. He pulls a picture of Björn and he backpacking through Spain— his brother’s idea.

“Yeah. She needs attention all the time man. That’s why she wants to be a model even though her legs are short as shit.” Hvitserk remains quiet for some time debating whether to continue on that or not.

“She’s pretty.”

Jesper looks up, a small shake in his head even with his newfound friend’s words. Pretty, he can see the man think. It’s almost as if he feels threatened by those words. Hvitserk knew how men thought-- he had to. Ivar had a temper worse than this sack of shit.

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s pretty.”

Most days Hvitserk thought nothing of it.

He sat on his metal balcony looking out toward the beachside front. Fluffy clouds blocked most of the hot sun. There was a light breeze carrying on the wind. The people here are strange flying their thin kites on tangled strings or chasing each other on the sandy beach. Sometimes some dumbasses would explode fireworks by accident and other times, he might see something as outrageous as a scarved pug on a beach blue skateboard.

His favourite sight, when he was home, was her.

Jesper’s girl who would go out in a strappy bikini, a sheer midnight blue wrap on her round hips and an adorable straw hat complete with a matching bow. For hours she would walk the moist shoreline of the beach, bend down and go on her way.

Seashells, he theorized.

Then she would come up the stairs before Jesper would get home, slapping black flip flops with wet cracks up the stairs. Sometimes he made it a point to go to the front door where she was, just like today.

“I see you have some sea-- seashells there sweetheart.” The older ladies there made it a point to talk to her. She stood with one, holding the back of her hat while drops of water trembled down sunbaked skin. Her hair would crust with the salty hair time after time.

“Oh, yes.” She says sweetly. “I am making a new dress.”

“A dress of shells?” The old lady croons curiously.

“My niece loves shells.” Her lips purse together, fresh with a perfect cherry chapstick. Hvitserk peeks his head out enough that the older women knew he was there listening. “I was thinking of making her a dress. I don’t see her often.”

“I’m so sorry dear.”

At the end of the conversation, Hvitserk made it a point to gather his ring of jingling keys and jam his phone, a little too fat, in his pocket. He could pick up dinner-- and have an excuse to talk to her more than with Jesper’s presence over her. For a girl walking the beach, he had to wonder what more there was to her when Jesper wasn’t looking.

“H-- Hey (Y/N).” He steps out just as she jangles with a ring of keys. She glances over her freckled shoulder, fluttering long lashes at him. His favourite part are the sun freckles that are baked onto her skin.

“Mr. Ragnarsson.” She says, turning around after popping the door open. Her foot keeps the door ajar while she stands there, now fiddling with a piece of hair. A small flirt-- women always fiddle with their hair when flirting.

“It’s Hvitserk.” He locks the door behind him, hands now in his pockets.

“Hvitserk. I should be going now. I’m not really… free today.”

It always lasts far too little. She slips into her door to go on about sewing her beautiful things. He gathers that by the fabric she totes up the stairs on occasion. Then, just as always, he goes on about his way down the stairs. It was lunch… and Hvitserk? Hvitserk had another salad on his mind.

If only he waited a while longer, he might have heard her sewing machine hit the floor.

Something was different.

He couldn’t place it but… she no longer spent time on the beach. Every night he had available he would look out expecting to see her in her cute bikini, plucking sand crusted shells and rushing home with flopping flipflops before the sun broke past the horizon.

Number 10, Hvitserk Ragnarsson does it again! Another stunning shot!

He flicks the buzzing television off. It was nothing but them pumping him up all the time. It would have been nice-- but he in no way wanted to be ostracized by the rest of his teammates. Perhaps that’s why him being sick, hacking and coughing up some mucky yellowish crap up his throat was for the best.

This way someone else could have the spotlight.

Ding-Dong!

Hm? Hvitserk’s feet shift between the leather and the soft white throw covering his feet. The hardwood floors are cool to the touch, so he hops the whole way into the door. One look on the peep hole revealed her. She stood barefoot against the dull blue carpet in the hall, looking down. He draws the heavy door apart.

“(Y/N)?” He asks, eyes looking down to a lime coloured bowl covered in sticky plastic wrap. Her long hair tumbles around half of her face-- obscuring one eye. She shifts in her jaunty yellow sundress.

“You didn’t go to practice.” She states. “I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well.”

He didn’t know she noticed-- he practiced most days, went to games when he needed to and flew out the country on a regular schedule. It was almost as good as having Ubbe to notice when he was home and when he wasn’t.

“Yeah, stomach flu or something.” He comments, stepping aside. “You wanna come in?”

“Oh no I-- I shouldn’t.” She says so abruptly that he thinks that she might have a conniption. He looks around the vanilla walls of the hall.

“I don’t think he’s out there.” Hvitserk says almost knowingly. He didn’t know the intimate details of their relationship. Yet when it was game day, not for soccer, he had noticed how harshly Jesper spoke of her.

The amount of time she spent sewing-- when in his words, she should have been cleaning and cooking. She should have been on her knees waiting to suck him off. If he were honest, not even he would spend his time degrading himself on the ground for a sack of shit like him.

Hvitserk brings the bowl to the milky countertop of his kitchen just around the corner. She shyly ambles around, stopping short of the breakfast bar. He unwraps the bowl, looking at her warm chicken soup with doughy noodles.

“Is that another of (Y/N)’s creations?” He looks back to her.

“Oh I worked in a Chinese restaurant once--”

“No.” Hvitserk laughs, motioning his finger in a twirl. “The dress.”

She glances down and slaps her hands against the beautiful a-line skirt. Her hands slip down from covering the v-neckline to gently pull out the flowy skirt. Then playfully she twirls around in a quick spin, her skirt becoming nice and full. When she stops, she doesn’t realize that her hair sways away from her normally perfectly made up face. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was a blotch on her cheekbone.

“It is!” She says all at once with a cute little laugh. “Jesper said it was too short.”

“Shorter the better for me.” Hvitserk reaches for a black ladle inside the milky drawer. “It looks like something mor would like.”

“Aslaug?” She leans over the countertop with one hand propping up her cheek. He has to force himself to look away from the fingerprint bruises and cigarette burns littering her arms.

“No other!” Hvitserk spoons a bowl for her and then one for him. “Your designs-- they’re exactly the sort of thing she’d like. Uh, this way.” He sets the ladle into the stainless steel stink and motions her out toward his favourite place in the entire apartment-- the balcony.

She daintily sits upon the ottoman that usually he sets his sneakers upon. Almost like a doll-- because she sits there effortlessly. He notices the fine detail of her skirt, glimmering with crushed shells. Or what he thinks might be the crushed shells. She takes a sip of the salty soup she’s made, looking out toward the lapsing waves on the grainy shore.

“Maybe you could give me your portfolio.” Hvitserk says. “I know you have one with all the pieces you make. She might be interested.”

“You think so?!”

“Yeah, of course.” He says, sniffling. “Plus when you model them, it makes it that much better.”

“Oh I don’t know about that.”

“You’re gorgeous.” Hvitserk blurts out, then realizes his words promptly. He runs his tongue up over the honey coloured hairs of his moustache, trying to decide why exactly he said what he said. She doesn’t seem exactly off put, gazing out at the sun setting behind the line of the horizon.

“I haven’t heard that in a long time.”

“If you had someone who was worth a shit, maybe they would tell you. I know I would.” He glances up from his doughy noodles off to her, she brightens into a smile-- a lying smile when she promptly loses it to the tune of her phone vibrating intensely. He wonders if that dress has pockets when she swipes it out from her bra, eradicating that thought the second he had it.

“Jesper?” He asks.

“Yeah I-- he’s probably hungry. He doesn’t like it when I leave his food out.” She murmurs, silencing the phone with a click of the button on the side.

Hvitserk clears his throat. “Yeah, listen (Y/N), the mark across your cheek--”

“I fell in the bathroom.”

