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alieninatrenchcoat · 4 years

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Master of Christmas Cookies

(msr one shot ficlet where Scully invites Mulder over on Christmas Eve to help her prepare cookies to bring to her family )

The sun was beginning to set, and the last light of day, as orange as ever, found its way to Scully’s brilliant head. Her tight white top suddenly matched her mane. She was practically turning into an orange. Mulder was busying his hands with a plop of freshly made cookie dough, rolling little clumps into round balls to place on a cookie sheet beside him. He had been rolling it delicately, but mindlessly. His thoughts were not on the dough, but of his company. He was completely preoccupied with Scully’s orange glow, not concentrating a bit on the job at hand. The goop between his fingers started to flatten as his brain slowly forgot what its task was, allowing for his hands to still around the sugar-cookie-to-be. He watched her move at her counter top a few feet away. Her hair swaying between gleams of light and shadow, how wonderfully angelic her choice in outfit complimented the sun’s warm kiss goodnight. His thoughts were aching to reach her own in hopes that she would telepathically receive his message: ‘Please turn around so I can see how the sun looks in your eyes. Please. I bet they look gorgeous. Sculllllllllyyyyy turn around. Just for a sec.’ She was closely examining the temperature on her oven, expectantly waiting for the number to bump up by an interval of 10, meaning the preheating process could be completed. As the anticipated beep sounded, she bent over to open it up. Mulder couldn't help but stare, but his mind was quickly drawn back to reality when she dusted off her hands on the front of her pant legs and turned around to meet his gaze. His eyes quickly averted to her face. Just as he expected-

Her eyes did in fact look brilliant.

He must have been distracted again because he wasn't expecting Scully to make any remarks just yet. Arms crossed, “ If you needed me to teach you how to roll the dough, It would have been proficient to let me know instead of waiting for me to figure it out on my own.”

His eyes went wide as he noticed he had not placed a single cookie on the sheet yet. Remembering the glob in his hand, he theatrically placed it onto the middle of the cookie sheet and looked back up at her with an innocent smile. He didn't consider vocalizing that she looked beautiful, or angelic. This was how she always was. The sun had finally disappeared, but she was just as radiant. His Scully. He wishes he’d be able to stay with her longer tonight. Baking Christmas cookies with Scully reminded him of when he and his mother had taught younger Samantha how to mix ingredients and cut out shapes with the Santa-shaped cookie cutter for the first time. The thought of Scully baking with a child of her own one day warmed his heart much more than the warmth of the December sun ever could, but he wouldn't be sharing this with her out loud. Though, he wouldn’t mind if she received the message telepathically, that way he wouldn't feel the need to explain himself.

“Oh, I know how to roll the dough. It's a meticulous process, and it takes much effort for me to produce one of this level of finesse,” he stated proudly. A smile tugged at Scully’s lips.

“Is that so?” she challenged. It was more of a statement. The serious nature of Mulder’s voice was a stark contrast to his grin.

“Miss Dana, you might wanna take some notes from the pro,” he returned to the giant metallic mixing bowl of untouched dough, grabbing another clump and slowly rolling between his palms. Bringing his paralleled hands up to his eye level as if performing a spell, he stared down the rounding dough taking shape before him. He faked a concentrated-death stare with the dough and with a “wa - la” he procured the cookie sphere out to Scully, before slapping it onto the sheet.

“I’m overwhelmingly impressed. I don't think my skills could ever amount to yours,” she supplied, matching his sarcasm. She met him at the table, taking a piece of dough from the bowl and whipping it into a ball. Then another. And another. And another.

“No no no. you're doing it all wrong. You gotta finesse the dough.” Scully gave him the singular eyebrow raise. “C’mere, let the master guide the student. I will assume the role of your sensei, young pupil,” he held out a sugar-covered hand for her to take into her own. A hesitant smirk played across her face, but she took his hand and he pulled her down into the wooden chair beside him.

“Here,” he grabbed a piece of dough, her hand still in his grasp. He turned her palm face-up to receive the dough, and held out his free hand for her other to take. He placed her dough-less hand over the glob of cookie dough, and they began to roll it into a ball together. His hands over her own small, delicate, motherly hands. Warm from the oven.

His face was naturally within close proximity to her own, and he could smell the Christmas season all over her. Her scented candle, her peppermint hand wash, or was it a lotion? She smelled as if she could be a cookie herself.

“Good,” he drawled. “That’s good.” She smiled, watching their hands move around the dough together. It was already in the desired shape, of course, but she let him continue to ease her hands into gyration.

“Don't you think it’s ready, sensei?” she let out a giggle.

“Patience, pupil.” he admonished.

“Y’know, I really hope the oven doesn’t start the building on fire. I'd hate for this talent of yours to go to waste on teaching me.”

“Nothing can go waste on you, my pupil” Scully couldn't contain her laughter at his seriousness and the fact that the same piece of dough was still between her hands. “Alright, I think you have mastered the art.” He released her hands, and she placed the finished product on the sheet with no time to spare. She grabbed another piece of dough and looked at him expectantly.

“Now you are ready, master Scully. You no longer need me help.” He leaned against the table, resting his head in one of his hands to watch her fondly. Her cold eyes said ‘really’?’ but her warm smile betrayed her amusement.

As she rolled the final piece, the classical vinyl she had chosen for them to listen to, came to an end. Mulder reached out to move a piece of her auburn hair behind her ear as he stood to get the oven mits. His hands fit the red, puffy material snugly, and he wondered how Scully could even hold a cookie sheet with these on her tiny hands.

“Excellent work, master Scully,” He bowed and took the tray from her reverently, slipping it into the oven that he was sure must have cooled down to half its temperature by now.

Scully washed her hands, then made her way to the well-loved couch, patting the cushion to signal him over. Mulder settled himself down next to her.

“Thanks for helping me today Mulder, I really do appreciate it.”

“Bill better like them. Tell him I made them. Maybe he’ll cut me some slack”

“I'm sure he will.”

“Hey Scully, I got you a little something,” He broke eye contact for a split second to rummage deep into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a small charm bracelet. Golden, with a portrait of the Virgin Mary. He took Scully’s clean hand in his own like he did with the dough -yep, it was definitely peppermint scented hand wash- and placed the accessory in her hand. Her smile softened.

“I - Mulder I thought we agreed on not doing gifts this year!”

“Consider it less of a gift, and more of an inheritance,” Scully looked at him, puzzled.

“What for?”

“It was my mothers.”

“Oh, Mulder you don't need to-”

“-She wasn't much for religion, but a nurse sent it to my address in the mail saying it was found in a pocket of hers. It didn’t mean much to me, I had never noticed it before, but I saved it for a while, thinking maybe I could pass it on to one of my future children if I ever had any, like your mother had given that to you,” He gestured his chin to the spot on her neck. Her gold cross. “But I didn’t feel like waiting around for the possibility, y’know? It would be better off in your possession anyway.”

Scully ran a finger over the charm, porcelain and glowing in the lamp light behind them.

“It's beautiful. Thank you, Mulder. Really, you shouldn't have.”

“I know it's in good hands. Merry Christmas, Scully.”

Drawing her attention away from the bracelet, she turned back to Mulder as she slipped it on. “I know you said you had to leave soon, but you're welcome to stay a little longer if you'd like. ‘Alone on Christmas Eve’ isn't a good title for a Master sensei.” She was hoping he’d agree, and that he did not miraculously have plans elsewhere, but to her minor disappointment, he did indeed have plans.

“I gotta get back to my place before the Gunmen show up. They have some sort of drink-and-code mania they wanted my help with. You could always come join Scully,” He stood from the couch and made his way to the leather jacket waiting for him on the back of his cookie-making throne.

“That's alright. I'm not so sure I'd like to consort with a drunk Frohike at the moment,” this earned a chuckle from Mulder.

“Tell Maggie I said hello. Stop by with some of those cookies on your way out tomorrow?”

“I'll see if I have room in my schedule to add ‘delivering cookies to my hungover partner,’’ she joined him at the door and opened it for him. “Merry Christmas Mulder.”

“Merry Christmas, cookie master” He leaned over and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek on his way out, and the way her eyes sparkled at him in return was enough to top any gift he’d be receiving from her this year.

