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#Rumbelle fic
mrgoldsdearie · 3 months
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We've been approved for a home! But we still need help.
First, I would like to thank everyone who helped me with my last GoFundMe. I reached 100% of my goal. It really helped my family move along with this unpredicted situation we have found ourselves. Things are actually changing and looking to be moving in a positive light. However, we still need help.
For those that don't know, my name is Mahasin Shabazz. I live in Wichita, Ks and I've been homeless for a little over three months. I'm disabled with permanent nerve damage in my feet, making it difficult for me to stand and walk. I also have my 14-year-old nephew with me who's mother refuses to help. But with a permanent address soon, I'll be able to finish my application for disability.
We’ve been approved to move into a new trailer home! But moving around from place to place has really run our money thin and we need help in this move-in process. We've already lost so much, with thieves breaking into our evicted home where we had permission to keep our stuff. We are hoping not to lose any more with our property stashed in storage. Now that we are in the process of moving in our new home, we need more help.
Please, anything will help make sure that we move into this new home safely. I thank you all for all the help I have received so far. I just need a little more to get though this next hurdle in my life.
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thestraggletag · 3 months
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Gluttony, a RSS Fic
Surprise, @tickletorso, it is I, your Secret Santa! Here to wish you some early tidings of joy and bring a little smut to this festive season. I hope things there are ok (I read that the weather is awful right now, so I hope you're coping!) and that you're getting the finishing touches there for the holidays. Here is my present, which wrote itself so I absolve myself of any guilt regarding it. It just came out like that. Hope you enjoy, though!
Summary: Mr Gold had always fancied the idea of running into Belle French, the posh new town librarian, at an elegant party, wearing a designer dress and sitting next to him to share a fancy meal. The reality was, he had to admit, not quite how he had pictured it.
Ever since Regina Mills had won her first election as mayor of Storybrooke she had always had at least one scheme in the works. Her first success had been bringing back the Miner’s Day Festival, an inconsequential local celebration that, he had to admit, had turned out to be good to attract some nearby tourism. A few years later she had followed her initial hit with an expansion of the local hospital, a very popular idea by any measure, and later with the reopening of the local library. That last little bit had been good to boost real estate prices, so he had actually supported her actively. And just last year she had overseen the construction of a new playground, just in time for her adopted toddler son, a lovely little chap by all accounts, unlike his adopted mother, to enjoy it.
Sadly for the library, and the librarian, Regina’s love-affair with the public building had lasted about as long as it had taken her to understand what a drag keeping it open was to her carefully-curated budget. Royce Gold wasn’t really surprised about it. Regina tended to be, sadly, a bit short-sighted when it came to her ambitious pursuits, and dismissive of what no longer appealed to her.
Her latest scheme- some expensive vanity redecoration project aimed at “elevating” the town from solid middle-class to upper-middle-class or, even better, upper-class- had recently gone over budget, and Regina had not managed to bully the town council- bully him, mostly- to let her have use of discretionary funds. Instead, she had managed to divert funds allocated to fixing the library’s leaky roof to compensate for what money she was missing. 
Royce didn’t care much about that latest obsession of hers. Motherhood had made her ruthless in the pursuit of the sort of perfection that was finally good enough for her wee bairn. Nevermind that Henry looked like a happy, healthy, well-adapted little chap who wasn’t lacking anything that a posher town could potentially offer. Regina, however, was blind to such things and had made the betterment of Storybrooke’s social class her newest quest. She had tried to approach him as an ally first, convinced that he would see the benefits of her way of thinking. She was wrong, of course. He didn’t see the appeal in turning the town into some cookie cutter suburban monstrosity. He rather liked Storybrooke the way it was. He had selected it specifically because of its inconsequential small-town charm, and saw no need to change that. He didn’t mind having to go out of town when he fancied something less mundane or to order from outside whatever extravagant tastes might strike his fancy. Storybrooke was sleepy and quiet, and though there was definitely room for improvement, he didn’t want to change the essence of it. Small, charming and sometimes even a bit unsavoury. 
Places like The Rabbit Hole made him nostalgic for the run-down pubs he used to frequent back in Glasgow, when he was an uneducated street urchin with more ambition than sense. Regina didn’t see that in him, or chose to ignore it, thinking that whatever barbarism remained in him from his rough upbringing was a flaw he would be eager to cleanse or conceal, eager to welcome more people of “his class” in town to cover whatever filth still clung to him.
She was wrong, of course. Royce Gold wasn’t a man to lie to himself. He saw no point in it, no gain. He knew who he was, what he was. A bastard son of no one from the dodgy part of an already dodgy city. No polishing or education, both of which he had strived to get, would ever erase that, nor did he want it gone. He had grappled with the notion for years as he pulled himself out of misery one deal at a time, but he had learned to embrace it in the end. He could pretend, put on Armani and Brioni and enjoy a good bottle of Scotch, turning his head at the swill he had once upon a time guzzled down gladly, but inside he was still that small child who had grown up on the streets, grifting and fighting for whatever he wanted to own and keep. And he liked it. He liked the edge it gave him. How desperation and need had sharpened him, like a dagger. 
The mayor was blind to it, but he knew well that a bit of savagery still clung to him, coiling beneath his expensive suits. He had just learned to channel it into deal-making and, perhaps, the very occasional bout of violence. Just a little beating here and there to relieve the stress, and only ever with good reason. Like that time he had rendered Keith Nott unconscious after he had found him accosting the librarian.
His thoughts turned towards her. Isabelle French. Belle French. Belle. Not a small town girl by any means, and yet, against all odds, she fit in perfectly. She was a strange gust of fresh air, ruffling the stale stillness of the town with her quirkiness and her cultured background. He knew a posh lass when he saw one and Belle French was definitely posh. A lavish wee bird, the kind that he had never been allowed near when he was young. Private-school educated, with a fancy degree from Cambridge and a rather expensive wardrobe. The kind that only people who knew quality could appreciate, no flashy branding or ostentatious touches. But he had an eye for beauty and quality, and could easily tell her clothing was too rich for most people’s blood. Her shoes alone were decadent, and her good taste he knew was acquired from a lifetime of being around the finer things in life. She had been to his shop and correctly identified several of the most valuable antiques, which would not have appeared so to the untrained eye. 