This must have happened a million times with her because she had an answer before he could even formulate a complete answer for him. He recalls what his mother said over the phone about women in abuse. Fighting them, it would just make it that much easier to stay. If she left him, it would be endlessly better than seeing her body littered in bruises.

“Right.” He says. “Just uh… make sure to watch out for yourself. Sharp corners, right?”

Although she doesn’t say anything as she gets up, she gleams a sweet, apologetic look in her eye. She straightens out her beautiful dress and takes the bowl to the kitchen. Somewhere behind him, he hears:

“Thank you, Hvitserk.”

Then, like usual-- she’s out the door.

In Hvitserk’s life, he was never exactly sure of anything. He wasn’t sure if Ivar really loved him. He wasn’t sure if moving across the world was the right choice-- but he was sure of one thing. Those weren’t lovemaking screams.

“Where were you!” It’s muffled. “You were with that fuckin’ Ragnarsson again!”

He wasn’t dumb. He knew when a duck was a duck and that frantic screaming-- her intermittent “please” was definitely not something anyone should be ignoring. The apartment complex is eerily silent other than the crashing of objects within her apartment.

“Let go!”

Brinnng. Brinnng.

“Hvit?” It’s like six in the morning there-- he knows. His brother’s voice is weighed down heavy on the other line. Heavier than his usual husk and groan that he always teased Ubbe about growing up. “It’s--”

“Six, I know.” He whispers. His voice almost sotto voce it has gone so low. “Listen I--”

“FUCKING WHORE!”

“Hvit?”

“Yeah, no I’m here, sorry.” Hvitserk considers his brother once again, tearing his eyes from the heavy door that separates him from the hallway. “My neighbors are fighting.”

“Are you scared?” Ubbe says from across the line. He feels almost six again, holding onto the tails of Ubbe’s shirt while they sought out cold waters to escape the endless pain mother put them through… together.

“No, I uh-- It might be my fault.”

“Your fault?” Ubbe shuffles on the other line. He can tell that his brother is sitting upright now. “What do you mean?”

“I should’ve put a goddamn bullet in your head the first time, fat fucking skank ass bitch!”

Hvitserk’s hand is at his mouth now that he stands in the hall closest to the door. The closer he got, the more audible her screams became. The door almost seems to vibrate underneath them. Or perhaps, in a way, that’s his chest that is buzzing with every moment of uncertainty sinking under his skin like the pricks of pins.

“I invited her in.”

For any ordinary man, harmless. Truly harmless. For a man that was considered more successful than Jesper, treason. He should have never said that he did not see Jesper down the hall. The man had ears in the walls and eyes constantly following her every little move.

Then, there’s silence. Nothing but the smoothness of a cello quartet that she typically would play when she was creating late at night with her hair up in a gorgeous midnight blue ribbon. He only knew as much because on occasions that she took her art book upon the beach, she drew. She would draw her hair up in a ribbon. Salty drawings of sexy, cute and even hopeful pieces would be in her hands when she came up the stairs.

It was supposed to be a soothing place for her. He ruined that too, as he quickly comes to the conclusion that Jesper caught onto Hvitserk’s haplessly excited expression every time she came up the stairs. Hvitserk shifts the waistband of his joggers, mind foggy and heavy with the headache that had been beating his head all day.

“Hvit you know better than that.” Ubbe says. “I told you not to let her in.”

He couldn’t help it. There was no way that he could have known the mood that Jesper would be and staring accusingly to the door, he paces to it. Then, popping the door open, he steps out into the soft, dimly lit hall.

“I know.” Hvitserk says wearily to even his own ears. His heart rate quickens, he can feel it beating against his skin, leaping like his mother’s stupid teacup pomeranian nipping at his ankles when he came home from high school with his brothers. “I’m sorry.”

His knuckles rasp at the last door, reaching to whoever is behind it. The susurration behind the door fills Hvitserk with premature anxiety, bubbling under his skin. Hvitserk slips his phone in his pocket and replaces a bud in his ear.

“Hvitr?” Ubbe shifts. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t say anything.” He says. “Just stay with me.”

The door opens.

“Hvitserk! Hvitserk!”

It smelled like bleach. The kind that his mother threw upon the carport floor after Ivar took a baseball bat to that kid’s head. So bad that he remembers his skin prickling with the sear of chemicals, his whole respiratory system bursting into hacks that he couldn’t control. He thought that he might not recover, wheezing for his mother.

It’s just a little burn, she said. You’ll recover. Do it for him.

The little boy and his parents were gone now. If he waited much longer, something told him that she would be too. The door opens-- but only slightly. Enough that Hvitserk catches Jesper’s cloudy blue eyes in the crack of the door. His lips pull into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hvitserrrrkkk.” He slurs in one long, jittery breath.

Hvitserk’s hand curls in the space between the door and the metal frame, yanking the door of his fingers to crack it back against Jesper’s forehead. This was crazy-- having Ubbe on the line, barking at him.

Got damn it Hvitserk!

He dips into the house, kicking the door shut behind him. With a scraping, rough voice he darts from Jesper’s lurch toward him, drawing out the gun from his waistband. Jesper jerks back, holding up his hands.

“Don’t fuck with me.” Hvitserk says, his chest tightening. He’s not breathing-- or so, he thinks he isn’t breathing. Jesper’s motions slow to a stop, dropping the heavy blade from his fat fingertips. It falls with a clatter on the hardwood floors.

“Where is she?” He says.

“It wasn’t my fault.” Jesper says again. This time, his words made his skin prickle. It only serves to aggravate him-- pushing his anger to bubble over the surface so quickly that he can feel himself gnashing his teeth already.

“You wouldn’t shoot me.” Jesper asks, his eye narrowing upon him. It’s the last he can take, turning his hand up from the outstretched position. The whole time he had been calling a bluff, and there it was, Jesper would have thought. Moments later, Hvitserk brought the butt of his gun down upon Jesper’s cheek, knocking him off balance and onto the ground.

“Where the fuck is she?!” He demands. He loses the control over his voice, raising in his tone when Ubbe reminds him. Check yourself, Hvitserk. He never wanted this life-- but he’s as much a Ragnarsson as any of his brothers sporting a blinding intense rage and in case of fight versus flight, well, they would always fight.

“The bathroom!”

Hvitserk makes a grunt of approval somewhere deep in the back of his throat, and then, his pistol comes upon him again. It’s a blur of slams, knocking him across the face with force until he drops to his satisfaction. In all his promises of what he wouldn’t be, he never thought that this would be him.

Rushing to clear the apartment on the way to the bathroom. Like Bjorn as a police officer showed him how to clear out his own home. In case anyone was ever snooping. Which… this was obviously not his case today.

Ssshhh…

It sounds like the ocean. The water coming in with great, swelling force. But instead of crashing and pulling back into the endless depths, Hvitserk’s bare feet squish. It’s… water. He cuts the corner into the master bathroom. Blood streaks with thin water over the bathroom floor, filling his tongue with the taste of iron before anything else. The red, red blood throws his heart into a pulsing overdrive. He follows the blood to her slashed calve. Her body draped over the edge of the tub. Not moving-- not… not…. Nothing.

“Hvitserk talk to me.” Ubbe calls out to him.

“Help me, Ubbe.”

Ten more minutes.

That was all Ubbe and she had left before he would be back. A litany of the counting down of seconds falls from her lips as she stands there, waiting warily for him to arrive. No guests were allowed at the plane gates and so they waited just outside the baggage claim for him.

Flight number 135, arrival from Los Angeles.

“He’s almost here.” Ubbe whispers from behind her. She stands there on a full stomach, knowing just that Hvitserk is going to want to eat anyway! Excitedly she refreshes her phone not just once-- but a hundred times.

Hvitserk I’m finally here! My numb ass isn’t yet, tho.

She looks over the calendar again, a barrel of excitement. It had been months since she last saw him. When she finally sees him darting down the stairs, ignoring the escalator-- she rushes to grasp her crutches at either side of her arms, standing up with a great amount of force.