(feedback/constructive crit. is always welcomed :) `hope everyone is having a great Christmas season!! )

#im obsessed with Mulder being all flirty but Scully acting like it’s normal #agent scully #agent mulder #msr ficlet #msr #msr fanfic #txf #the x files #christmas msr #fanfic #mulder and scully #fox mulder #dana scully

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years

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Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 5: Paradise City]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language, some sexual content (not smutty).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo @caborhapch @kimmietea @asquiresofftime @hardzzellos @sleepretreat @ramibaby @jonesyaddiction @ixchel-9275 @omgitsearly @lovepizza-cake11 @deacy-dearest @shishterfackisback @mrbenhardys @deaky-with-a-c If I forgot anyone, please yell at me :)

The blue chalk moves swiftly with shrill little squeaks over the board. You’re dressed in a floral red dress, leggings, sensible sable flats, and fuzzy woolly mammoth earrings. The kids love to see what sort of eccentric accessories you wear each day; there’s even a space on the board reserved for it. Today’s flair is: woolly mammoth earrings! (Please don’t touch unless you ask first!!)

“Okay my lovely children, let’s practice using each of this week’s spelling words in a sentence. Who can remind me what the first word on our spelling list is?”

“Oh! Oh!” Brendyn—who you mentally mix up with Brayden or Kayden at least twice a day—leans out of his chair and waves his arm hysterically. Dear god, please send a plague to wipe the unnecessary Y baby name trend off the face of the planet. “I can!”

“Go ahead, Brendyn.”

“Throw,” he announces proudly, as if he’s just won the Olympic medal for elementary-school writing.

“Awesome job! That’s right!” You transcribe it on the board: 1. Throw. “And who thinks they can come up with a sentence using the word throw?”

Eli, as he’s doodling all over his worksheet, says: “If you don’t like someone, you can throw them out of a window.”

You swallow noisily as you collect your thoughts. The other students are alternately giggling cautiously or gasping, scandalized. “Now, Eli...”

“Yes, Miss Teacher?” he prompts.

“It’s nice to raise our hands and wait to be called on when we have something to share.”

“Oops.” He raises his hand.

You sigh heavily. “Could you come up with a different sentence, please? One that is more school-appropriate? Remember we had a whole talk last week about school-appropriate topics. Right class?”

“Yes, Miss Y/L/N!” they agree in unison. That conversation hadn’t, perhaps shockingly, been inspired by Eli. A chatty, beach-blond, future surfer bro named Dexter had discovered his father, a prominent cinematographer, in a compromising position with the nanny—in the jacuzzi tub, no less—and felt the need to divulge that during Story Sharing Time. Worst parent phone call ever.

“Give it another try, Eli,” you say encouragingly.

“Taking spelling tests makes me want to throw up.”

You drop your face into your hands as the class howls in laughter. “Okay, very funny, but I still think we can come up with something more appropriate. Does anyone else have an idea?”

Maisy raises her hand timidly. Oh, hallelujah.

“Yes, Maisy!”

“Always remember to throw away your trash.”

“Wonderful!” You write the sentence on the board. “No littering. I like it. Save the sea turtles. Maisy, as a reward, you may give Creampuff one pumpkin seed.”

“Yay!” Maisy leaps out of her seat and sprints to Creampuff’s cage behind your desk. It’s your third year teaching with Creampuff, and the poor hamster is decisively in geriatric territory; she’s morbidly obese and her eyes are bluish with cataracts. But the children adore her, and Creampuff has always been wonderfully sweet and never bites. You just hope that when the time comes, she has the decency to kick the bucket over a long weekend so you can dispose of the body in secret and whip up a cheery story to tell the kids about how Creampuff went to live in an organic vegan farm or a hamster sanctuary or a retirement community in sunny Tampa Bay, Florida.

“Okay friends,” you announce. “Go ahead and practice coming up with sentences on your worksheet. Then we’ll chat in five or ten minutes and see what we’ve got. Ready, set, go!”

As students’ heads bow and pencils begin scratching against paper, you circle the room peeking over shoulders and making suggestions here and there. When you reach Eli’s desk, you crouch down so your gaze is level with his.

“Hey, Eli.”

“Hi,” he replies mistrustfully, his blue eyes narrow under dark curls.

“I just wanted to let you know that I thought your sentence ideas were very funny and very, very clever. But they just weren’t the best choices to use in class. Do you understand why?”

“Yeah,” he says, smirking a little. Of course you do, you’re the smartest kid in here.

“And I really appreciated you raising your hand to speak once you were reminded.”

“Thanks.” He’s actually bashful now, his high olive-skinned cheeks flushing.

“Are you still going to help me clap the erasers after class today?”

His eyes light up like wildfire. “Can I?”

The trap’s been sprung. Clapping erasers is like cocaine for first graders. “You betcha. If the rest of our spelling lesson goes smoothly.”

“Okay!” He immediately picks up his pencil and begins jotting down sentences. The handwriting is definitely a work in progress, but Eli’s spelling and grammar are immaculate. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you walk away; you’re feeling triumphant, of course, but there’s something else as well.

I’m proud of you, demon kid.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ben is standing on your doorstep, dressed in black, a potted calla lily in his hands. And at first he’s got that unnerving veneer, he’s serious and intimidating and smoldering; but then you find his eyes and his smile breaks open like cracked glass.

“Hi,” he says meekly.

“Hi.” You point to the calla lily. It’s a vivid green, like his eyes, like the serrated continents of the Earth from space. “Is that for me?”

“Yes, actually. It’s a gift, but it’s kind of a joke too.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s fake.” He grins. “So you can’t kill it.”

You laugh and take the pot, leaning back so the silk calla lily doesn’t tickle your nose, doesn’t rub against your makeup. “Come on in, Mr. Hardy.” Ben follows you, his hands in his jacket pockets, peering around watchfully. You find a temporary home for your new plant on the kitchen counter, right next to your latest purchase; you rest your hand, not-so-subtly, on the brand new, mint green, vintage record player. “Check this bad boy out.”

“Wow!” Ben leans down to examine it, running his fingertips over the turntable. Then his eyes flick to the box of vinyl records. “And you’ve already got listening material!”

“Lots of Queen, you’d totally approve.”

“Zeppelin?”

“Naturally.”

He flips through the records quickly: The Eagles, The Stones, Guns N’ Roses, The Beatles, The Cars, Aerosmith, Cheap Trick, Fleetwood Mac, U2, Hendrix, Elton, Nirvana. “Love it. I’m pumped. How much did all of this cost you?”

You crinkle your nose in lighthearted defiance. “It’s rude to talk about money, Mr. Hardy. Not a lot. Amazon is an amazing thing. And I’ve been collecting records for years. Yard sales, thrift shops, wherever. Some of them were my parents’ before I commandeered them.”

“I’ll ask again.” He takes out his wallet and starts counting bills, the paper shuffling in his hands. “How much for the record player? Estimate the rest.”

“Ben,” you protest, dismayed.

“Y/N,” he teases.

“You can’t buy everything for me,” you say gently.

“I’m not buying. I’m renting. I get to choose what to play whenever I’m here.” He unfolds $300 and lays it on top of the record player. “Will that cover it?”

You gape at the money. Yes, that’s about right. “Ben...I’d let you request music for free.”

“I don’t want requests. I want everything.” And then he grins, and it almost rips the floor out from under you. Oh god, I love this man.

You’ve never said those words aloud. You’ve never talked about his refrigerator magnet confession. But it’s somewhere in the space between you like a circling ghost, like a promise, like shared blood singeing under flesh.

“But,” Ben says, bringing you back into focus. “For now we should probably get going.”

“Right.” You grab your purse and jacket as Ben calls an Uber. “Where are we meeting them, anyway?”

He winks at you, his face illuminated by the glow of his cellphone screen. “Not the fucking Olive Garden.”

The Uber is a BMW with leather seats and a minibar installed in the backseat. As it cruises through downtown L.A., Ben tells you about how Joe has an apartment in the city, how Rami splits his time between his loft here and another in New York, how devout Londoner Gwilym is in town for work. You down a tiny Absolut Vodka to ease your nerves. “And when do I get to see your place, Mr. Hardy?”

He chuckles noncommittally. “We’re here,” he declares, glancing up through the BMW’s tinted windows. Outside is an upscale nightclub called The Edison. Then he turns to you. “Two things,” he says, holding up his index and middle fingers. There’s a gold ring on each. “First, don’t forget about the low profile.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult since we’re...” Air quotes. “Not dating.”