And yet. And yet she had no trouble drinking with the miners, whose rough manners and bawdy jokes she took in stride and who she could, apparently, drink under the table. She had no trouble striking a friendship with Miss Lucas, whose outrageous fashion sense and reputation sometimes scared people away, or with Gus Souris, the shy mechanic who had a rather unearned reputation for aggression after Sidney Glass, who ran the local gossip rag on the side when he was not trying to look respectable as the editor of the Storybrooke Mirror, had blown a minor bar fight- where Mr Mius had been the victim- out of proportion in order to embellish a story. She also seemed intent on participating in all the trite small town affairs Storybrooke had to offer. She had carved a space for herself, in spite of her quirkiness, out of sheer force of will. 
He had tried to tell himself at first that all he felt for her was admiration. For how she refused to cow to Regina, or pretended she didn’t understand Mother Superior’s unsubtle jibes at her reputation for wearing short skirts or hanging around undesirable people. Then he told himself that he was a man with eyes and as such he could recognise that Belle French was, objectively speaking, an attractive woman. In the way he liked the most, disarmingly wee, with reddish-brown hair and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. With a sort of effortless elegance that could not be feigned, or copied. She was gorgeous, and he had no problem admitting that. The sort of lass too good for the likes of him.
But at some point he had to come to the painful realisation it wasn’t just her looks. Belle French, if possible, was more beautiful on the inside than she was on the outside. Genuinely kind, volunteering at the animal shelter and lending her ear to whoever had a problem and her hand to anyone who needed help. And intelligent too, not just a bleeding heart with good intentions. With a unfeigned thirst for knowledge and almost obsessive when it came to books and all the wonders that they entailed. He had been smitten by their third conversation, and in love by their fifth. He had gotten a library card only so he could check out books in order to see her, though he had to admit that her book recommendations, along with the improvements she had made to the selection of books in the library, caught his attention as well. 
Being in love with Belle French soon became the new normal for him and he told himself nothing needed to come out of it. Through some bizarre miracle the librarian seemed to consider him a friend and did not object to his sporadic visits to the library, often engaging him in conversation and keeping him for longer than he had planned to stay. And she visited him at his shop too, not necessarily to buy something but to inspect any new treasures he might have acquired. And, like the fool he was, he obliged her every time. It was nice, he told himself. And harmless. As long as he didn’t get any silly ideas about where their relationship stood and did not push things further than what was appropriate it would be fine.
He had so internalised his feelings that he barely felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach when he entered the library and saw Miss French shelving books, wearing a lovely Valentino dress in dark blue wool tweed, with flesh-coloured tights and a cardigan to ward off the chill, a wine-red hairband keeping her faintly-bronze curls off her face. Perfection, as always, and he could let himself admire it because he was in control of himself and his emotions.
He was. As long as he did her best to not look at her sleek Santoni ankle-length boots, of course. He knew his limits, after all, and his weaknesses. His disproportionate fondness for her shoes was the biggest chink in his armour. 
Like always her eyes lit up when she saw him, a delightful smile spreading across her lips. She smelt like vanilla and bergamot, with a subtle aftertaste of jasmine, a perfect winter scent. He hoped that he was not smiling as hard as he felt he was.
“Mr Gold, how nice to see you! It’s been a while since you’ve ventured into my library. How are you?”
He liked how she called it her library, like that little possessive flair in her.
“I was about to ask you the same. I heard about Regina’s latest stunt and thought I would inquire as to how bad things are.” Anyone else would have likely accused him of behaving like a shark smelling blood in the water. But not Belle French.
“It’s kind of you to ask. I wish I could say the roof could keep for a couple of months till the next budgetary meeting, but it won’t last the winter. Marco confirmed it yesterday. I’ll have to get the cash quickly, somehow. I have a bit of a supplementary income”- he had always suspected so, given her clothes and shoes “but it’s nowhere near enough for something like this. And I have savings, but I’d hate to dip into them. My mamam always stressed the importance of having savings.”
Ah, yes, Colette French, who apparently had been, in fact, French. She had told him early on that she had passed when she was still young, and small stories about her. A lovely woman and a devoted mother, apparently. He rather envied her that.
“I-I might have an alternative for you, then. An offer.” He paused, wanting to get things right. Wanting to get his offer right. “I could, perhaps, be persuaded to lend you the money, at a reduced interest rate, something negligible. After all-” He paused, feeling like he was coming across as too eager- “The library is good for the town’s real estate. Keeping it open works in my best interest. It’s just good business, you see.” Yes, that was good. Sounded convincing and appropriately self-serving.
“That’s a lovely offer, but I’m not looking to make a deal.” Belle smiled up at him, with not one ounce of distrust or fear, which took a bit of the sting out of her rejection. “I’m picking up a temporary job that pays really well, so I’ll just have to dip into my savings a tiny bit, I’ll make it up in no time after the holidays.”
He flexed his fingers around the handle of his cane, feeling a sudden and acute rage towards Regina. The library had been her project, and as the mayor it was her responsibility to make sure the town’s buildings were properly maintained. And yet she got to swan around in pursuit of whatever new fad took her fancy and it was Belle French who had to sacrifice her time and effort to make sure Storybrooke got to keep and enjoy the many essential public services the library provided.
“As a librarian you’re paid by the town to work at the library, not the other way around. And your hours are already ridiculous, cannot imagine they leave much room for anything, let alone a side-gig.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s temporary, and a friend’s father owns the business, so I know I’ll be comfortable. I know what the library means to the people around here, so I’ll do whatever I can to keep it open.”
Whatever she could, apparently, did not involve making a deal with him. Which he was not going to take personally. At all. 