“There’s my baby!” Hvitserk yells through the great open space of the baggage claim. Everyone had to have heard that. She hobbles forward, a beautiful deep blue dress hugging down to her knees. Hvitserk sweeps her off the ground, twirling her around while enjoying her brilliant laughter.

“Hvitserk!”

When he puts her down again, she sways, narrowly falling if not for her sweet Hvitserk dipping down to pick up her crutch. He supports her while she takes into her hand, limping in time with him.

“How was the flight?” She asks sweetly.

“It was good.” He responds in turn, looking down to her before over to Ubbe. The three slowly amble over to the metal baggage claim. The bags don’t come down the metal slide just yet. Hvitserk glances to the shifting plates and then finally chooses to say something.

“I heard that Mor approved your clothing line.” He says, slurring a little with loss of sleep on the plane. He couldn’t sleep an inch since he got on there. “The press seems to like your pieces in the line for uh, “adaptive” needs. Did you have to tell them about what happened?”

“Of course I had to.” She says. “My leg wasn’t like this when I met you, right? Modeling pretty bikinis and sundresses all day...”

Hvitserk shifts uncomfortably-- looking over to Ubbe who stands with his hands folded one over another. Her relationship wasn’t the only thing that ended that day. The dream of being some big supermodel like the Aslaug, queen of the supermodels, also died. Whether anyone said it or not-- no one wanted a model with a limp.

“(Y/N).” Ubbe prompts, thick and slurry. It's laughable to her now but for a congested airport where passengers are tightly clustered around their baggage claim, she knows that more than one has turned to look at her. The metal plates shift around the machine. Ubbe moves forward to go find Hvitserk’s bags.

“It wasn’t your fault okay?” She says. “Who knew a silly achilles tendon could make such a fuss.” She almost makes a joke of it. Maybe its to bite back the pain she was in on a constant basis. Just like his brother Ivar told him once.

“So you’re doing this for you, then?”

“I’m doing it because all women deserve to be sexy. All of them. My clothes will bring them that.” She leans against his arm. “Ivar understands.”

Ivar was also, oh, Hvitserk didn’t know-- born like that. Hvitserk worries what might happen from this new narrative of abuse. Not for his sake but for hers. His mother promised this would be done carefully to keep her safe.

“Yeah, you know, I do too.” Hvitserk swallows. “It’s good. It’s just--”

“You’re worried about me.” She shifts around, looking outside of large arching windows that bring in bright light. A radiant light that fills the airport with hope, and for her, as Hvitserk discovers… a new chance at life. Outside, Ivar reclines against the car with his hand upon his own crutch. It was only a loading zone but hey, being a cripple did have its benefits!

“Yeah.” Hvitserk swallows.

“You don’t have to be.”

Then as he opens his mouth again, she leans up to his lips. She places a closed lipped kiss upon his lips. Then as she turns, shouting at Ubbe to hurry up, Hvitserk smiles. This... this girl, the loud one with beautiful dresses and vibrant makeup, this was the real her.

“Because Hvitserk-- I’m finally free.”

@two-unbeatable-beaters, @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok (no mix), @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @titty-teetee, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @piebytheocean, @strangunddurm, @atequilahead, @rekdreams247, @justacrush, @ivarswonderlust, @peachesnpisces, @elenawrit, @equalstrashflavoredtrash, @roxxck, @dylanowhyyien, @ilvebeenabad, @vikingsmania, @huntingbears, @my-little-wolfe, @seize-the-droid, @moondustmemories, @colourmeinblue, @ilvebeenabad, @queenmissfit,  @hallowed-heathen, @neeadinghugs, @mblaqgi, , @triumphantreturnofpies, @dmv49, @attorneyl, @iconicvaleria-blog, @lovelynerdytraveler, @tierneygonzalez, @zabee113, @meganjudee, @sdcyumyum, @ms-allenbrown, @pancake-blonde, @ivarswickedqueen, @starkiddreamer, @austenkingmylady, @thisisparadisemylove, @pinkrockstar19, @jeowjungkook, @end-of-night, @yaminax-kuss-a , @gruffle1, @arses21434@natalie-rdr, @tempt-ress, @thevikingsheaux, @poisonedjoinery, @smokealone, @chewythecatus, @laughinglikenialler, @lefrenchfrye, @mybarnesmyhero, @vengefulflange, @imcreepininyourheartbabe, @therealmrshale, @that-goodgirl, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @athroatfullofglass @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke @arses21434,  @smileyparrots, @Moosemittens13, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @fangirls94, @mcuimxgine, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102, @astoryoffireandlight, @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly--canthrope

[headoverhiddles]

All I Want For Juldagen [Bill Skarsgård x Reader]

Warnings: Nothing! Holiday fluff! 

Bill is a hopeless romantic. 

He tries to tell you he isn’t, but when he takes you out for candlelit dinners “because you look cute”, you beg to differ. Today, he’s got your hand in his, and you’re wrapped around his arm as you stroll by the water together, you in your toque and him with his own new black beanie on (after you made him ditch his grandpa paperboy hat, after much sulking). 

“So did you get what you needed today?” he asks. 

“Yep. I’m fully loaded,” you smile, referring to the shopping trip the two of you had taken today for Christmas– your boyfriend was off for a couple of months right now, as he had finished all the filming he needed to on the latest film he was in. You love that you’ll have him to yourself for a while. 

“My siblings and I are all throwing in to send dad and mum on a trip, and you’ve gotten them matching sweaters, so they’re covered,” Bill says. 

“I got Gustaf a tea set, Valter Far Cry 3, Alex a cactus because he always said he wanted one and I take all of his jokes seriously on purpose, and Elijah a gift card to Le Chateau,” you recount. 

“And I got your mom a honey-scented candle, your dad an Amazon gift card, and your dog a new antler bone,” he smiles, kissing your cheek. You giggle. 

“You know my family and my dog love you more than they love me, right?” you deadpan. 

“And I intend to keep it that way,” Bill nods, and you smack his arm lightly. The unspoken wondering hangs in the air of what each of you got the other person– you had gotten a box of Bill’s favourite Swedish candies, and made him a book of those cheesy coupons with ridiculously kinky favours inside like “you are entitled to watch me do the dishes naked” or “you are entitled to ten minutes of head while you do the vacuuming” which isn’t technically a great or physically practical privilege, but hey… you knew your boyfriend would get a kick out of them. You had mentioned a few things you were looking for this year, like a new tea towel for the stove or a new lampshade that didn’t have a thread hanging off it, but you always felt bad for asking Bill for any real gifty-type gift. 

He always insisted, and you always insisted right back that of course you wanted nothing more than a new toilet seat cover or a nice carpet for the foyer. Before now, Bill had chalked it up to you being really into interior decorating– that is, until he caught you today staring intently through the window of the jewellery store. He saw what you were looking at, but you had quickly assured him you were just browsing, keeping your daydreams to yourself. 

“Still gonna tell me you want a lampshade for Christmas?” Bill asks, finger rubbing circles into your palm as you keep walking. You look out over the water, the stars reflecting beautifully in it. 

“Well… I guess I can be a little naughty, and spring for a sexy pair of panties from Victoria’s Secret.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know, baby… that’s asking a lot… getting a little greedy there, I think." 

You giggle again, blushing, and he tilts you chin up, smile suddenly fading from his gorgeous lips as he stops you. 

"Hey. I would give you the world if you asked for it, you know that?"  You slowly nod, and stand up on your tippy toes to kiss him.  You two continue walking. 

-                                                                                                        

You roll over and sigh contentedly as Bill joins you in bed. He had just finished brushing his teeth after having his last cigarette of the day, and the two of you were settling in for a movie. 

"What do you wanna watch?” he murmurs, “We’ve got Elf… that old Moomin Christmas movie Alexander was in… The Santa Clause… Rudolph-" 

"Black Christmas,” you say, and he huffs a laugh. 

“I fully blame you if I can’t go to the bathroom tonight in fear of somebody strangling me with Christmas lights." 

"Come on, you know I like to watch this every year,” you pout. 