“Good. And secondly, don’t be anxious. They’re going to love you. You’re...”

“Charming?” you suggest, batting your eyelashes. “Blessed with impeccable music taste? Awesome at taming demons?”

He smiles. “I was going to say perfect.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re three shots deep and belting out Sweet Caroline with the electric-fence kid from Jurassic Park. There’s a sentence you never thought would cross your mind.

Joe’s trim left arm is draped over your shoulders, his head leaning into yours, a lager swooping precariously in his right hand as he gestures with it like a microphone. Ben is looking on, grinning as he sips his Sazerac, his eyes flickering in the dim, rusty light. When you first arrived, Ben introduced you as a friend; Joe had quickly shimmied over and started dropping lines.

“Joe,” Ben flared, like it was a warning. “I’m not trying to set you two up. That’s not what this is.”

“Whoops, my bad,” Joe had replied, and dialed down the saccharine charm. Yet you like Joe, you like him a lot, and within thirty minutes you’ve already exchanged numbers and compared astrological signs and agreed that he’s going to teach you how to play baseball next week.

“She’s got a thing for Jeff Goldblum, you know,” Ben says now.

“Stop!” you cry, blushing furiously.

“Do you?!” Joe asks and gulps half his lager. “I can make that happen. I can introduce you.”

“He’s a lot older than he was in his Jurassic Park days,” you sigh, lamenting.

“But also wayyyyy richer!” Joe pitches, waggling his eyebrows.

“She’s a schoolteacher,” Ben notes. “She could use a sugar daddy.”

“Girl, I am going to hook you up!”

Rami and Lucy return to the circular booth from the dancefloor, their fingers interlaced. Lucy is incredibly delicate, even tinier and more youthful than she appears onscreen, and always smiling; Rami speaks slowly and thoughtfully and with a captivating meticulousness, and when he fixes his pale eyes on yours you feel like you’re the only person in the room, in the city, in the world, as if whatever you have to say is the most profound thing he’s ever heard. Rami shouts something to Ben over the blaring music as Ben takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one.

“Oh my god!” you exclaim, and Joe jumps beside you, startled. “You smoke?”

Ben takes a draw, exhales smoke through full pink lips, and smirks guiltily.

“What year is this?!”

“2019,” Joe offers.

“Who the fuck smokes in 2019?!” you hurl at Ben. “Do you like breathing? Do you enjoy your internal organs? Do you want to live to spend all your BoRhap money?”

“You tell him!” Joe whoops, clapping. “Yeah baby! Tell him, Y/N!”

You ask incredulously: “They let people smoke in here?!”

“They do in the VIP section,” Joe chimes.

“He’s quite the delinquent, isn’t he?” Gwil says, appearing from the dancefloor and resting his hands on Ben’s shoulders. Gwilym is gentlemanly and eruditions, classically handsome, one of those people whose sincerity reads all over their face. His voice is different than Ben’s, lighter, sharper, less husky; he’s tall and slim and polished. In a phrase, he’s outlandishly lovely.

“I didn’t come here for an intervention, mate,” Ben responds, but his tone is pleasant and at-ease.

“Sorry for loving you, Ben!” Joe yells. “Sorry for caring about your longevity!”

“Sorry for wanting to grow old with you and retire together!” Gwil wails theatrically.

“Oh wow wow wow,” Rami says, shaking his head and smiling. Lucy is clutching a Malibu Sunset and trying to drag him back to the dancefloor, her polka dot dress swirling dreamily around her ankles.

“Wait,” Joe begins, “this is awkward, I definitely already purchased adjacent burial plots for me and Ben and the cemetery has a strict no-Welshmen policy, so...”

Laughing, you turn to Ben, and all at once the two of you are alone in this deafening and pulsing space. He takes another draw, the lit end of his cigarette glowing like embers, his eyes—green like envy, like a snake’s skin, like insatiable greed—all over you: your lips, your neck, your chest, lower. Something deep and shapeless ripples through you, déjà vu or recognition or desire or all of that and more; you want to reach out and touch his flushed flawless skin with your fingertips, you want to make sure he’s real. Gwil and Rami and Lucy are engrossed in some conversation about the best neighborhoods for apartment hunting in London, but Joe’s squinting suspiciously at you and Ben through the veil of smoke. You can’t fool him.

“Right,” Ben says suddenly, crushing the rest of his cigarette in an ashtray. “I’ve got to run. Y/N, do you want a lift home?”

This is just for show, just for the low-profile arrangement; of course you want to leave with him. You’ll follow him anywhere. “That’d be greatly appreciated.” As you climb out of the booth, Ben slips his phone from his pocket to call an Uber.

Joe waves, still thoughtful. “See you soon, Sweet Caroline!”

“Oh god, let’s never talk about that again.”

Rami gives you a sophisticated peck on each cheek, Lucy a spirited hug and a delighted little squeal; her oversized dangling earrings drag along your cheek as you pull away. Gwil takes your hands firmly in his own. “It was wonderful to meet you, love,” he says. “Come along anytime.”

“You’ve all been so kind!” you gush tipsily, and that’s the truth; they’ve been almost preposterously welcoming.

“Yeah yeah, you’ve stolen the show,” Ben says affectionately, maybe even proudly, guiding you towards the front of the club with his palm pressed lightly against the small of your back. “Cheers! We’ll do this again soon,” he calls back to the others. Joe and Gwil dramatically blow kisses after him as you push through the crowds and out into the windswept, luminescent Los Angeles night.

“What’s the hurry—?”

“Can I take you home now?” His voice is rushed and breathless; he’s doing that nervous thing he does where he glances around distractedly and bites his lips and shifts his weight from one foot to the other and runs his thumb over his chin.

“Of course,” you answer, your words hushed like clouds muting the moonshine.

A red Porsche rolls up along the sidewalk and Ben opens the door for you.

“I need you to do something for me,” you say when you’re both in the car and zooming through traffic towards the suburbs.

“Anything.”

Your gaze is devouring his high cheekbones—Eli’s, just like Eli’s—as the streetlights pass overhead, his messy hair and barely-there smile and all that lives under his fierce exterior, kindness and strength and wit and love. Love. “I need you to quit smoking.”

He laughs at you; that’s not what he expected. “Seriously?”

“I don’t want you to die young. I don’t want to lose you.” You can’t stand that thought. You’ve known him for three weeks and you’re hooked like a fucking swordfish; he’s in your bones, your blood, your lungs, he’s dragging you up from the depths and into blinding, open air.

This is too soon. This is way too soon. You don’t know this guy at all.

And yet somehow you do, somehow it feels like you always have.

Ben reaches over and weaves his fingers through yours. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He follows you inside when the Uber pulls into your driveway; he’s not speaking, he doesn’t remove his jacket or his shoes. He begins flipping through your box of records as you lean against the kitchen counter, your arms crossed.

“This is a test,” you say with a smile.

Ben makes a selection at last, drops the record onto the turntable, and places the needle. The music begins, filling your tiny one-bedroom house, reverberating off the walls that you’ve painted mint green and lilac and teal and pastel rosy pink. He still isn’t looking at me.

“Interesting choice.” The song is Save Tonight by a Swedish artist called Eagle-Eye Cherry; it’s acoustic and simple and soulful. “That’s not very classic rock of you.”

“Go on and close the curtains

'Cause all we need is candlelight

You and me, and a bottle of wine

To hold you tonight.”

“The Nineties weren’t all bad.” Ben shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the kitchen table, kicks aside his shoes, lays his phone face-down on the counter as if he’s just decided to stay. Then he comes to you.

“Well we know I'm going away

And how I wish, I wish it weren't so

So take this wine and drink with me

And let's delay our misery.”

There’s no questioning whether you’re going to let him touch you; there’s no question at all. The thought of not being with him is agonizing, cavernous, unbearable. You’ve never wanted someone like this. You’ve never wanted anything like this.

Ben cups your face in his hands and kisses you like he’s coming up for air, like you’re a high he’ll never get enough of. He tastes like cognac and whiskey and cigarettes and lust. Your back hits the refrigerator, and your magnets pop off and clatter against the tile floor; your fingers are knotting through his hair as his trace a path beneath your blouse. He asks if you’re okay—not with his voice but with his searching eyes—and you nod a desperate yes, yes, yes. Outside the stars are raging through the blackness, those same stars that lit up the sky above the dinosaurs just a few blinks of their immortal lifespans ago.