“It’s also not the first time I’m left scrambling for a bit of cash. Once, when I was in uni, my dad got into a bit of trouble so I got a gig as an Easter bunny for a private party. Which, I thought, would be rather charming. Only the costume was, to put it mildly, absolutely terrifying and no child wanted to get anywhere near me.”
She was a delightful storyteller, he had always thought so. Funny and engaging, both to the wee bairns that she read to several afternoons a week- he had memorised the storytime schedule so he could sneak in to “browse” and enjoy the cadence of her voice in the background as tots hanged on to her every word- and to adults. She leaned close as she told the story, pausing for dramatic effect at the right time and bursting into laughter at the end, pulling a reluctant bark of laughter out of him and looking delighted at having done so, a secretive little smile pulling at her lips. He would’ve called it flirty, if it hadn’t been directed at him.
“In the interest of looking to avoid you traumatising any more children, could I get you to reconsider my deal? It’d be the best one I’ve ever offered, some might say you’d be taking advantage of me. That would make you incredibly popular around here.”
She smiled, recognising his attempt at humour, but shook her head.
“I’ll be fine without it, I promise. Besides, I wouldn’t want a deal between us. It would… muddy things, don’t you think?”
“Of course.
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He was still thinking about the library days later, as he sat behind a rented car making its way across upper Manhattan. A courageous little thing, with boundless optimism. Too good for the town she fought for and certainly too good for him. Which explained her rejection of his help. But at least that grounded him in reality, reminded him where they stood. No use longing for more.
With that finite thought he tried to relax and ready himself for the little soiree he was about to attend. He had dressed himself with care, knowing the subtle power play behind a well-tailored, black Kiton suit paired with an understated Gucci shirt and a bold tie and pocket square combo for a splash of brashness. It was his battle uniform, of as much use to him as his brass knuckles had been when he was a young lad. And to him this evening was akin to a fight.
Though people in Storybrooke thought his money came from his real estate portfolio and his profitable deals, those were mostly ways to maintain himself on top of the power structure of Storybrooke, above whatever elected official- Regina Mills, as of late- occupied the mayorship at the time. His real money came from deals, yes, but those he helped broker between companies behind closed doors in the business world. Some of the biggest mergers, take-overs or joint ventures of the past years had happened because he had acted as the middle-man, making the necessary introduction, ironing out the terms for both parties, smoothing over any perceived wrinkle. He used to actively seek those deals, when he was younger and looking to make his fortune. Nowadays he had to make himself attend a few society parties to be seen and perhaps approached, or at least partially propositioned, and he would decide later whether the deal was sweet enough for him to get involved in. Otherwise he would return to Storybrooke and bask in the simplicity of it. Another reason why he didn-t want things to change. He had sought the town out as a retreat from the corporate world, a place of escape where he could disappear until it was time to show up at another party.
He had come to this one mostly as a favour to the hostess. Corinne Deville was a longtime… frenemy, he supposed, who he kept in touch nowadays mostly so she could be his eyes and ears around the city. She knew everyone worth knowing on the island and her parties, at least, were never dull, stale business affairs. She liked to be a bit outrageous and had the money to pull it off. And she always had good booze and a lot of it, which was enticement enough. He rather thought a rooftop party in early December was a bit of a bold choice, but Corrie was like that, and the Peninsula Hotel, though not his first choice for a Manhattan stay, was acceptable. 
He arrived fashionably late, so that everyone could see him as he came in. That way he didn’t need to do the rounds and he got to see who was looking at the entrance, as if waiting for someone, and swiftly turned around and avoided eye contact when they saw him, as if afraid to look too eager or interested. Those people would inevitably approach him at some point in the evening. All he had to do was get himself a drink, something to eat, and seat himself somewhere off to a side, looking vaguely approachable. 
But first, he needed to greet the host. Corrie wasn’t one to play hard to get, thankfully, rather effusively swanning over to him to give him her customary two kisses on the air just next to his cheeks. She looked amazing, wearing a black-red orchid mermaid-style Alexander McQueen, with a voluminous stole to protect her naked shoulders from the nippy Manhattan winter air. She was clearly already drunk, yet she almost didn’t look it, managing to walk gracefully in spite of the alcohol and the cumbersome shape of her dress. He knew her too well not to notice the way her eyes were just a bit redder than usual, or the way her grip on her glass was just the slightest bit unstable. Besides, she was holding a Martini, which was usually her third drink, right after a Gimlet and a Tom Collins. 
“Royce, dah-ling, so thrilled to have you join my little party.” She smiled, all teeth, like a predator showing its weapons, and ushered him to the bar. “I’ve ordered that expensive Scotch you like to drink, had it brought specially for you. Never say I don’t do things for you. And there is… a lovely and a bit risqué food arrangement, do try it. Some very good, very expensive sushi, with a rather spectacular presentation specially commissioned for this get-together.”
He glanced to a corner of the terrace, where he could see some tables laid out, with a rather large number of people around them. 
“Some interesting antique set, perhaps?”
“Rather the opposite, dahling.”
She left him once they reached the bar and, almost against his will, he found himself curious as to what surprise Corrie had prepared for this particular evening. He asked for his Scotch, a 25-year-old Glenmorangie Signet that he hoped Corrie hadn’t blabbed about to anyone else, so he wouldn’t have to share- and sauntered over to the tables set up with the sushi, noticing again the inordinate amount of people lingering around them. Most of them, he noticed, were men.
He understood then when he spotted a foot peeking from behind a wall of people, naked and attached to what looked like an equally-naked calf. He got the gist of it right away. After all, it was hardly a novelty, though he couldn’t recall ever attending a party where sushi had been served in such a way. It was Nyotaimori, the practice of serving sushi on top of a naked woman, a fad from the 60’s born from the economic bonanza of the era in Japan and inspired by some much older Japanese food-play practices having to do with sake rather than sushi. Rather trite, in his opinion, but allowed for a bit of harmless titillation without it actually being very boundary-breaking. Something right up Corrie’s ally, risqué enough to make her party memorable but not too taboo that would get her exiled from the Manhattan social scene.