“If you can put up with my Christmas traditions, I can put up with yours,” he smiles, kissing your forehead, and you both turn to the screen. About halfway through, Bill looks down to find you asleep on his chest. He tries to keep watching just to say he did, but he’s too terrified, and turns it off to snuggle with you. You both fall asleep in each other’s arms.  It’s almost Christmas, and the tree is up. It’s got a combination of your decorations and his, yours being the little bells and snowflakes and Santa ornaments, and his being the traditional apples (fake ones), candles (plastic tea lights, so you didn’t burn the place down like so many Swedish people obviously did in the 16th century) and a few small gnomes that he had taken with him from his childhood home. It was a nice tree, you had to admit, and the decorations made it perfect. 

This year, your respective families were coming to visit you where you both lived (just outside of LA right now, convenient for Bill’s work), and you had already had your family over.

If you didn’t go to Sweden to visit, (which was always fun, especially the particularly appetizing anchovy and egg dish you got to eat with everyone, Gubbröra) Bill’s family usually came a little after Juldagen (Christmas Day) and closer to Annandag Jul (Boxing Day) as it was hard with all of Bill’s brothers to coordinate who was available when, who was shooting what when, etc. etc.. You did love when the Skarsgårds came and visited here though, especially with Stellan dressing up as Jultomten, knocking at the door with his sack of gifts. Every time, Bill insisted you both were way too old for that, and every time Alexander, like the dutiful eldest son he is, always reminded everyone that nobody was too old for Santa Claus. 

Your parents loved the gifts, as did your dog, and once again, Bill had won their hearts. You remember watching him talk to your dad in private, and thought back to when your parents used to tell you how they hoped you would find someone right for you.  Bill feels like that guy. 

- Three days before Juldagen, you both are busy with preparations.

“I’m so glad our families aren’t annoying,” you remark, pouring some eggnog. 

“Well, mine’s annoying. Yours isn’t,” Bill smiles, adjusting the two stockings over the fireplace. 

“I love your family,” you say, sticking your tongue out, and he shrugs.  “Glad one of us does.” He laughs out loud. “No, I agree. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about a mother in law from hell." 

"In law?” you ask in curiosity, and he quickly snaps his gaze up. 

“Uh, hypothetically." 

"Oh,” you nod, and he clears his throat. 

“Hey, um, is that snowman thing on the roof still crooked?” he asks, dashing up the stairs quickly with those freakishly long legs, “I’ll fix it!”

You frown at his weird behaviour, and go back to pouring a little rum into each glass of eggnog. 

“Don’t get strangled with Christmas lights up there!” you call with a grin, and hear him shriek playfully. You take out your phone, sending Merry Christmas texts to all your friends and family, and sigh. 

It never snowed in LA like it did when the two of you visited Sweden, but other than that, it was shaping up to be a perfect Christmas. 

-

Childlike excitement fills you as you wake up earlier than you usually do on Christmas Eve.

“Baby,” you hiss, “Hey! It’s Christmas Eve." 

He blinks awake, and rubs his eyes. "Oh… Merry Christmas,” he smiles, kissing you softly. A few seconds into the kiss, you push lightly on his chest as he starts to deepen it and get handsy. 

“Come on. We can save that for dessert,” you grin, and he smiles too, tugging on a shirt and pyjama pants to go downstairs. You forget when you launch yourself out of bed that you’re still in your candy cane lingerie dress, that wouldn’t be complete without the little panties that read “Dear Santa, Define "Good”. Bill slaps your ass as he walks by, and as you squeal, he picks you up, carrying you bridal style down the stairs. 

“I have to change,” you protest, laughing. 

“Why?” he laughs too, “You look perfect. Don’t ever change." 

"Saying I look perfect and being a cornball won’t get you laid any faster,” you tease, and he shakes his head. 

“Damn. Thought I really had that one in that in the bag.” You two giggle together until you make it to the huge tree in your living room. You hop down from Bill’s arms to turn on the tree lights, and flop down by the TV. An entire day of watching Christmas movies and cuddling with hot chocolate and Creme de Mente later, it’s time for the gifts when it gets dark. In Swedish tradition, gifts were opened Christmas Eve, so you had gotten used to it this way. 

About a half hour later, you’re finally on the last one. Bill loved his candies and had already eaten half the box, and his coupons were a hit too- he had already redeemed ‘you are entitled to an upside down on the floor kiss’. 

“One more,” he says, licking his lips. You watch him… he only really does that when he’s nervous. You reach for the box at the back of the tree skirt, and begin to take the paper off slowly. 

“Bill…” you start, and he envelops your hands as you finally open the gift up. A gasp escapes you. It’s… it’s the rose ring from the front display of the jewellers, the one from that new Beauty and the Beast “Enchanted” line that you couldn’t stop staring at and dreaming about! It was beautiful– the little twists of the silver and diamond made the middle look like a little rose, and oh god, it was everything you wanted and more. 

“Will you be my wife?” he asks simply, very nervously, and you break down, sniffling and rubbing your eyes. 

“Oh my god… yes, Bill! I Iove you so much." 

”(Y/n),“ he smiles, and squeezes your hands, "I know you hate the song, but…”

You look up at him from the ring, tear-brimmed eyes widening.  “D-don’t say it,” you laugh through your happy tears, “Don’t be th-that guy."  "Hey, I’ve got nothing to lose now.” He beams at you. “All I want for Christmas is you.” He slips the ring on your finger, and tugs you closer to him, crashing your lips together. 

“Oh, and the new pair of panties is waiting upstairs under the bed. Along with the lampshade." 

You giggle, resting your forehead against your fiancé’s. By next Christmas, you two would be married… and not a season too soon.

[seanhtaylor]

No Man Is

Dinner at eight. Sex at nine-thirty -- ten at the latest. Depends on the service at Roberto's tonight. If we get that lousy mid-western kid again, it could be as late as eleven before we're out of there. Really, Roberto ought to fire that kid.

Should it be the skimpy red velvet one tonight? Maybe the navy blue leather one -- Warren says I look really sexy in the blue one. What would he know? He'd say I look sexy in any of them. Just play along, that's what he thinks, just play along and feed her a few compliments and he'll get what he wants, all stars are like that. . . Small minds, I get so sick of them.

Another interruption. Just great. I really ought to talk to someone at that answering service. Too many of these things slip through.

"Hey darling. I've got some bad news."

"Really. What? Having trouble matching your bow tie to your socks again?"

"Worse."

"Your polo pony caught something from an undesirable filly and won't stop scratching?"

"Hilarious. You're a regular riot. Now would you please shut up and listen?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Look. Dad's entertaining some Arabs tonight, and one of them has a daughter ready to hit the big three-oh. It's a favor for Dad. Really. She's a tramp, true dog meat. Got nothing on you, sweetheart."

What, no screaming fans at every corner? No number one re-mixes? Dry up and die, Warren.

"Yeah, whatever. Maybe tomorrow night."

"OK. . .Hey, thanks for understanding. Blood's thicker than water, you know."

I hang up, listening to the bath water lap against the sides of the tub while Boots swats at the bubbles. I imagine the same bubbles swimming in my nose, throat, lungs. Boots licking my hand, giving up, and slinking off to the bowl by the refrigerator. Rest. . .

"Here Boots. Let Mommy in. Cats aren't supposed to like water."

Nice night for a walk. Maybe afterwards.

* * * * *

Tramps, all of them. Whatever happened to real heroes? When I was kid, we had the Shadow, Lone Ranger, even Batman and Robin. Now it's these sex-crazed musicians. Self- proclaimed Messiahs for a new generation.

At seven-thirty, I'll call it a night. Been on the corner all day anyway. I'll be back tomorrow morning, shouting and screaming. "Repent! Repent!" It used to be so clear, easy to tell them. Now they can't hear me for all the noise those headphones are pumping into their ears.

Just like Ellis, everyone of them. Not one of them goes by that I don't see a little bit of Ellis in their eyes, hear a little bit of Ellis out of their mouths. Ellis cursed his father, too. Even cursed me on the note he left.