“Save tonight and fight the break of dawn,

Come tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be gone...”

“Oh shit...” Ben’s patting his pockets, flipping through his wallet. His eyes are wide and frantic. “I don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on the pill,” you tell him. “Wait, I’m sorry, you’re an actor, you probably get psychos trying to have your babies all the time, I totally understand if you don’t trust me—”

“I trust you,” he breathes, as if he’s just realizing it.

“I trust you too, Ben.”

“Don’t say it,” he whispers, almost pleads. “You don’t know me.”

“I do,” you insist, unbuttoning his shirt, lifting all that separates you away, peeling back secrets like layers of the earth.

#ben jones #ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fic #borhap imagine #borhap fic #bohemian rhapsody #bywmpf #baby you were my picket fence #gwilym lee #joe mazzello

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rebellect-writes · 4 years

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[SIZE=1] [b]Name:[/b] Jess. [b]Age:[/b] 21. [b]How did you find us?:[/b] I blame Danni AND Joe.

[b]Name:[/b] Victoria Eden Moreau. [b]Nicknames & Aliases:[/b][LIST]Eden Morrison; Fake ID, obviously. Tori Babe. Vicky. Toria. Psychotic Hell-Bitch. [/LIST][b]Age:[/b] 35 [b]Date of Birth:[/b] August 7th, 1977. [b]Gender:[/b] Female. [b]Sexual Orientation:[/b] Heterosexual. [b]Occupation:[/b] High school PE teacher, former supernatural and occult hunter.

[b]Species:[/b] Lion. [b]Description:[/b] [IMG]http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ERJonp0xx1s/Tnqd6kffXjI/AAAAAAAAArE/NWtjP-3SVXo/s640/002-LIONESS-RESTING%2540body.jpg[/IMG][LIST]If it looks like a lion, smells like a lion and growls like a lion, it’s obviously a domestic house cat ready to bite your face off. Victoria’s animal form is pretty average, there’s nothing remotely distinctive about her. She may look a bit ragged at time, but the large tawny gold cat is hardly going to blend in with the UK scenery no matter what. In her feline form, she weighs in at 400lbs of muscle and tamed aggression and stands at 3’6 at the shoulders. From her nose to the tip of her tail, Vic’s a pretty average 8’3. [/LIST][b]Do you have a hybrid/alpha form?:[/b] [URL=http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2010/136/b/b/__Lioness_Line_art___by_sirius_spirit.jpg]Indeed she does.[/URL][LIST]Her hybrid form is more for show than anything else, just something to give her a little extra kick when her full feline form doesn’t provide her with it. She doesn’t turn into some raging half beast, half woman form either. Standing a little taller than her human form at 5’11, and weighing in at 280lbs, she’s covered from head to toe in golden fur and looks like the perfect mix of feline and human. She has claws in this form, never forget that, and fangs, and oh! She can talk even though it’s a lot more growly than her human voice is. [/LIST][b]Rank:[/b] Adwar. [b]How long has your character been a lycanthrope?:[/b] 24 years (infected at age 9). [b]Mind-Set:[/b] Dominant. [b]Power level:[/b] Alpha. [b]Abilities:[/b] [LIST] [*] [b]Speed:[/b] Like all lycanthropes, she’s fast on her feet and can move faster than the human eye can see if she uses her alpha speed. [*] [b]Strength:[/b] She’s stronger than your normal human. She’s not the strongest lycanthrope out there due to her size, but she can go head to head with a vampire and with a bit of luck, over power them. [*] [b]Durability:[/b] Victoria can heal almost any wound like most shifters can, bar decapitation and wounds caused by fire and silver. Wounds caused by more dominant lycanthropes and vampires heal slower. Almost human slow. [*] [b]Senses:[/b] Vic has extremely acute senses like most shifters. She can sometimes tell when someone’s lying to her face by the change in the other persons scent. [*] [b]Partial Shifting:[/b] She can shift hands and teeth into those of her animal or focus on shifting into a full blown hybrid form instead of a full shift from human to lion. [*] [b]Block A Vampires Call:[/b] It takes a bit of energy on her side but she can block out the call of a vampire up to 900 years old and extend that shielding to weaker werelions. Anything over 900 hurts her too much to block. [*] [b]Shield her Beast:[/b] She can lock her animal aura away and pull off the human vibe to most lycanthropes except from stronger alphas, and in some cases, stronger Master vampires since from her experience, they can force her lion to show itself. She does this on a day to day basis when it comes to her job. [/LIST][b]Face Claim:[/b] Charlize Theron. [b]Description:[/b] [IMG]http://www.topnews.in/light/files/Charlize-Theron5.jpg[/IMG][LIST]Victoria isn’t that outstanding to tell you the truth. She’s almost you’re typical blonde – though she’s got a thing for dying her hair other colours at times. She’s got the curves and the legs but the eyes, they’re not human. As a result of staying in her animal form when she as younger for longer than she should, her eyes are those of her lion’s. Of course, she hides them behind hazel green contacts that she never takes out unless she has to do so, she knows better. She’s pretty slim; and only 5’9, and a half inches tall, weighing in at 140lbs of toned muscle, that it’s pretty easy to work out that she’s fond of working out and keeping fit.

She’s not one for style; Vic just doesn’t understand the appeal of having the latest fashion accessories. Of course that doesn’t mean she doesn’t splash out on things like makeup now and then, but that’s purely for work interviews, she finds it works a hell of a lot better being ‘appealing’ then being herself. Whatever works huh? She’s more comfortable in reliable jeans and t-shirts; a nice pair of boots doesn’t go amiss or a leather jacket. Since she’s hung up her hunting gear though, there are fewer holsters for weapons. When she’s at work, its sports gear. Tracksuits for when it’s cold out, shorts and polo-shirts when it’s warmer.

Identifying marks are a little easier to describe. She has her fair share of scars, though most are long since faded. The most notable ones are what look to be claw marks curving down over her right hip. They’re just three jagged lines really, and she doesn’t talk about them ever. Her second most notable scar was given to her by a hunter that thought he was being clever and had all the time in the world, he put a silver hunting knife through her shoulder and left it there so it burnt her after he’d incapacitated her. Now, she’s not a fan of big tattoos but she does have two small ones of her own. A koi fish above her right ankle, and a small flower on the top of her right foot. The flower was gotten on a whim, but the koi is supposed to represent strength, determination, and persistence in the face of adversity. The only other thing that comes to mind is that her ears are pierced twice on both sides. [/LIST][b]Weapons of Choice:[/b][LIST] [*] Fangs, claws, full blown lion form. It’s fun to get messy! [*] She rarely hunts these days, so she’s hung up her holsters. [*] She does have a butterfly knife she carries regularly. [*] Has a necklace with a small vial of holy water attached. Just in case. [*] A white gold charm bracelet with holy items from different faiths. [/LIST][b]Special Skills:[/b][LIST] [*] She used to – and still does if a hunt crops up that tickles her fancy – ingests holy water to stop vampires from taking a bite out of her. Since she hasn’t hunted anything since late 2008, it’s not going to bother any vampires unless she starts up again. [*] She knows how to fight, mostly brawling and that’s what she relies on. However she’s dabbled in Krav Maga (grade: G1), and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (grade: Purple belt) over the last 10 years. It always surprises people when they learn this. [*] She can speak French and Italian, not fluently but enough to get by, she’s also learning German and in the future, hopefully Spanish unless she forgets. [*] Gets and knows the basics when using guns. She’s more a blade kind of girl anyway. [*] Not a half bad thief, - when she needs the money - if she does say so herself. [*] Did a three year “general” sports course followed by her PGCE and QTS. She’s pretty proud of that, so don’t knock it! [/LIST][b]Personality:[/b] [LIST]Victoria isn’t actually that loud of a person in most respects, she’s the type of person that would rather sit and wait and have something to say rather than open her mouth and spew a bunch of pointless words just to hear the sound of her own voice. Then again, she was an ‘attack dog’ for a long time, and when you’re beat as a kid to learn how to hold your tongue, things sort of stick to you. When she speaks, she doesn’t raise her voice in anger unless it’s to get a point across – and when she does need to get a point across it’s normally accompanied by a blunt object of some sort if need be -, but she does get listened to. It just another part of whom she is, people just think she doesn’t have something to say when in actual fact; she’s just watching and waiting for a chance to pounce. She knows that she’s not the most relaxed of people, that’s for sure. However when you get past the creepy silence, she does brighten up a bit. She’s a loyal lass and keeps her word, even though she has her trust issues, but she doesn’t always think things through fully. She’s used to bulldozing her way through issues in her life, and then dealing with the fallout afterwards. Protective of what’s hers. Practical and strong willed she’s not likely to be cowed by someone playing mind games; in fact the last time someone tried that, she broke their arm without blinking.