He grabbed a plate and slowly made his way along the tables, barely seeing the skin on display. It didn’t interest him much, though he was glad to see the entire thing was done in a rather tasteful fashion, with not only the bare bits of modesty guaranteed but also with somewhat of an artistic flair. The models’ important areas were covered by lovely bits of greenery and flowers- and bless Corrie for avoiding the mistletoe and holly typical of the season in favour of something less hackneyed- but there was a theme and a colour palate, with bits of the skin on displayed painted to imitate the swirling brushstrokes of vaguely-oriental designs in different shades, depending on the model. 
A glint of gold caught his eye as he added his twelfth piece of sushi to his plate, a model painted in delicate shades of his namesake and blue, which, along with her creamy complexion, reminded him of a porcelain tea set he had at his shop. The colour palate complimented her hair rather nicely, a rather fetching shade of red-brown that reminded him of Belle French.
Rather a lot, actually.
Come to think of it, the model’s softly-blushed skin was also the exact shade of the librarian’s. And she also had a beauty mark on her left inner-thigh, close enough to her knee to be seen when she wore some of her more flirty skirts during spring and summer. He staggered close, almost losing his grip on his plate, his eyes refusing to acknowledge what they were seeing as truth. It was fucking Belle French. Naked. On top of a table. With delicious food spread over her, ready to be plucked and eaten. Surreptitiously, Royce pinched himself. No, not a dream. Sounded a lot like a dream, but no.
After the initial shock wore off- and he managed to pull himself together the slightest bit- he forced himself to think about his choices. Should he approach her? Would it be awkward, would she be embarrassed? He didn’t want to shame her in any way, especially given that this was clearly the temp gig she had gotten to help pay for repairs to the library. And what would it mean for their future relationship? Would this damage whatever small relationship they had? He rather liked their little talks and their small everyday interactions. But she might not want to interact with him much at all if she knew he had seen her naked.
As straight-out-of-his-fucking-fantasies a naked Belle French on top of a table slattered with food was, it was not worth risking the everyday Belle French he got to enjoy every day. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so he could quietly slip away and she would be none the wiser. She seemed distracted by the people around her, mostly young men, circling her like vultures, spending too much time deciding on what piece of sushi to take, pretending to be musing over the selection while their eyes drifted towards her covered breasts. Insolent little things, trying to engage her in talk while the librarian struggled not to make eye contact and keep a placid expression without making it look like she was inviting their advances. She was also trying not to fidget as a man used his chopsticks to try and move a leaf covering her lower right breast under the guise of trying to pick a piece of nigiri. Where the fuck was Corrie and why was she letting something like that happen? Hadn’t any of those wannabe executives learned basic manners? Or the barest notion of consent?
The cherry on top of that absolute clusterfuck was a tall, brawny fellow- someone’s favoured son, no doubt, the lad didn’t look like he could count to ten by himself-, some junior VP that distantly rung a bell, pretending to be too clumsy with the chopstick to try and pick up a piece of maki with his bare hands. The moment he saw Belle flinch at the touch of the man’s fingers he decided that enough was really enough. His cane came out a second later, smacking the offending hand away as he told the eejit, in his most Scottish tone, to keep his hands to himself. The idiot looked like he was going to protest before he realised whose cane that was. Looking like he would rather be chewing glass, but also like he might be shitting his pants, the oaf apologised, quickly scurrying off. He smiled with thinly-veiled satisfaction, setting his cane back by his side.
“Mr Gold?”
He turned to look at Miss French, making sure his eyes never strayed from her face, both to convey that he was not looking at her nude body and to try and read carefully any emotion flickering across her eyes. She didn’t look uncomfortable, to his surprise, at least not more than she had before she had noticed him there. Rather she looked cheery, as she always did with him, and more than a bit relieved. He noticed that most other youngsters fluttering around her had gone along with the big lummox, likely scared off by his presence.
“It’s so lovely to see you!”
“It is?”
The librarian laughed, one of her hands reaching out to touch his on top of his cane.
“Of course. Under rather peculiar circumstances, but it’s nice to see a familiar face here.”
And of course it was. She was naked in a party full of strangers, some of them entirely devoid of manners. Seeing a familiar face, someone who could intercede in her favour since she was limited in her actions by her circumstances, was a comfort. And to have someone like him, who could instil fear into people’s hearts even more so. Which meant he had to stay. He could not leave her exposed to whatever lech or overconfident idiot who decided to let his small prick do the thinking.
“It is rather lovely to see you, Miss French. I do so enjoy our talks, and I had resigned myself to a rather dull evening of empty platitudes and boring business talk. Would you mind if I sat next to you?”
She didn’t seem to object, her eyes reflecting pleasure instead of panic, though she did glance around and confessed she wasn’t supposed to talk to the guests.
“Corrie won’t mind, she’ll be delighted I’m sticking around for longer than I intended. Don’t worry.”
It took him a moment to signal for a waiter to get him a chair, sitting right next to the librarian’s head, his glass of Scotch by her hip and his plate of sushi in his hands. He sat himself at an angle so that he could both look at her in the eye and also glare at any passerby that even thought about approaching Belle, a bit like an old dragon guarding his hoard or, if he tried to look at things in a more benign way, guarding the fair princess. He had amassed a fearsome enough reputation with the present crowd to foresee little trouble staking his claim.
He had prepared himself for an awkward evening, telling himself he would endure the discomfort for Miss French’s own ease, but he had been mistaken. It was surprisingly easy to “get over” her nudity. Being so close to Belle while she was wearing nothing- with bits of her bare skin painted the colour of his namesake- was still intoxicating as hell, but he managed to quickly reign in that sensation and store it somewhere in his subconscious to deal with it at a later date- no doubt in nightly fantasies for weeks, if not months, to come. 