One more show tonight. Gangster rap crowd. They think it's cool. I can tell by the walk.

About four of them. The biggest one's got a knife. He doesn't know I know, but he's got it anyway. Right up against his wallet. Probably a butterfly. That's where Ellis kept his.

"Yo! What's up, old man? Why ain't ya preaching no more? You all out of things to say? Or did you change your mind all of a sudden?"

"Yeah. I got some something real smooth jammin' right now. Real smooth. . .'Ooh baby. . .give me what you got. . .' Wanna hear it?" The short one offers me his headphones.

"Repent!" I say. "Repent! Quit following the gods of that trash you're listening to. 'Thou shalt have no other gods before me.' That's what the Bible says."

"Ain't got no time for the Bible. It don't rhyme."

"Can't dance to it either."

"Listen," I say, "You'll dance soon enough. Dance right on into Hell. Dance forever. No stopping, then. All these zealots of immorality will be dancing with you then. But you can outsmart them. Repent! Repent!"

They don't like what I say. The one with the knife pushes me down. I think each one of them gets a chance to kick me as they go by. That'll hurt in the morning. But bruises heal.

They yell something at me as they run off. I can't hear it clear enough to make it out. The sounds don't separate themselves in my head when the darkness comes in. . .they just mix together. Maybe I'll go in at eight or nine -- whenever I wake up.

Some listen. Some don't. All I can do is all I can do.

* * * * *

I'd turn on the radio, but I get so tired of hearing my songs over and over again. I used to think it was so cool to hear the radio playing something I wrote, something I sang, because I knew then that they thought I was good enough. Now it doesn't matter, and I know it. They'll play any old crap I give them. All it needs is my name on the CD.

Let's see: jeans, raggy t-shirt, Papa's fishing hat, a ski-mask if I had one, and these old Nikes (the old-fashioned ones I bought before the air pumps). Maybe this windy city will be blowing so hard nobody'll notice me. Sometimes a girl needs to be alone. Without the whole crazy world chasing her down like she was wearing a sign that said "A MILLION BUCKS - - JUST CATCH ME TO WIN!"

Wonder if I'll see Warren and that Arabian princess tramp. His Dad does enjoy showing off the city whenever company is in town. Driving down the strip in his stretch limo. Guess he doesn't quite realize that those things are a dime a dozen nowadays. Oh well, Warren wouldn't recognize me if I weren't wearing something kinky anyway. It's a perverted kind of tunnel vision he's got.

Better call George downstairs. See if he can't let me leave by the loading area again. The winos make great company. Don't ask a lot of questions.

"George."

"That you, Miss Diva?"

"Can you sneak me out back again tonight? Last time, I promise."

"For a kiss."

"Don't tempt me, George. Your heart rate alone would kill you. And I wouldn't want that on my conscience. Besides, I might not find anybody else who'd let me use the back door."

"It was worth a try, anyhow. Sure, come on down. You gonna use the service elevator?"

Dear sweet George. I bet he hasn't seen a single one of my videos. He probably wouldn't be so sweet then. Come after me like I was the anti-Christ, jump on that "She's ruining our kids" bandwagon. Thank God Salem was a hundred years ago.

"Yeah. Bought my new album yet?" I hope he's blushing.

"Naw. Not on a security guard's salary. It'd be a little too new for me, anyhow. No Benny Goodman on it. I'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes."

"Thanks, George."

Well, Boots. You up for a little walk down the strip? No? Well, keep an eye on the apartment for Mommy. Wouldn't want to lose anything. On second thought, let someone take it all. It would be a welcome change.

* * * * *

The lights spin like showgirls, rapt in their performance. I try to focus, but the showgirls keep dancing, teasing, taunting, twirling around all glamor and frills.

Something dark that reeks of a night's sweat comes between me and the lights.

"Hey, mon. You ok?"

He's a big black man, close to six-and-a-half feet, no joke. And he's got those long dreadlocks growing like ropes from his scalp. Real unnatural.

"I say, hey mon, are you ok?"

I groggle something out to him, noise mostly, that he at least pretends to understand. He reaches out to help me up, out of the alley.

"Thank you," I say.

"Don't mention it. You need a ride somewhere?"

"No thanks. I live here." As I say it I realize he probably assumes I'm talking about the alley. . .that I'm a boozing, vagrant wino.

"Ok, mon. Take care!"

He's gone before I can correct him.

My watch beeps faintly, one of those cheap twelve dollar made-in-Taiwan kind of beeps, alerting me that it's ten till eight. I always set it ten minutes fast.

The loading bay doors of The Regal open. Probably some college kid carrying out the trash. . . No, it's a rent-a- cop checking the alley. No drugs here, I start to yell to him, just a beat-up old preacher, trying to save a few souls.

After he comes out, he holds the door for this kid who was behind him. Rough looking kid. Faded blue jeans, full of holes, baggy flannel button-up covering an old undershirt, and an ancient fishing hat. Fashion is something I'll never grasp.

The kid kisses the rent-a-cop on the cheek, makes him cross his heart on a whispered promise, and then jumps from the loading dock to the alley. I'm going to assume the best, that the kid is just leaving work from one of the shops downstairs at The Regal, and takes a shortcut home through the alley. Only walks a few feet after the door closes behind the rent-a-cop. Leans against a wall, pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket on the front of the flannel shirt, lights a match on the bricks of the wall, and sucks a cigarette like it was a straw. Blows smoke rings, too. Darn good ones.

Ellis used to blow rings, too. He used to try to catch them on his finger, score a point for each one he caught. Scored thirty-eight points once. His room smelled like smoke when his mother and I cut him down. Unfiltered smoke. It made his mother sick. Me, I just ignored it, washed the odor out of my clothes, and threw up later. But first we had to turn that music off.

The kid looks over to me, offers me one.

"No thanks. I like my lungs."

"Suit yourself. Gonna die anyway. Fire's as good as ice, or something like that. I never can remember."

I want to tell this kid to repent. Throw away those smokesticks, and breath the fresh air of Jesus. But I can't -- my lungs and ribs hurt too much. One of the hoodlums must've been wearing pointed shoes.

The kid finishes the smoke, then puffs down two more without missing a beat.

* * * * *

The fresh air smacks against me like a kiss, shooting me up like morphine. No pain. No memories. No anything.

I finish the third stogey, and crunch the butt under the heel of my Nikes. The wino looks at me, still shaking his head after declining my offer of a cig. Well, at least I'm not sleeping in some alley with a bottle of Jack, or whatever guys over sixty-five who live in dirty alleys drink now. I wish he'd stop looking at me that way, accusing. If I wanted that, I could just grab the Lear and fly back to Iowa to Mom and Dad. Even they would hug me first before condemning me.

Maybe that's why I hang on to Warren.

Three to get ready, and four to go, so I light up one more, and start walking out of the alley. The wind has other ideas, lifting Papa's hat, whisking it back over to the wino. He's nice enough, picking it up and knocking the dirt from it. I pop my neck, stretching the muscles, and slide my fingers through my freshly cropped hair. Kind of a long flapper cut. . .it's starting to grow on me. The wind tickles my scalp, triggering the night's rush again.

"Thanks."

He doesn't answer, seems shocked that I'm a girl underneath the street urchin clothes. Oh well, thought I'd made a friend. You win some, you lose some. Nothing new under the sun. I take the hat, tuck my hair back up under it, and head incognito into the street.

Then all Hell breaks loose. The wino starts screaming at me.

"You! You're that high-fashion harlot of music that's running this country's morals into the ground! Diva! My God, what if everybody's little girl grew up to be like you?"

Great. So much for incognito. In just a few seconds, people start gathering like maggots on dead meat. Thanks a lot, old man.

"Taxi! Hey, taxi!"

People, paper, pens. No matter where I look they're all around me. Stupid old preacher. Go ruin somebody else's night. I've got enough problems.