She even smiles, though it’ll often be accompanied with a wiseass remark or comment. It is almost like she’s care free and forgets about all the crap she’s gone through to get where she is today. She’s loving and caring, hell she even cares though it doesn’t normally come off as most would expect it from a she-cat that could snap at a moment’s notice and become a big cat. While it may look like she has no control over her animal side, she’s got it, people have assumed that she has next to none and that has been their downfall. Oh yeah, she’s more than a little mental! If you push her, she’ll push back, only most people seem to forget she’s more on the animal side then most shapeshifters are and she loves that. She’s not afraid of her animal instincts and embraces them to the point that sometimes she doesn’t want to be human anymore but then she sees what she has and pushes to be normal.

Her views on vampires are slightly [i]skewed[/i] however. Having been used by a lion calling master for years, she has a distaste for anything over a hundred years old, sure she can curb her tongue and be civil to the creatures but present her with a lion caller – even Mikhail got snapped at – and she’ll do everything in her power to make it clear that she won’t become another and she won’t allow anyone in the Pride to be one either. This can be displayed in sarcasticness, threats and violence and promises of death. She just doesn’t like the creatures that can bend her like a crazy straw if it suited them. It’s driven by fear, something she’s not exactly sure how to react to and falls back on her more comforting animal nature to deal with it. As far as the rest of the supernatural world, well, as long as they don’t try and harass the Pride or start something they can’t finish with the people she cares about then she won’t bother them. [/LIST][b]Likes:[/b][LIST] [*] Swimming. [*] A good strong drink after a hunt. [*] Taking to the country roads on her bike and just driving until she can't. [*] Making known bullies fear her. Doesn't matter if they're kids or adults or anything else. [*] Spending time in her lion form, she doesn't do it as much as she used to do so. [*] When she can surprise someone by doing something. [*] Reading when she can get five minutes peace, normally during first break at work. [*] Not being dragged into supernatural turf wars, she joined the pride to stop that. [*] Protecting the Jackford pride. Bradon Mackenzie gave her a home. [*] Chinese food. Don’t ask her why, she just does. [/LIST][b]Dislikes:[/b][LIST] [*] Getting a ticket because she’s left her bike in the wrong place. [*] People that don't pull their own weight. You either sink or swim. [*] Being touched in lion form by people she doesn't know. She tends to bite [*] Having to clean her apartment. If it doesn't bother her, she doesn't bother it! [*] Parent/Teacher night. She'd take a feral shifter over that. [*] Doctors and medical types. Being poked and prodded? No thanks. [*] Being cornered. Have you ever seen an angry lion cornered? It's not nice. [*] Vampires that force themselves on others. It's not so bad when it’s voluntary. [*] Poor weapons maintenance. What is wrong with some people? [*] Being told she's over emotional just because she's female. [/LIST] [b]Strengths:[/b] [LIST] [*] Very familiar with her feline form, she shifts quicker because of this. [*] Doesn’t care if she gets hurt. In fact, she’d put herself in the firing line to save people she cares for. [*] Good tracking skills, urban or otherwise. [*] Isn’t easily backed down with threats and tends to laugh when they’re given. [*] Trusts her gut instinct rather than follow others unless she trusts them. [*] Loyal to people she trusts. Sometimes, even to those that just put up enough money. [*] She can hold her tongue and temper in check if she wants. [*] Knows a bit about witchcraft and the herbs used in most healing balms. [*] Very fast and agile, good for when she’s working with heights in the gym. [*] Still has a fair few contacts from her days as a hunter that she calls up when needed. [/LIST][b]Weaknesses:[/b] [LIST] [*] She has a bit of a one track mind at times. [*] Doesn’t always notice when she’s treading on thin ice. [*] Silver. She may’ve been a lion for a long time, but that stuff still hurts. [*] Comes off antisocial at times. [*] Her anger issues tend to put a crimp in certain things. [*] She doesn't have a good grasp on that 'relationship' thing. It's been [*] Practical in a way, she won’t blink twice at putting someone down if it means protecting others. Even if she's seen as a monster afterwards. [*] Doesn't trust many people at her back. There’s like four people out of billions. [*] Tends to spend a lot of time in her lion form, pushing the limits. [*] Can rarely tame that persistent stubborn streak. [/LIST][b]History:[/b] [LIST]Thomas and Natalie Moreau never took another hunt once they found out that they were due to have a baby together. They were hunters by blood, marriage and by trade; they did everything to stop the supernatural from infecting their ‘world’ and to keep people safe, but they would not endanger their soon to be daughter and in the august of 1977, their baby girl Victoria was brought into the world kicking and screaming like any normal babe and her parents officially hung up their weapons holsters and retired as hunters. Thomas took on a new job as a property developer that worked in and around Lancaster where they lived, and Natalie worked full time as a house wife. Together they doted on their child as Victoria grew up, giving her anything and everything that she wanted. Like any princess, she even had a pony at one point.

The happy little family however was torn apart just before Victoria’s ninth birthday, as the small farm house that the family owned was torn apart by rogue werelions and wolves, headed by a particularly vicious vampire who seemed to know all about her parents who were shocked by his apparent survival. The scariest thing of all for Victoria wasn’t that lions were everywhere or big werewolves; it was the Asian vampire Khan. The right side of his face was thick with holy water scars, the eye socket a gaping hole and mouth a jagged gash. Khan was one of the very few vampires that had ever escaped her parents, and he delighted on tearing through her mother’s mind and body as a werelion held her father back. When Khan was done with Natalie, he turned his attention to Victoria and forced a rather nasty looking lionman to tear into her young body before simply snapping her father’s neck. She should’ve died, would’ve died except werewolf alpha Jacques Rousseau had other ideas.

The wolf didn't take pity on her, far from it. When Victoria regained full consciousness now and again, she was told that she was Khan's new 'pet'. What better way to scare off hunters than by using the spawn of two fairly vicious hunters against them, it was put to her, before she was told that she had only survived because she'd contracted lycanthropy. Being a young lass, she didn't believe it. She screamed and raged and howled for her parents thinking it was a bad dream. It was only really brought home when Jacques, sick of the whelps screaming brought in a lion to teach her a lesson. Miranda was only slightly less cold than the werewolf, but under orders, she tore the beast from Victoria's body. Over and over, and over. Eventually, Victoria started to submit and forget about being who she really was and it was exactly what Khan wanted. Oh he had his pride and pack of bumbling misfits that had been thrown from their various clans for treasonous acts or for having broken the law, be he didn't have one animal at his command that would do simply as he asked, no if's buts or maybes.

By age 14, Victoria was a feral but suitably tamed little lion. She would sit pretty for Khan when he wanted to make a point in a business deal and she’d attack when given the order. Her first real kill wasn’t a goat or even a chicken; it was a frail old woman that owed Khan housing rent for staying in a housing complex he owned. Victoria snapped her neck and left her body where it dropped much to Khan’s displeasure and as a punishment she was put in the fight rings that one of his acquaintances ran. She tried her best, she really did. She’d gone from a pampered princess as a human, to a killer. Her fall from grace was bloody and violent and was brought to a sudden stop when she was put face to face with a full grown adult and alpha lion in the ring. She survived, but was sold on for being a failure to Master Khan and everything that she had been trained to hold dear.

After being past from vampire to vampire, and even the occasional knowledgeable human that knew of the supernatural and dabbled, Victoria ended up on a black market of sorts, nothing but a lost cause. She was stuck in a small cage for days, surrounded by other troubled souls such as herself, left to starve and in filth. Supernatural species of all shapes and sizes came and went sold off to the highest bidder as slaves that worked, fucked and various other things or prey for something else altogether. She even had a plan; she was going to attack the first handler she could get her hands on and hopefully have one of them kill her. Except, instead of a handler that came through the backstage area, it was something else entirely. He was young enough if a little older than herself, he was scared going by his scent, and he was…attractive for a human stumbling around in the dark. He changed her life the moment she had his scent. He left her alone in a loading bay however, such a hero for being forced into a nightmare of a fairy tale.