He had always thought her attractive to the point of distraction, but it was her mind and her conversation that had always kept him coming back. It was lovely to have her “all to himself” for so long. Their library interludes were always cut short by a patron or some crisis, and she tended to visit his shop during her brief afternoon break right before school ended, which meant she could never stay for longer than twenty minutes. But here she was free, with no one to claim her time and attention but himself, and after a few failed attempts at starting a conversation- she was nude, after all, and he could not imagine himself being very socially graceful in her position- she managed to engage him in a light-hearted discussion about books, starting with a ranking of books by Thomas Hardy based on how depressive they were, both agreeing to put in first place Tess D’Urbervilles  but squabbling good-natured about second place. He maintained the honour went to The Woodlanders, while she argued strongly in favour of Jude, the Obscure.
It was a much more engaging discussion than it had any right to be, mostly thanks to the librarian’s sincere passion for the subject, combined with her extensive knowledge. He saw how effortlessly cultured she was, and how at ease she was amongst the wealthy and privileged, even while wearing nothing but a skimpy thong and some strategically-placed foliage and paint. A posh bird like had often admired from afar as a lad, a perfect fit among the Upper East side crowd around them. And yet she wasn’t snobbish like a lot of them where, or like one would expect someone like her to be. She wasn’t putting on airs or feigning interests. She was as she presented herself to be, her manners effortless instead of artificially refined and her intellect sharp from curiosity rather than a need to boast. But it was her generous spirit what was more fetching about her. A sincere concern for anyone that crossed her path, from a drunk miner to a grumpy, misanthrope pawnbroker who no one else liked.
Even when he attempted to do something for her- it was cold out, so he managed to talk a poor waiter into bringing some of the spare braziers he knew the hotel had in abundance and had distributed generously already to the nearby tables were people were sitting and talking, so that she would be more comfortable. She had thanked him and immediately insisted that she didn’t need as many as he wanted to light around her, telling him to distribute them amongst the other living displays as well.
“It’s not fair that they should go cold just because they don’t have a guardian angel to look after them like I do.”
Time passed without him noticing. He waved away the few people stupid enough not to correctly read his body language and try to approach him for conversation, having decided that it wasn’t a night prime for dealmaking like he had previously intended. Instead it was a night for talking about literature and the places they had been, recalling anecdotes from their college years and in general sharing bits about their lives. It was the most he had ever shared of himself with another person, more intimate than Belle’s nudity. She told him about her mother, and how she had come from money. Old money. But she had fallen in love with an Aussie with more ambition than wealth, and had moved to the ends of the world to be with him. Later he had proven himself, building a successful business and allowing her a childhood spent half in Australia and half in Europe with her mom and her grandparents. 
But Moe French’s entrepreneurial spirit did not survive his wife’s death, and so he had let his business languish. Her mother, who had fretted for her only daughter’s future during the last months of her life, had set up a considerable trust fund, which had allowed her to go to college in England for her undergrad and graduate degree. And later, when her mother’s parents had passed away, she had inherited a modest investment portfolio, which accounted for the few luxuries she allowed herself as a small town librarian.
He, in turn, shared as much as he could stomach about his rather sordid upbringing. An unwanted mongrel, son of a mother who he never knew and a father he would rather forget. Left behind by both at a young age, to beg, borrow and steal a life for himself. It wasn’t until he had come into contact with distant relatives- two of his father’s cousins, who lived modestly but honestly outside of Glasgow, that he had been given a chance to settle, to get an education. Still, he had learned bad habits that had been difficult to break and he had continued with them in his new life, brawling for cash, gambling and doing unsavoury jobs to raise the money needed to get his law degree. It should have made him uncomfortable to expose their stark differences in upbringing and breeding, but there was nothing but understanding and compassion in Belle’s eyes, something he would’ve mistaken for pity if he didn’t know her well.
“Thank you for sharing all of that with me. It must not have been easy.”
They were so enthralled in their own little world that they both startled when they began to clear the tables in preparation for dessert. It was to be a selection of fruits and tarts, served in the same style.
“But before there’ll be a bit of a break, mostly so that us models can walk about a bit and freshen up. Will you be here when I come back?”
The way she said it, with a hopeful lilt, looking at him from beneath her lashes, had him nodding effusively. Wild horses could not drag him away. He did think the idea of walking around sounded good, and he wanted to refresh his drink. While he was at the bar he had the idea to request a glass of ice water and a straw, so he could offer Belle a drink if she was thirsty while she worked. While he waited, not minding that the bartender was a bit busy at the moment, he felt someone approach from behind, one boney, well-manicured hand sliding up his shoulder. He smelt smoke, and considered himself lucky that the hand currently slipping something into the pocket of his suit jacket wasn’t the one holding Corrie’s trademark long cigarette holder.
“I’m so thrilled you’re still here, darling. And given how you’ve been spending the evening so far I thought I would give you a present. One you’ll like, for a change.”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, knowing Corrie was looking intently at him, he fished whatever she had put into his pocket out. It was a sleek keycard, one from the Peninsula.
“As an admirer of fine, beautiful things I thought you might want a more… private setting where to study your latest find. I would not usually condone it, but she seemed so willing, so strangely… receptive of your attention, that I thought it might not go amiss to get you a room for the night. You know, just in case you’re too tired or hungover to go back home safely, of course.”
He could see her grin out of his peripheral vision, something feral with a hint of madness that summed up Corinne perfectly. He rolled his eyes, affecting an unaffected manner, knowing it would piss her off not to get a rise out of him.
“Corrie, I wish you’d stop after the fifth drink. Once you get into the gin tonics you grow somewhat fanciful.”
“Be that way. Keep your secrets. I’m not here to interrogate you, dear. Just doing my one good deed of the year before time runs out. I was cutting it rather close.”
With that she sauntered off, but he paid her no mind. Let her think whatever she wanted. He knew it wasn’t like what she was implying with Belle. They were just two friends, or friendly acquaintances, though perhaps that was too distant in light of all the bits of themselves they had shared with each other that night. But still, nothing like Corrie was suggesting, nothing unseemly, just two people having a friendly and thoughtful con-
Fuck.