"Hey, everybody! Look! It's Diva!"

"I think you're great."

"Can I have your autograph? It's for my cousin."

I wonder if this is what a lab rat feels like, having to push all the right buttons while the guys in glasses and white coats stand around and watch. Only, now the glass between me and the crowd has been removed, and they're squeezing in, huddling in tighter to touch me, pull me apart, get a piece of me, carry me home as a souvenir -- "The Night I Touched Diva!"

"Taxi!"

"Please, just a few autographs."

Can't think. Can't feel the night air. Won't you please leave me alone. You don't want me. . . you want Diva. I'm not Diva. I'm not Diva. I'm. . . My God, who am I?

"Sure, just a few. Anything for my fans."

A blur of yellow rescues me. I fall inside less than gracefully. In the back seat, I cup my hands to hide my face.

* * * * *

My God, Ellis. Is this what you saw when the floor danced beneath you?

The attention she commands. The worship she craves. A pimp in black leather selling sex to children. And once they're hooked, they beg for more. Not one kid in the crowd is older than eighteen. Most look at least thirty, padded and curved, showing off the adultness of their bodies. But they're children. And begging at her feet like pets, ready to play.

"Repent! Repent!" I say, but I know they can't hear. All I can do is all I can do.

My sermon gets lost in the thunder they give her. Try as I might, I can do nothing here. God forgive them for they know not what they do. If anyone causes one Your little ones to stumble, oh Lord, have mercy. . .

A cab sweeps in, screeching recklessly next to the curb. She crawls in, bowing first to soak in their praise. The yellow door slams behind her, and the cab screams off.

It takes a good fifteen minutes for the crowd to fully disperse. Most of them linger, trading stories of how close they got, what her clothes felt like. Two girls in the front lie on the sidewalk, passed out. I guess they actually touched her.

Might as well get a cup of coffee before going home. Henry's place is only two blocks away. Let the commotion die down a little.

When I enter, the smell of hot coffee is solid like a wall. Just being here cheers me up, even makes my side feel better. Sid and Gladys wave, ask me for a soul count. Marty looks up, nods, then looks away, finishing his grilled cheese and Maxwell House. Two drunks are passed out in the corner booth. I stuff a Gideon New Testament in each one's shirt pocket, and order them each an omelet plate and some fresh coffee for when they wake up. Henry will see that they get it.

"Here's twenty bucks. It'll get them each a night at the shelter," I say to Henry as I sit down, "Don't let them have it till after I leave."

He takes the money. "The last two blew it on more liquor. What makes you think these two won't?"

"Just got a feeling this time, Henry."

"You had a feeling last time."

He's right. Most of them drink it all away. Probably end up right back in the corner booth, drunk and passed out. Some don't.

"Didja hear the news, Wilson? About Diva's new album being banned in two stores in Mississippi?" Henry asks me. And as he does, I remember the color of her eyes when I handed her the cap, deep brown like Ellis', before they dulled from drugs.

"Well, preacher, didja hear me? Diva's new album was banned from two stores in Mississippi."

I ignore him as much as I can. "Ham and cheese omelet. Grits and toast, too."

"Bet those libs'll be making a stink about their first amendment rights again. Yes sir, this time it's got the smell of a lawsuit all over it."

Henry keeps talking to me, but the words get lost somewhere between us. Eventually, he gives me the omelet plate, and I join the two drunks at the corner booth. One stirs as I sit, shows me a picture of his wife, then passes out again. My watch lets me know it's ten till nine.

© Sean Taylor

[ryik-the-writer]

CHAPTER 14 pt. 2: Wild Goose Chase?

Wendy and Pan go on a jewel hunt which quickly turns into a wild goose chase...well...the goose is a turkey.

Wanted to have this posted on Thanksgiving but...things

Previous Chapters

Chapter 1: Pan meets a Wendy

Chapter 2: Scars (Felix’s Story)

Chapter 3: Day One

Chapter 4: Revenge and Fireflies

Chapter 5: Brighter than Stars

Chapter 6: filler: The Tigress

Chapter 7: Operation Spotless!

Chapter 8: Operation Spotless: Reporters Down

Chapter 9: A Dance with the Devil

Chapter 10: filler: Felix and the Pancake

Chapter 11: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 1

Chapter 12: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 2

Chapter 13: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 3

Chapter 14. Recovery

Chapter 14.2 Recovery some more

Chapter 15: Trapped

A03

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

1 week later

Wendy wasn’t sure if she was bored out of her mind or blissfully relieved about the period of normalcy in Storybrooke.

She stared at Storybrooke’s event board as she played with her now short hair (which Tink had evened out for her without question). Belle French’s recovery had been the talk of the town, but now that she was getting better and no other updates on Jekyll had occurred, the town was hungry for another story.

Unfortunately, there was no front-page material going on in the town.

Wendy was glad for the lull, and staying with Tink had helped sleep more peacefully (she had a surprisingly comfortable pullout couch). Yet, now that there was peace in her life, she wasn’t sure what to do with her time. When there wasn’t total chaos in Storybrooke, there was nothing at all.

She glanced from her desk (which was still dusty and outdated but homier with the added pictures) to Pan’s which was subsequently empty, as it had been since they had been released from the hospital. Wendy wasn’t sure if he was taking time off or if he was reconnecting with Belle or even helping find Jekyll, who was still missing. She couldn’t help thinking that if he was around, she wouldn’t be as bored.

A knock on the door brought Wendy from her musings. She glanced around the wall to see an elderly gentleman standing there, hat in hand and kind eyes searching around the room. Wendy recognized him from his frequent visits in the diner, but aside from that didn’t even know his name.

“Marco!” Sydney greeted, using the cane he had to use for therapy to stand. “Long time no see. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping I could talk to Peter and the lady reporter who found Miss French.”

Sydney seemed taken aback by the request but shrugged. “Sure. I’ll give Pan a call and…” he glanced around until his sights landed on Wendy. “Ah, can you come here kid?”

Wendy carefully approached the two, her paranoia instincts reminding her than anyone could be an enemy.

“Hello.” Marco greeted in a light accent, taking Wendy’s hand as if it were made of precious glass. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss…Darling, no?”

“Yes,” Wendy answered more easily. “Wendy Darling.”

“I can’t begin to tell you what an honor it is just to speak to you. Belle…I adored that dear girl, didn’t think I’d ever see her again. You brought her back to this town.”

Wendy blushed at the light praise. “It…I’m just glad she’s safe. Thank you.”

“You’re…very good at finding hidden things, no?”

Wendy stared curiously at the man. “Um, hidden things…find me actually.” She coughed nervously.

“Forgive me, I just mean—”

The door burst open and Wendy and Marco turned to watch Pan stomp in, looking pissed at the world and then some.

“What?” Pan snarled, his cheeks red from the cold air.

“Peter!” Marco greeted heartily. “Good to see you! I have something to discuss with you and the young lady.”

Pan turned to Wendy who shrugged good-naturedly.

“Fine, whatever. Follow me.”

Wendy made a mad dash back to her desk for her notebook before she followed Pan and Marco to the small breakroom. Pan flopped back in one of the creaky chairs and half-heartedly addressed the two.

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Pan.” Wendy hissed. “Be a little courteous.”

“What? It’s just Marco.” Pan shrugged.

Wendy rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry. Won’t you have a seat?”

“Thank you.” Marco nodded. “I’m glad I can speak to both of you. I have a bit of a proposition for you both.”

“Easy Marco.” Pan smirked. “I don’t play the prostitution route. She might but…”

Wendy kicked him under the table. “Can you get anymore vulgar?”

Pan rubbed his knee, glaring at Wendy. “Give me some time, we’ll find out.”

Marco cleared his throat nervously. “If I need to come back—”

“No!” Wendy and Pan exclaimed in unison.

“Please continue.”

Marco fidgeted with his hat as he went on. “About a week ago, things of mine started…disappearing.”

“What kind of things?” Wendy inquired.