Free of the life she knew, Victoria did something that went against everything that had been beaten into her. She ran. For over two years she lived wild and on the move, most of her time in lion form and when she had to return to human form, she stole what she needed to survive on her own. Clothes from washing lines, food from market stalls if a hunt failed and the like, she even went as far for a while as to steal and fence property for money even though she never really needed it. However it worked out for her, though when she noticed that her eyes had stuck as those of her lions, she made it a personal mission to stay in human form more and more to get used to that form again. She even tried to talk to people; mostly farmers or hikers that crossed into her ‘territory’ at the time.

Once she was happy that she could return to being around people, Victoria ended up in Cardiff where she befriended a young couple that had lost their children to supposed gang violence and were so down on their luck that she couldn’t not help them even though she was barely considered an adult herself at the time. What the couple didn’t know was that it was supernaturally related violence that lost them their kids, so Victoria being the stereotypical cat riddled with curiosity looked into for them while she helped fight off bailiffs and other idiots that wanted to break her friends down more. She followed her gut instincts and tracked down the people that had been known as suspects in the community. It was teens mostly, desperate to rebel against the rules that their parents had set down but then she hit a lucky break, a werefox informant came forward to talk to her. Well, it was more warn her away from snooping because things would get ‘unpleasant’. She threw that fox out of a second story window… and then went back to searching.

It took her a year and she was roughly eighteen when she found the person that had ordered her ‘friends’ children be removed – her cat had claimed them as Pride even though she hadn’t known them long at all – and was marginally surprised to find out that it was a werelion male. The dominance battle was brutal; she was only a young woman and not used to the fighting the male easily won and inserted his dominance over her, claimed her as his ‘mate’ even though she’d clawed on of his eyes out with her own fingers. It was a huge leap and all that was really expected of her was to open her legs, be a submissive little waif of a woman that cowered behind the big bad lion. Well, she did as what was expected of her and after he was finished removed his head from his shoulders using the element of surprise. She disbanded the males operation – yes, in some cases she used violence – and the money that had been going towards other things, she sent to her friends before vanishing.

Bouncing around the UK for the next four years, Victoria picked up odd hunts here and there. A fey running a coven of witches and assuming Godhood over a town was dealt with, a Naga in Devon was told to move on because he’d started a turf war with the local snake clan. It was silly stuff really but the payment was ok. She managed to grab a job on an international freighter headed for America, and by the time she was 22 she landed her rear in Flordia. No papers, no money that she could spend easily, she was effectively back to when she was released from that cage by the scardy cat of a boy. It didn’t last long, America was so different and there was a lot of supernatural activity as well as human crime. She made her way as a supernatural bounty hunter of sorts, and not the legal kind most of the time. She was a monster hunting monsters, ironic huh?

Twenty three years old, she was still roaming the USA like she had done in the UK. Only this time she was more well off; and while she wanted to settle down somewhere she couldn’t unless she contacted the Pride that controlled that area. From what she’d seen since she’d actually come to the States, was that most of the USA Lions were a mite traditional, meaning that it was the woman’s job to do all the work. Since she had no interest of being a Pride gofer, she just spent her time on the road, staying in motels for a week or so or squatting in old properties. That’s when she got an interesting hunt, and came across someone she’d never thought to see again. Jothial Chapman. The little boy that had freed her had filled out, he was a man now and if she hadn’t got up close and personal to catch his scent, she wouldn’t have really known that it was him.

Stubborn male pressed her buttons though, and rather than outright kill him, she threw him through a wall and opened herself up to attack from the beast that she was hunting. She almost lost her life that night, and would’ve done so if her lycanthropic healing hadn’t worked its wonders on her battered body. She watched as Jo blasted the creature to nothing but ash and cinders before she even hinted that she knew him. Of course, it came out that she was a werelion and a hunter, and he was a bit iffy about the fact in her mind. Victoria expected him to kill her for being evil, instead they teamed up together and took on the evil that thought it could get past the Witch and the Lion.

They were together a year, hunting monsters that broke the laws of various things, putting themselves in the line of danger. What she failed to act on was the feelings that had stirred in her by being in close quarters to Jo. She never acted on them because she didn’t know how even though they were pretty intimate. She gave him and his creepy familiar the space and time they needed and Jo gave her the same thing. Honestly, Victoria would’ve said something sooner if she hadn’t made herself visible to a vampire that could control lions in the area. The last time she saw Jo was he was drooling into his motel pillow and that marked the end of that. She vanished without a trace using every means necessary to avoid detection. She hadn’t left him out of anger or anything; she’d left him because she was scared that the vampire would use her against him.

She ran from one vampire and lions and into another vampire, and ironically it was another lion caller a year or so later. This one was different though, he was older than anything she’d come across and Mikhail seemed just as surprised that she was a lion working as a bounty hunter. Victoria found herself drawn to this one, he didn’t abuse his people and he claimed New York as his city. Rather than run off again or try and kill him, Victoria struck up a bargain with the vampire master. She’d work for him as security and a hunter if she was needed as long as he didn’t try to call her and bend her to his will. Mikhail agreed and they went their separate ways for awhile. While in New York City, Victoria settled down in her first real apartment. She didn’t want to run anymore, but she had no idea what to do. Making that apartment as her base of operations, she spent the next few years learning how to be normal. She got a job, went to night school, made a few friends that weren’t anything that she was used to. They were simply normal. She did get called in to do some hunts for Mikhail every now and then, but they were neither here nor there.

Then in 2005, she returned to the UK after saying goodbye to Mikhail and the lions that she’d grown used to more confident in herself and happy enough. There was an ulterior motive for her return though; Mikhail wanted her to pass through a place called Jackford every now and again to make sure one of his fledglings in the local Kiss was doing ok and rather than argue or brush him off with a smile and a nod, Victoria agreed on the understanding that she wouldn’t tie herself to one place for so long unless he helped her out finding a reason to stay. By the end of July ’05 she was studying to become a Physical Education teacher after a brief course as a teaching assistant at primary school in York - which wasn't that far from Jackford so it suited her - but maybe she should’ve been clearer in what she wanted huh? She didn't stay there for long and by the end of 2010 she was a full-fledged teacher working at Jackford’s comprehensive high school teaching children about sports and how to stay healthy three days a week and spending the rest of the week bouncing between Pride duty and her own time, which she used as time to search for the odd hunt to keep her claws sharp and she's stayed there ever since ducking and dodging the crazy that was worse than her. [/LIST][/SIZE]

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shireness-says · 5 years

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Swan’s Seven (1/?)

Summary: After two years behind bars, Emma's out, and she's got a plan in mind. Now to put together the perfect team... Let's stage an art heist. (A CS Ocean’s 8 AU) 1.9K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

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A/N: Thanks for joining me for another MC! It’s going to be a fun one. Turns out, I hate posting schedules when I’m the one being scheduled, so these will be up when they’re up. Hang in there.

Thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan. Love ya bunches, babe.

Tagging: @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, @profdanglaisstuff, @captainsjedi, @thisonesatellite, @thejollyroger-writer, @let-it-raines, @teamhook, @kmomof4, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes, @winterbaby89. Shoot me a message if you want to be added/taken off the list.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

It feels odd, changing back into regular clothes after two years in a prison jumpsuit. Not bad, obviously - orange was never really Emma’s color anyways — just… odd. The black leather dress still fits like a glove, she’s pleased to note, and her arms are looking better than ever. That little tidbit is almost enough to keep Emma from slipping her treasured red leather jacket over the top — almost. A girl’s got to have her armor and a signature piece, after all.

“You gonna behave yourself, Ms. Swan?” the guard posted at the release desk asks as she hands over the last of the possessions Emma was arrested with - a pitifully small handbag. Emma resolves to burn it as soon as possible — less for the bad memories, more because it barely holds two cards and a hundred dollars cash.

Not that she’s been blessed with such a generous sum. “Don’t I always, Marcie,” she chuckles darkly. “Besides, how much trouble can I get into with $32.17?”