Belle was back. They had laid her down on her stomach this time around, a few gauzy bits of nothing covering her incredible ass from his view, her head pillowed in her arms, which meant he could see the soft curve of the side of a small, perfect breast. Along her delicate spine and sloping shoulders someone had arranged bits of fruit, bombons and bite-sized tarts. He narrowed his eyes, swearing he could hear Corinne’s shrill laughter in the background.
He took a deep breath, shaking his head. He was not some slobbering animal. And Belle was a lady. He would keep it together, would march there and pretend nothing was amiss. Would not give the perfection before him a second glance. When he sat down he focused on Belle’s face, the way her eyes lit up when she spotted him, no doubt grateful to have her protector return and keep the mannerless young men from before at bay. When he offered her some water, shyly, she beamed at him, as if he had offered her the moon.
“You’re so kind, Mr Gold. And such a gentleman.”
His ears burned at hearing Belle fucking French, with her exotic accent and posh manners, call him a gentleman. He had to force himself not to preen. 
“Please, call me Royce.”
“Only if you call me Belle, as I’ve told you to do before.”
She gratefully sipped at the water offered, making a pleased sound in the back of her throat that threatened to go straight to his groin. Thankfully he was sitting down, which allowed him a bit of coverage. With herculean effort he sought to resume their conversation, which had moved on to a rather spirited debate on the merits of the different adaptations of Around the world in 80 days.
They were in the middle of comparing Cantinflas and Eric Idle’s Passepartouts when the librarian fidgeted the slightest bit, looking uncomfortable.
“What’s the matter? Are you unwell? Do you need me to call someone?”
Belle sighed, shaking her head.
“I’m just hungry. They had to retouch my body paint a lot when I took a break, so I never got to eat any of the power bars I brought specially for that purpose. And it’s not helping that whatever they’ve put on me smells rather heavenly. It’s strange to be literally brimming with food and yet unable to eat.”
He had to agree with her about the food. It smelled amazing, the bombons nestled inside foil wrappers to protect them from her skin’s warmth- warmth he was very specifically trying hard to think about– and the pieces of fruit, cut and arranged into fanciful, artistic shapes, glistened in the dim light of the terrace, looking beyond succulent.
“I could- I could feed you if you wish. It’d be no problem.”
‘It’d be all sorts of problems, but oh so worth it.’
“Oh, you wouldn’t mind? Because that would be lovely.”
“What would you like?”
“I saw some lovely raspberry tarts and some Royce nama chocolate squares that looked amazing. Just not dark chocolate please, I can’t stand it.”
“More for me then.”
Gingerly, making extremely sure he did not touch her skin at all if possible, he picked up a few selections of sweets, arranging them into a plate so she could pick and choose what she wanted. When she made a selection he made sure to hold it out to her so she could bite into it without worrying about his fingers, though he still felt the phantom touch of her breath on his skin even when he tried his best to get himself out of the way. It was a heady, altogether surreal experience: the closeness, the trust, the implied intimacy of the gesture. A dream fucking come true, as far as Royce was concerned, the single most erotic moment of his life and it was happening in public. He had come to the party with the intention of testing the waters for new deals and he would leave it empty-handed and yet a changed man.
‘Best. Night. Ever.’
But as nice as it was, it couldn't last forever. He tried to pretend at first he did not see the signs, the way the crowd around them began to dwindle down, the waiters passing around with trays laden with champagne flutes, offering a “last round”. The writing was on the wall even before he saw the first of the “living displays”, the one closest to the exit, being taken away. Still, neither moved or made a comment about things coming to an end, not even when Belle was the last model left out. 
At some point, however, they had to acknowledge that something was happening, because the waiters were beginning to clear the tables, the bar was getting ready to close, and no one had come for Belle. She seemed puzzled by it, but he imagined it had something to do with the fact that no one had wanted to bother him. Perhaps Corrie had said something, or perhaps his reputation had done the talking. Either way it was unacceptable that Belle be made to wait, exposed in cold weather that no amount of heaters could nullify, for someone to finally come get it. He proposed he get his long overcoat so she could drape it around herself and he would escort her then back to wherever she had left her clothes and things, so that she wouldn’t have to walk around half-naked alone.
He loathed to leave her, but there was no choice. He hurried to the coat room, commanding the attention of the poor sod running up and down fetching coats, and managed to get his long Zegna cashmere coat in no time. Pleased with his expedience he rushed back, pausing when he noticed that something wasn’t right. Belle was still in the far corner of the terrace where he had left her, but she had scrambled to a sitting position on the table, using the white tablecloth she had been lying on to cover herself as much as possible as a tall man- the lumbering idiot from hours before, now clearly drunk off his arse-  leaned close to her, one hand gripping one of her naked forearms. She was trying to shake him off, her body language screaming her discomfort and unease, but she was clearly reluctant to make a scene, the power imbalance working against her. 
Thankfully it wasn’t working against him. He felt no restraint or compunction when the urge to do violence overtook him. Thankfully he had, as always, a handy weapon as his disposal. It took one sweep of his cane, once he was close enough, to get the idiot away from her, the surprise at the unexpected blow to his side making him let go of Belle before staggering back a few paces. A few more blows had him first on his knees and later sprawled out on the floor, and only Belle’s gentle hand on the back of his jacket got him to put his cane down. With enviable nonchalance he signalled for a passing waiter, letting him know that the poor bloke on the floor had had a bit too much to drink and should be scraped off the floor and put into a cab as soon as it could be arranged.
“Right away, sir. Thank you for letting me know.”
He tried not to gloat as three people were called away from clearing the nearby tables to pick up the unfortunate young man, no one making a comment as they dragged the lummox away. Good fucking riddance. Realising that he still held his coat in his hands he turned around and swiftly draped it around Belle, noticing with pleasure that, though she had had a front scene to his violent outburst, she didn’t shy away from his touch. Rather the contrary.
“Are you alright? Was he bothering you for long? Did he say something inappropriate?”
“No, nothing like that. He was just not taking no for an answer, and looked drunk enough to try to do something stupid out in public. Thank you for taking care of him.”