“Insignificant things at first, nails, bolts and little bits of junk around my shop. But then more important things like my dear wife’s wedding ring and pearls.”

Wendy turned to Pan who looked unintrigued but had an eyebrow raised in question.

“If it’s personal property that’s missing, why not go to the police?”

Marco’s eyes lowered, his fingers dancing over his hat.

Wendy jumped when Pan suddenly shot up. “What!”

“It’s August isn’t it?” Pan inquired with glee. “You think he’s stealing from you?”

“I’ll have you not talk about my boy that way.” Marco fought.

“August is your…son?” Wendy inquired both for information and to keep an argument from transpiring.

“Yes.” Marco confirmed. “He lost his way a long time ago, left the country for a while but came back after he ran out of money. He opened a business refurbishing automobile parts, and he was stable for a while, but now I fear…he may be slipping away once more. I believe in my heart he wouldn’t do such a thing but…I have to be sure.”

“And you don’t want to turn your own son into the police in case your right.” Wendy continued.

“Yes. I’ve searched and searched but I haven’t found the missing jewels. I can’t imagine where he might have hidden them. You see why I’ve come to the two of you.”

Pan scoffed. “Me maybe, but her…”

Wendy shot Pan a dirty glare. “I do recall I was the one who found the lost dogs AND Belle. You were the one who nearly got us killed.”

Pan gave her a look of his own. “We would have gotten in those situations with or without police interference.”

“We wouldn’t have had guns held to our heads if they had come sooner!”

Marco flinched as they fought. “Should I…”

“No!” they shouted in unison.

Pan growled and fell back in his chair. “Are we going to do this or not?”

Wendy looked at Marco, his eyes so fearful but hopeful. She didn’t want to deny him the help he needed.

“I just…we’re not detectives or anything.”

“No,” Pan said, sitting up. “We’re better than that: we’re sleuths. Journalists who are basically undocumented investigators.”

Wendy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Your passion disturbs me.”

“Good. Be disturbed.” Pan smirked, mischief shining in his deep, green eyes.

“What if this turns out to be something bigger? I am really sick of having a gun pulled on me.”

“We’ll do what we’ve always done: I’ll find something to stab him with, and you duck.”

“I assure you, my son is not dangerous.” Marco defended.

Pan shrugged. “I’ve been on the back of his motorcycle before; he’s plenty dangerous.”

Both Marco and Wendy stared at Pan who shook off their questionable stares. “Unimportant. I’m in, are you Wendy-bird.”

Wendy took in a breath, pushing down the wave of fear that came along with her “investigating”. Having Pan with her gave her mixed sense of security. He’d probably hide her cellphone if she tried to contact the police this time. He’d make things utterly difficult for her, and most of it would be just to annoy her. Still, she needed to do something. Sitting at her desk wasn’t helping her heal, it was making her more antsy.

“If anything happens...”

“I will use my body as a shield.” Pan promised her with a wink.

Wendy groaned, turning to Marco. “What exactly would you like us to do?”

“Thank you.” Marco sighed in relief. “I would like you to search his residence for the stolen jewelry so that, if he should have them, I can confront him without police interference.”

Wendy nodded, still unconvinced but wanting to help. “Where does he live?”

“His business is just at the town limits. He may be hiding the jewel’s there. My shop is only a mile or so away.”

Wendy stopped her writing, a cold wave sinking into her stomach. “The woods. Just perfect.”

Pan snorted at her discontent. “We’ll head there in about an hour. You can see your way out?”

Marco nodded, giving Wendy a concerned look as he put on his hat and left the breakroom.

“You’re freaking out.” He said as soon as Marco was out of ear-shot.

“It’s just…” Wendy swallowed. “what if…Jekyll’s out there?”

“He’s not.” Pan said decidedly as he gathered his things.

“How do you know?” Wendy sighed.

“I just do.” Pan returned agitatedly. “Just…trust me.”

“Oh God not this again.”

Pan rolled his eyes and stepped up to her. “I promise you, Jekyll will never come near you again.”

Wendy hesitated, something a lot more sinister than her paranoia keeping her rooted. Still, she wanted to solve Marco’s mystery, wanted to keep busy. Wanted to move on.

She nodded her consent and Pan with triumph and shoved a helmet in her hands.

“What…how are we getting there?”

Pan turned to her from the door way, smirking cockily.

“I have a moped, remember?”

-,-,-,-,-

Wendy considered jumping from Pan’s bike as he zoomed around a corner, causing her to squeeze his waist tighter which only boosted his ego. If they weren’t going 70 miles per hour, she would have punched him in the ribs.

A cabin came into view and Wendy felt relieved that their journey was almost over.

“So what’s the plan? Do we just knock on his door, throw him against the wall and tear his business apart?” Wendy questioned as they came to a stop in a cluster of trees at the back of August’s residence.

“Kinky, but no.” Pan responded as he hid the moped, holding out his hand for Wendy’s helmet.

Wendy rolled her eyes and removed her helmet, running her fingers through her now short hair. She handed the helmet over to Pan and found him staring at her, this odd look in his eyes. It didn’t make her uncomfortable but just slightly subconscious.

“What?” she inquired.

Pan blinked, snatching the helmet from her. “Nothing. Follow me.”

Wendy did as he bayed and stayed on his heals until he stopped them just at the tree-line.

“Now we wait.” Pan said.

“Why?”

Pan pointed to a parked motorcycle at the shop’s front. “He’s still here. Once he leaves we’ll be free to go through his things, check walls and floorboards and the naught.”

Wendy gave Pan a questioning look. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing…”

Pan scoffed. “People always hide the goods in the tightest places. Learned that as a kid.”

“Oh.” Wendy replied in astonishment. “Who taught you that?”

Pan’s good-natured smile disappeared. “Not important. Forget I said anything.”

Wendy sighed in disappointment. For a moment she thought she was going to get to know him just a bit more.

“You still owe me a story.” Wendy pressed. “Well, more like a saga at this point.” She laughed to try to lighten the mood, but his dark look only intensified.

“If you can’t stay focused than go stand with the moped.” He hissed, a clear warning in his town.

Wendy shuddered and looked away. “I’m sorry. I just—”

Pan’s hand suddenly collided with her mouth, stopping her apology and subsequently pissing Wendy off.

She slapped his hand away. “How dare you—”

“Shh!” he commanded, nodding to the shop.

Wendy looked up to see a gruff man in a leather jacket put a helmet on as he exited the shop—August if Wendy had to assume.

“Why don’t we go talk to him?” Wendy inquired more quietly. “You seem to know him, maybe he’ll open up to you.”

Pan burst into a bitter scoff, an inside joke that Wendy was afraid—but wanted—to know.

“It’s better if we just wait for him to leave.” Pan concluded, easing to Wendy’s side in case she tried to make a break for it.

Wendy however remained where she was, having the sudden urge to get this whole investigation over with as quickly as possible.

A twig snapped behind her and she glanced back just in time to see a dark mass disappear behind a cluster of trees. She held back her cry of terror and shot around, ready to start swinging at whatever was coming their way. After a moment however, nothing happened, and Pan was staring at her.

“There’s something in the woods.” Wendy hissed.

“It’s called a squirrel.” Pan hissed back.

Wendy tried to calm down but could not find reassurance. Jekyll was still out and about and the last time they were in the woods they were nearly killed by a psycho dog-killer.

“Wendy,” Pan sighed, glancing back and forth at her and August’s cabin, “you need to calm down. We’re safe. There is nothing out there. Jekyll…is far from here.” Then with some hesitation he added, “Do you want to leave? We can try this again tomorrow.”

Wendy was surprised that he would offer something so selfless. As much as she wanted to take him off on the offer, she didn’t want to turn her back on their current case. She had to push through it, had to carry on.

She shook her head and Pan gave a final nod, turning their attention back to August’s cabin, his hand hovering just over her back.

They watched August get on his motorcycle and drive off towards the town, giving them the untold permission to start sleuthing. They crept up his porch and Wendy began looking searching under empty flower pots and the welcome mat.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pan sighed.