$3.17 of it is in change. She’ll be lucky if she can get a cab to a train station with that kind of money.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Marcie grumbles. She looks like she’s suppressing a smile, though; she always was one of the guards Emma got along with. “Get out of here, and don’t let me see you next year.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The sunlight feels different, too, as Emma walks out the front doors and down the path to the parking lot. It’s not that she hasn’t been outside in two years; even in New York, they get time in the prison yard, so that’s obviously not the case. But knowing that she can enjoy the sunlight in longer than one-hour spurts is a different thing altogether, and wholly intoxicating.

She’s so busy soaking in the sunshine and her new-found freedom that it takes Emma a moment to notice the figure waiting where the fence gives way to cars and asphalt: lean, dark haired, dressed to kill. Regina.

“Hot date?” the other woman drawls, not even bothering to look up from where a perfectly manicured thumbnail navigates her phone. Emma wouldn’t expect anything less from her partner in crime. Emma and Regina met six years ago while both attempting to con the same mark, and had been criminally inseparable ever since (and she’s still particularly proud of the fake charity cons they used to run on wealthy, pervy men, happy to toss a few thousand dollars their way without checking their credentials too closely in hopes of getting into Regina’s pants). In all that time, Emma’s never seen her look anything but immaculately put together in perfectly tailored garments, expertly paired with that air of casual boredom she’s perfected. Beneath the cold exterior, Emma knows, lies a terrifying loyalty, however. It’s probably not a coincidence that that fucker Neal Cassidy wound up arrested mere months after setting up Emma to take the fall for his crimes, still landing her an accessory conviction after his stupid watches were found in her trunk despite the police’s inability to put her at scene of the crime — and indeed, surveillance video proved she hadn’t been the one breaking into cases. But Emma went to prison, and Regina… well, Emma wouldn’t be surprised if Regina got a little payback, even if she’d never admit to it.

“I don’t know, depends on who’s at the insurance convention you’re attending,” Emma shoots back. The perfectly matched trousers, blazer, and vest certainly suggest business more than a casual afternoon; an uninformed bystander would certainly be forgiven for thinking Regina was Emma’s lawyer instead of a fellow conwoman.

Despite the teasing introductions, Emma still doesn’t hesitate to wrap her friend into a tight hug. “Missed you, Reg,” she whispers.

“Me too,” is the barely audible response, before Regina pulls back to briskly brush at her precisely creased pants. “That’s enough of that. I thought prison wasn’t supposed to make you go soft, E, control yourself. I’ll still give you a lift into the city, if you want.”

“I’m counting on a lot more than that,” Emma comments as they climb into the black Volvo — nice, but not flashy, hovering just below the radar. Just the way they both like it. Emma idly wonders who stole it. “I’m gonna need a place to crash.”

Regina shoots her a sideways glance, full of skepticism. Regina Mills doesn’t do confusion. “Not running off to see brother dearest and whatever disgusting fairy tale he’s living in backwoods Maine?”

“Not yet.”

Regina hums in sudden understanding. “Ah. You’ve got a job in mind.”

“And I don’t want him involved,” Emma finishes.

“What’s the job?”

“I’ll tell you when we get back to your place,” Emma promises. “You’ll like it, though, it’ll be a fun one. And besides, it’s a favor for an old friend.”

Most of the rest of the 90 minute drive into the city passes in silence — not that Emma minds. It gives her a chance to run over the plan in her head again before she has to tell Regina. Still, they’re pulling up in front of the warehouse space that always manages to look just this side of abandoned. Regina had the business savvy at some point to buy up the building with some of the money she’d accumulated over the years, and last Emma heard, it was a thriving nightclub. Poison Apple. Terrible name, in Emma’s opinion, but she’s not the one running the place.

The inside is the same as always, full of exposed metal beams and carefully cultivated rust. Emma knows that at night, when this place is packed with revelers, the lights (what few of them exist) illuminate in bronze and gold shades, really encouraging the steampunk fairytale feeling in here. The unusual wishing well on one side of the room helps with that too, as does the apple tree growing under the grimy window panels that make up the slant of the roof. Emma finds those touches just as ridiculous as the name, but you can’t deny that there’s a theme going. And anyways, they can make good money pulling change out of the wishing well after the end of the weekend.

The apartment upstairs is much the same, minus the ridiculous fairytale decor. It’s been shined up, however, in a way that the club hasn’t been. Regina’s taste has always tended towards the luxurious and ornate, in a way that should be anachronistic against the metal and brick, but isn’t. The scrolled and gilded furniture is more comfortable than the minimalistic metal and leather Emma would have expected of an industrial space anyways, so Emma doesn’t have much space to pass any judgement.

“There’s a spare bedroom upstairs,” Regina says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter. Dark wood, white granite. Nice. “Make yourself at home.”

“What, with all my baggage?” Emma snorts.

“Fine, don’t then,” Regina snipes back, opening the fridge to toss Emma a beer. “Don’t come whining to me later about how I’m not being hospitable or some shit.”

“I’ve got a drink, what else do I need?” Emma collapses onto the couch. It feels good to finally toe her heels off, even if she can’t kick them across the room with a polished wood coffee table in the way that definitely cost more than the $32.17 in her wallet. God, what was the Emma of two years ago thinking with these torture devices?

Oh. Yeah. Horribly in love, planning to maybe use the heels to coax her date into a wild night of sex. That’d explain it.

“Oh, well, now that you’re here, what about that explanation? You said you had a plan in mind for some job?” Regina, of course, has somehow managed to conjure up a glass of wine for herself. Beer is for the peasants or something.

“The job of the century,” Emma promises.

“Yes, that’s great. The details?” Nothing is more entertaining than an impatient, pissed off Regina. It’s probably a miracle they haven’t killed each other yet.

Emma savors the moment for one more sip of her beer before finally spilling. “Zelena West. You know her?”

“Personally? No,” Regina snorts. “But Zelena West, pharmaceutical titan and socialite? Yes, Emma, I know of her. You’re the one who’s been in prison, not me.”

Emma ignores the jab. “You’re aware about her art collecting, then? The gallery she runs for the public?”

“Again, I haven’t been living under a rock, E.”

“And you know about the upcoming collaboration between the West Collection and the Big Apple Ballet? Big exhibit in BAB’s gallery about the intersection of dance and art?”

“Yes…” Regina trails off as the details finally sink in. “You’re planning an art heist.”

“Bingo.”

“A classic, certainly. Seems a bit of a risk, though, especially since you’re fresh out of prison. Why would you want to go after such a big fish right away?”

“Like I said, it’s a favor for an old friend.” She takes another swig of her beer. “It’ll be fun, besides. And it’ll work.”

“Yes, well, that’s left to be seen,” Regina grumbles. “Tell me everything, start to finish. Every motive, every step, every player, or so help me god, Emma, I won’t lift a finger to help you with this. I don’t intend to be caught attempting a fool’s gambit.”

So she does. Emma’s had a lot of time to think through this, and has run it in her head countless times. She knows every inch of this plan inside and out — and by the time she’s done speaking, Regina does too.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this… but I think it might work.” The wine has long since been consumed in the course of their conversation, but Regina sounds like she needs another glass after being conned into that admittance. “You’ll need a crew though. This isn’t something we can pull off on our own, I can tell you that now.”

“Oh, I know that,” Emma readily agrees. She’d been prepared for this. “We’re definitely going to need a xerox, a code wrangler, and a can opener. Maybe a fairy fingers, for good measure.”

“Never know when you’re going to need a good fairy,” Regina agrees. “You’re going to need a good garage sale, too.”

“For sure. Someone who’s already tapped into that world.”

“So five, plus you and I… you really think we can pull this off with seven players?”

“I really do.”

“I’ll put out feelers tomorrow, start collecting resumes.” Regina stands, carefully straightening out her pants. “It’s good to have you back in the game, Emma. I was worried that once you got out, you’d run off to live some boring Rockwell life with your brother.”

“Not me. Once a con, always a con,” Emma toasts before finishing off her beer.

And that’s the truth of it, really — this is in her blood. The one thing Emma Swan is better at than anything is conning people out of their money. It brought her a family, and a purpose, and a challenge to face every morning. She’s not sure she can imagine any other kind of life, or that she’d want to. Day after day crammed into a cubicle just isn’t for her.

“Let’s go stage an art heist,” it’s easy to declare, easier than riding a bike, almost easier than breathing.

Emma Swan is back in the game.

#Captain Swan #cs ff #my writing #Swan's Seven #Ocean's 8 AU #the razzing on David will continue #because it's kind of fun

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grandpa-berty · 6 years

Text

So I decided to make a oneshot based off @amazingsam9's AU.