Fuck, it was doing things to him that a prim and proper lass like Belle French was thanking him for behaving in a less than gentlemanly manner. Right out of his fantasies as a lad, the idea of a posh bird that would revel in his most coarse manners, in the violent habits he had had to acquire at an early age. It all threatened to go to his head or, even worse, his groin, so he forced himself to push it to the side and concentrate on Belle's immediate wellbeing. Wrapped up as she was in his coat- and fuck, did she nuzzle the lapel and take a deep breath, as if smelling his cologne in the collar of his coat?- she was clothed enough to get off the table and walk out of the terrace. He accompanied her past what was clearly a staging area for the models, given the remnants of body paint and the leaves and petals strewn on the floor, until they arrived at a large room with screens in the corners, clearly where the models had first disrobed. Only one bag was left, a Jackie Smith tote he recognised as Belle’s. He glanced around, noticing there was no place to shower, just some baby wipes packets with which he gathered the models were supposed to wipe the paint off their bodies before putting their clothes back on. Which wouldn’t do, really. Not at all.
“I-I have a room. Here at the hotel. With a shower.”
She stood there, looking waifish and small in his oversized coat, with paint still on her skin and her hair in disarray, yet even then there was an air of understated elegance about her, something in the way she carried herself. Himself, on the other hand, could not boast the same, feeling like he was sweating as he waffled on about how he got the hotel key as a prank but now she could put it to good use to shower and relax, perhaps charge ungodly amounts of room service. It would serve Corrie right to have her little joke backfire on her like that and-
He paused when he noticed how much closer Belle was than a second before. She was looking up at him with something akin to… expectation, almost, and clutching the sleeve of his suit jacket, almost afraid he would take off. There was a patience to her look, as if she was trying to coerce a shy deer to eat from her hand, and Royce’s eyes narrowed, a puzzle slowly unravelling in his mind. He recognised that look, she had worn it often around him as of late, something tinged with affectionate exasperation, as if she was waiting for him to figure something out, something that should be obvious. A nagging voice that had been whispering in the back of his mind now started yelling, telling him he was an idiot for not seeing what was right in front of him.
Could she… could she fancy him? Was that possible? Was he just so fucking dense and self-loathing that he hadn’t realise Belle fucking French was coming onto him? That she had been for a while? It sounded too much like wishful thinking to be true, but there was also no other way to account for how close the librarian was standing to him, how hopeful she seemed as she looked up at him. He froze, unwilling to accept the reality in front of him and yet unable to deny it.
Thankfully for Royce the librarian seemed to notice and understand his inner turmoil, a soft look overtaking her face before she slowly, carefully, leaned into him, standing on her tippy toes to reach him and making sure he had more than enough time to pull away in case her advances were unwelcomed.
No fucking chance of that.
The magnetic pull of her, in the end, overcame his deep-seated denial, pushing him forward, his attention drifting towards her mouth, so laser-focused on the heat and the scent radiating from her that he almost forgot where they were.
Almost.
When he did, he pulled away, babbling about how this wasn’t a private enough place for her to kiss him while wearing nothing but his overcoat. His self-restraint only went so far and his control had been close to breaking the whole evening. If she kissed him he would not be able to stop. It was a shameful confession, but Belle barely batted an eye, looking briefly deep in thought before she took one of his hands in hers.
“You mentioned you had a room, right?” He nodded dumbly, unwilling to connect the dots himself and assume she was saying what he thought she was saying. “Maybe that would be a better place for this?”
There was no mistaking her meaning, not even for someone like Royce Gold, for whom denial was an Olympic event. When she tugged at his hand he didn’t fight her, hopeless to do anything but follow behind her, vaguely dazed, having only enough presence of mind to offer to carry Belle’s bag, which she politely declined. The elevator ride seemed to take forever, even though they were going down only one floor. Corrie had given him one of the best rooms in the hotel. She never half-assed things and wasn’t known for being cheap. 
He held it together till the hotel door was firmly shut behind them, at which point he pounced on her, restraint and decorum entirely absent after four fucking hours of close, unrelenting contact with a naked Belle French. He had been good, so good, but they were behind closed doors and Belle had made it clear that she was not opposed to his advances, so whatever disguise of gentlemanliness he had created over the years was now in tatters and only the unpolished, savage beast from Glasgow remained, intent on quenching its thirst on her. He pressed her up against the hotel door, his mouth eagerly seeking hers out, pleased when she opened herself up to him eagerly, her hands going around his shoulders so they could tangle in his hair. She felt amazing against him, soft and pliant, smelling faintly of something fruity and a scent that was uniquely hers, a mixture of vanilla and the smell of a new book. It was intoxicating, and so he pressed closer, the hand not clutching his cane for dear life wrapping around her waist, resenting the fact that he could not touch her directly. He had relished the fact that she had been wrapped in his coat only minutes ago, when they were outside and she was shivering. But the room they were now in was cosy and warm, with an artificial gas fire crackling nearby. There was, therefore, no need for the librarian to remain bundled so he tugged at the fastened buttons of his coat, humming in pleasure when it was Belle herself that reached down to undo them, shimming out of the outfit altogether a second later.
He could feel her then, gloriously nude but for a scrap of skin-coloured fabric covering her cunt, soft as he had always imagined she would be, skin like silk beneath his fingertips. She didn’t seem to mind her lack of clothing, didn’t shy away from his hands or his lips when he began to explore her throat and the gentle slope of her right shoulder. She was delightfully responsive beneath him, making the softest, most devastating noises as he nipped at bits of flesh, taking care to avoid the big swatches of skin covered by the gold and blue paint.
“You don- Oh, dear Lord- you don’t have to worry about the paint. It’s edible.”
“Come again?”
He couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly.
“Yes it’s-” She sighed when he caressed her spine- “It’s chocolate paint. For safety, mostly, in case the food came into contact with it.”
He blinked, pausing a second to take stock of the situation. He was in a lavish hotel room with Belle French, who was basically naked and, apparently slathered in strategically-placed swirls of chocolate paint. And they were making out like wild beasts. This was beyond his wildest dreams, so far-fetched that it could not possibly be a figment of his imagination. Even his subconscious had limits. Reality, apparently, didn’t.