“Looking for a key, of course.” Wendy answered.

Pan smirked and reached around her and opened the door with ease.

“Small town—no need for locking doors all the time.” Pan responded to her surprised look.

“That might change when we’re through.” Wendy said as she stood and brushed the dirt off her pants.

“That’s the spirit!” Pan laughed as he stepped into August’s house, as if he owned the place. Wendy followed with an annoyed frown, closing the door behind her.

She looked around August’s residence with disgust. Clothes were thrown over the furniture, dishes stacked in and beside the sink, and the whole room—a living room connected to a kitchen— needed a good dusting. Wendy wished she had worn gloves.

“Where do we start?”

“You start down here, I’ll search his bedroom.”

“And you know where his bedroom is…how exactly?”

Pan shot her a dirty look and Wendy couldn’t help but giggle at the pink tint forming on his cheeks. This mystery was becoming more and more interesting.

“Just check the damn cabinets, you crow.” Pan spat as he made a bee-line upstairs.

Wendy snorted and carefully searched through the drawers and cabinets and even under the sink, not wanting to touch anything do to the filth and the paranoid fear of leaving fingerprints. Though she found several tidbits of junk, she didn’t find anything resembling the jewelry. Still, Wendy wasn’t one to scratch the outer surface and be content. With a determined, but disgusted, nod, she began checking the pockets of the strewn-out clothes, finding plenty of pocket money but no jewels. Just as she stood to return to the kitchen area, she felt one of the boards creak under her, the weight of her boot causing it to press in just slight.

An idea came to her and she got on her knees, pressing around for loose boards.

Above her, Pan smirked in amusement as she scavenged around, politely averting his eyes from her raised bottom—after a few seconds at least.

“Lose a contact, bird?”

Wendy jumped at the sudden intrusion and glanced up to her accomplice.

“I think I found something.”

Pan whistled and trotted down the stairs.“And that would be what?”

Wendy grabbed him by the pant’s leg and forced him down to her level.

“Some of these boards are loose.” Wendy confided.

Pan puffed. “Yeah, most of these cabins are pretty rotted.”

Wendy turned a confident smirk his way. “Which means the floorboards would be a perfect place to hide valuables from sleuths…or police with a search warrant.”

Pan’s eyes crinkled upwards in approval (though he’d never tell her that) and he pulled out his cellphone, turning on the flashlight and shining it in the cracks of floor. They followed the loosest board to the porch where Wendy saw a series of glittering through the cracks.

“There’s something there.” She said, her heart pounded with excitement as she reached out to pull the board up, revealing a strange, tangled nest. Woven within the dried grass and twigs were a ring and set of pearls.

“That son of a bitch!” Pan exclaimed.  “I can’t believe he’d do this to his own dad.”

Wendy was surprised to see him so concerned. His exact relationships with the people of this town were still a mystery—one she was beginning to think she’d never solve due to his intense need for secrecy.

“This is a very unusual hiding spot.” Wendy mused. “This is a nest, Pan. A fresh one by the looks of it.”

“You would know.” Pan scoffed.

Wendy clenched her teeth to hold back an ugly comment.

“This isn’t his doing Pan.” Wendy said. “Something else has.”

“Oh yeah, who?” Pan spat.

A strange sound—something between a squawk and a growl—caused Pan and Wendy to slowly turn around to the porch steps. Glaring at them—well, partially glaring, as one of the thing’s eyes were glassed over—was definably a bird, but the deep scars and patches of missing feathers wouldn’t allow the two sleuths to indicate just what kind. What they both noticed right off the bat was its bulky size and its sharp, threatening beak.

“That’s a turkey.” Pan said, more to assure himself that he had indeed recovered from his almost-drug overdose and the deformed creature in front of him wasn’t a delusion.

“I think we found the jewel thief.” Wendy concluded, flinching when the bird dug its claws into the wood of the porch, a sign that it was ready to come at them if they made any sudden moves.

“And his hiding place.” Pan added. The turkey hissed in response and both sleuths struggled not to flinch. The thing was big enough to start pecking limbs off.

“What do we do?” Wendy whispered.

“How the bloody hell should I know? You think of something; you’re the one in the goose-feathers!”

“Duck feathers!” Wendy hissed, running a hand self-consciously down her jacket. “And what, you think I can talk to turkeys?”

The bird in question started to ease forward, its growl sounding like the threatening rattler of a snake.

“We’ll have to make a run for it.” Pan concluded. “On the count of three run back into the house.”

“Pan I don’t…”

“One.”

Wendy gulped, shaking under the murderous glare of the winged-beast.

“Two.”

“We’re going to die…”

“THREE RUN FOR IT!”

Wendy shot up and was in the house in two steps. She and Pan managed to close the door just as the turkey slammed into it, hollering and pecking the wood to try to get at them.

“What is this bird’s problem!” Pan exclaimed as the turkey pecked aggressively at the door.

Wendy caught her breath. “We unearthed its nest, it’s probably p-oed.”

“Well August is going to be pissed off if he comes back and finds us being held hostage by his pet!”

Before Wendy could answer, the turkey’s entire head broke through the bottom of the door, and it released a horrible squawk at Wendy and Peter.

The duo screamed, panicking as the turkey tore away the splintered wood and began to push its way inside, his dead eye shining with hatred at the intruders.

“It’s going to kill us!” Wendy shrieked, looking around desperately for some kind of weapon to defend herself with.

“Like hell it is!” Pan hissed with determination, grabbing one of Wendy’s arms and pulling her through the kitchen. “There’s a back door, follow me!”

Wendy didn’t bother to point out that she didn’t have a choice and stayed on his heels. Together they burst through the backdoor, the blood-hungry turkey chasing them into the woods.

“The moped’s the other way!” exclaimed Wendy as they dodged falling branches and unstable terrain.

“No time! We’ve got to find shelter!”

Wendy glanced back to see the turkey hot on their heels, its piercing talons ripping the ground apart as it pursued them. It was almost laughable, really: Wendy had faced three murder attempts so far, all of which were more gruesome than the next. Yet her life was going to end at the…beak?...of a damn turkey! Her father was going to be highly disappointed.

Suddenly, Pan snatched her away from the straight path they’d been running. The change in course distracted the turkey just long enough for them to get a few extra steps of distance between them. Before Wendy could question his reasoning, a car, partially buried under a mass of tree branches, came within their view.

“Where…”

“Who cares get the fuck in!” Pan screamed as he struggled to get one of the back doors open.

Wendy dared a look back to see the turkey steadily getting closer to them.

“Get it open GET IT OPEN!” Wendy shrieked.

With a great cry, Pan managed to yank the rusted thing open and he and Wendy jumped in, both of them yanking the door closed just before the screeching turkey slammed into the glass.

Panting, the two sleuths watched as the deformed bird aggressively slammed its beak into the window.

Wendy squeezed herself against the opposite door and began to pray. “Please don’t break please don’t break please don’t break…”

Finally the turkey stopped, dropping back to the ground with a hiss, and began to paced to the back of the car.

Wendy and Peter turned to peer out of the back window. One tiny, black eye stared back at them. Dark and empty, no soul to be had. Peter twisted back in the seat, cursing and slamming the back of his head into the cushion.

Wendy shook her head and continued her stare down with the winged beast, wondering just how they were going to get out of this one. She hoped at some point the turkey would lose interest and return to its nest of valuables. She and Pan would then have to call animal control and Marco to figure out what to do about their feathered nemesis. Either way, they were going to have a hell of a story to tell. 

“Oh shit.”

Wendy turned to Peter who was pushing himself further into the stained seat, his eyes wide in terror.

It was only then did she notice that there was a rather unpleasant smell in the abandoned car, and as she followed Pan’s line of sight, she discovered the source.

“Wendy don’t—”

Her scream of terror was choked out by the smell, and she covered her mouth and nose.

Slumped over the middle console was the body of former Dr. Henry Jekyll, deceased and rapidly decomposing.