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Aksel looked at the clock tower. It showed the time to be a quarter to six. Excellent. It was getting dark, and the market was starting to close.

The perfect time for him to pick up some leftovers.

Hiding in the alleyway wearing a tattered hooded cloak over his threadbare linen shirt and the leather jeans his mother had just today darned for him.

That was the main reason he was out today. He couldn't simply let his mother give him something she spent so much money and time on, and not give something back. No way. That was a far bigger crime than taking a few things the market stalls were likely to just throw away anyways. Even if it was just a loaf of today's bread.

But, to his joy, the alleyway he had chosen to hide in stood close to a jewelry stall. The fake emerald necklace hanging from the hook would look beautiful around his mother's neck. And because they lived in a village ten miles away from this town, Aksel's deed would not be discovered if his mother was seen walking around in that village.

That was partially the reason he went to far away to steal. He had memorized the horse-and-cart merchant's time of departure from his village to this town, and always travelled hidden in the back under flour bags without being detected. The clacking of the wheels over the uneven terrain made more noise than Aksel could if he yelled as loud as he could. After they stopped in the town, the merchant would enter the trader's store, and leave the cart unattended, allowing Aksel to slip out and head into the town undetected. And when he knew a merchant was going to depart for his village, the ordeal would happen over again. It was a quick way to enter the town and not get tracked, and it also improved his sense of alertness and stealth.

The necklace was obviously glass. It looked as though Aksel could shatter it with one delicate pinch. But that didn't make it any less beautiful. And the stall owner's back was turned, making a deal with a neighbouring stall owner.

It was perhaps dangerous to try and steal what probably cost a lot (these types of people would often charge thousands for a fake previous gem accessory, because they could normally get away with stupid rich people believing it was real) in a crowded place, but if he was quick, he could dart out and in before anyone had chance to turn in his direction.

So he took the chance, the chance he had while the stall owner was still chatting.

He sprinted, targeting the necklace. He needed to be able to grab it on his first try, no mistakes were to be made.

It was quick, easy... almost too easy. The necklace slipped off the hook in his grasp, and he was running back to the alleyway, his bare feet making little to no noise.

He didn't stop when in the shadows. He fled down the maze of gaps between the houses, tucking the necklace around his neck beneath the hood. The merchant's cart was about to leave, but he had one last place to stop off.

His hiding spot.

Deciding to walk now, wary of any broken glass down the alley after some men's drunk night out, Aksel headed to the area he marked with a charcoal he found outside of somebody's house, and knelt down to grab the loose brick that concealed his carefully-wrapped loaf of two-day-old bread, and some firewood.

But before he could get his fingers atound the grimy brick, a hand suddenly clamped over his mouth, and he was yanked into a seating position on the ground, and felt a sharp weapon dully against his throat.

He didn't shout. If he was going to get arrested, he didn't want to make a scene in the process.

"I thought understood why you were doing it at first, but now you've drawn the line, buddy," a voice muttered in his ear.

Aksel stiffened. "Doing what?" he asked, his voice muffled behind the stranger's hand, feeling only his heart pounding against his chest as he looked down at the sword against his neck.

But it wasn't a guard's sword.

It wasn't a sword at all.

It was a long, heavy-looking dagger made of iron. It was a bit dented in some areas, but still in decent condition to slit his throat if the owner desired.

"You read the Bible, man?" the stranger asked. He sounded quite young, mid to late teens, perhaps. But that wasn't enough to decipher whether or not Aksel could attack. "Huh? Got a single brain in your head that is able to read? You know the quote in there, eh? 'Thou shalt not steal'. Seems a bit of a one-way ticket to Hell to go against the Lord for such a thing as a precious stone necklace, wouldn't you say?"

"Look, I'm not religious, and I'm not here to listen to a goddamn preacher," Aksel snarled, pulling the stranger's hand away from his mouth so he could talk properly. The dagger dug deeper into his throat, and Aksel's heart leapt, but the stranger continued to talk, tightening his grip over Aksel's shoulder instead.

"Fearless of God, eh? Can respect that. I can also respect you stealing food and firewood when the snobs who live here have way too much of it and you have the bare minimum. But... I dunno, stealing an emerald necklace seems a bit of a dickish move, if you ask me. I'm doubtful you can eat that or use if for firewood."

"If you were to have looked a little closer, you may have noticed it's actually glass!"

The stranger went silent. Aksel wanted to turn his head to look at the boy, but he was still wary of the dagger at his throat, so he stayed put.

"Wait, you serious?" the stranger asked.

Aksel laughed unashamedly. "Yes, you moron! What makes you think people would display real fucking emeralds on an open market stall?"

The stranger went silent again. Aksel expected him to ask for it, but it seemed he was smarter than most.

"So who are you anyways?" asked Aksel. "And if you knew I'd stolen before, why didn't you turn me into the authorities?"

The stranger continued to stay silent for a few seconds more, then sighed.

"They call me Quackity," the man said. "And I didn't turn you in because I didn't see the point. Unlike most in this town, I actually know a starving man when I see one."

Aksel barely heard the rest of the stranger's sentence. He was only fixated on one word.

"Quackity?" he repeated. "You mean the guy who's been trained to steal from libbies, key word: steal?"

"How did you know that?" Quackity demanded, though didn't push the dagger any further into Aksel's throat. He probably realize if he dug any further, the blade would penetrate Aksel's skin.

"Heard it from a band of thieves I joined a while back," Aksel explained. "You seem quite well-respected in the thieving community." Forgetting his caution, he twisted his head around to grin at the stranger. "Pretty ironic, wouldn't you say?"

Quackity frowned. He had a boyish face and dark hair that was tucked underneath a woollen hat, and wore a horse-hide jacket over a smart-looking white shirt, and a sort of tough fabric pair of trousers.

They weren't rich clothes, but they weren't poor ones either.

"All right, all right," Quackity sighed. "I do often steal information from the libbies, and sell them to... someone. But... but it's necessary! It could help us win the war against them!"

"And it gives you good money, I expect," said Aksel bitterly.

"Hell, I wish. The amount of trouble that goes into it. It probably makes me two or three gold doles a scroll."

"Which could feed my family for two months."

Quackity sighed. "I'm not going into detail about why I need money. I've gotta get off. Now, hand over that necklace and save us both the trouble of going to the authorities."

"No," said Aksel sternly. "It's for my mother. It's the one time I've ever been able to give her something nice, and I'm not letting it go for some rich-ass bounty-collector."

It was Quackity's turn to laugh. "Rich... yeah. That's exactly why I'm doing these 'bounties' in the first place. All right. I respect you want to treat your mum. Hell, if I could I would myself. But let's make this a first-time free deal. Next time I see you with some unnecessary treat, you're paying for it or it's off to the authorities. Also, fix your attitude, man."

"Thanks, man. I feel real privileged," snapped Aksel, pushing Quackity off him and standing up. "Now, thanks to your bullshit I've probably missed my ride home. So thanks for that, too." Enraged, Aksel threw the brick concealing his goods aside, hoping to "accidentally" hit Quackity, but knew he'd probably miss. He gathered his bread and firewood, and replaced the brick, all while Quackity was watching him, not saying a word.

"And no, I won't fix my attitude. I know it's surprising, but I'm normally quite friendly. That is, to people who I like. Have a good night, Quackity," snapped Aksel, barging past Quackity.

"Yeah, you too, uh... what's your name, sorry?"

"It's Aksel, not that it's any of your business."

"Right. Bye, Aksel."

Aksel ran down the alleyway, not knowing quite why he was so angry.

Yes he did. Quackity's presence meant he had to constantly be on guard if he wanted to come back here.

Meaning he had to go to a new town if he wanted to feed the family.

"Rich... yeah. That's exactly why I'm doing these 'bounties' in the first place." My ass!

He had no reason to think Quackity was rich and pretending not to be. It just made him feel better.

He hated rich people.

And he sure as hell knew if he saw Quackity again, it would be for the last time.

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Lol idek if I managed to capture either Quackity's or Aksel's personality in this. Guess the main problem was it's difficult to imagine them genuinely hating each other. But hey, the maker of this epic-looking AU said they did, so uh... I did my best. :D

#commentary crew #au #post apocalyptic au #quackityhq #quackity #aksually #aksel #fanfiction #fanfic #long post

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