“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His Scottish brogue, reasserting itself as a result of the drink, the lateness of the hour and how absolutely out of his mind he was with lust, made him slur his words. “Fucking minx, been teasing me the whole bloody night. So gorgeous, so lovely to an old monster like me…”
He lost himself in the feel and smell of her, feeling starved for every bit of her he could kiss and touch. She was perfect, everything about her the right size and feel for him, as if she had been made to fit him. Her skin felt warm and soft beneath her tongue, the taste of her pairing well with the taste of chocolate from the paint, and she was delightfully responsive, no pretence or air of artifice in her as she pulled at his hair and whimpered helplessly. There was also no faking the delicious wetness between her legs, the scrap of fabric that was her flesh-coloured thong drenched to the touch. 
“Take me to bed.”
He had dreamed about Belle French telling him just that, but not even his wildest dream could have conjured up the reality of it, the way she sighed it, her hands grabbing handfuls of his hair to drag his ear against her mouth, the way it was both a plea and an order. He hastened to comply either way, manoeuvring both of them down the small hallway to the suite, where the king-sized bed stood pride of place. In the small journey there he had somehow lost his dinner jacket, the librarian’s nimble hands working on his tie, undoing the Eldredge knot with an ease that had him imagining her, wearing nothing but one of his shirts, kneeling on his bed and tying his tie, a lovely little domestic tableau with implications that set his blood on fire.
The bed at the Peninsula had standard, if luxurious, white bedding, nothing quite like his burgundy sheets and cream damask comforter, but he barely registered any of it. His senses were full of Belle, who managed to half-shove him into the bed, swiftly climbing on top of him before he could complain about their separation. She sought his mouth immediately, her fingers sinking into his hair to change the angle of the kiss just so. When she let go he whimpered, immediately missing the scratch of her nails against his scalp, but he quieted when he realised she was undoing the buttons of his shirt, having finally done away with his tie and, apparently, his belt. Crafty little thing, this lass, devious beneath her prim and proper facade. And all his, his to kiss and touch, to lay down the bed, legs dangling from the edge while he dragged that little scrap of lace generously called underwear, allowing him to see her in all of her glory. She was every bit as perfect as he had imagined, and so smooth. She was almost entirely devoid of hair from the waist down, a small strip of soft curls the only thing left. 
“So lovely.”
She was. Lush curves, smooth skin and the irresistible lure of unfettered enthusiasm. The moment he put his mouth on her she was like a livewire, practically vibrating beneath his touch, the tension and energy in her impossible to ignore. It made him feel powerful, and more than a bit smug, to know that a woman like her, who could have anyone with a look and a gesture, was trembling with barely-repressed desire because his tongue was lapping at her cunt, his hands curling around her thighs, teasing the edges of her labia. None of the young, rich assholes that had circled her like vultures before he had seen her had interested her, only him, old and crippled as he was.
It wasn’t long before he felt her tense even further, her back bowing in a perfect arc and her whimpers turning into loud moans. He thought briefly about denying her the pleasure she was building towards, to drag things out to heighten the sensations, but soon came to the conclusion he didn’t have the self-control to deny her. So when he felt her tumble close to the edge he sunk two fingers into her, the heat and pressure making his already hard cock ache. He was not going to survive her. Thankfully she came just as he thought he was going to lose the last shreds of his composure, her cries distracting him from his more pressing needs. She was beautiful when she came, as far away from the composed, prim lass he was used to seeing, wild and uninhibited. A magnificent sight to behold, one he tried hard to prolong for as long as possible. Eventually, sadly, she grew slack, almost boneless, one hand lazily combing his hair, as if he was some pampered pet who had done a good thing. The feeling was exhilarating. 
“Mmmmh, that was…” she sighed, her nails scratching against the sensitive skin of his nape. “Wonderful.”
He smiled against the supple skin of her thigh, feeling smug, like he often did after a beneficial deal being signed. He didn’t even care that he was so hard it bordered on painful, not when he could smell Belle, feel her warmth and revel in the knowledge that he had made her come apart.
“I’m cold. Come up here?”
The hand petting his hair tugged on it, leading him to crawl over to the bed after quickly discarding his pants and socks and, after a deep breath for courage, his underwear. He pretended not to notice Belle staring at his cock as he climbed on top of her, trying to distract himself with the feeling of her hands as they explored his naked back, pausing every time they encountered a scar. He had amassed a small collection of them, mostly in his late teens and early twenties, knife wounds and a couple made with glass. They were all faded, the only one standing out being the curved one on his side, product of a rusty blade he had mostly-but-not-quite managed to dodge, and the one on his right shoulder. That one had gone in deep but hadn’t been able to hit anything major. 
“Do any of them hurt?”
Belle’s voice was soft, her eyes wide and the slightest bit watery, likely imagining the pain he must have gone through to acquire each of his marks. He shook his head quickly, wanting to reassure them.
“No.” He paused, wondering if saying anything further would be oversharing. But she had to know. It would be a factor if things… progressed. “My ankle does, sometimes. When it’s raining, or I’ve been overexerting it.”
To her credit she didn’t even try to glance down, her focus entirely on his face, likely trying to read any signs of discomfort that might appear there. He kissed the hand that went to cup his face, for once not mistaking compassion for pity.
“Are you comfortable?”
At that he smirked and, daringly, he ground his hips against hers, bringing her attention to his rather desperate state.
“Not really, but my ankle doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you were asking.”
He was rewarded by a genuine laugh, easing whatever leftover bit of self-consciousness he might still have felt. He leaned down to capture her mouth, eager to devour her whole. She was delicious, still tasting of the raspberry tart he had hand-fed her, and something uniquely hers, which he had already tasted when he had delved his tongue into her cunt. But now he could also feel her beneath him, all the soft curves he had dreamed about pressing against him, her body cradling his like he was something precious. Beneath the buzzing of adrenaline and the thrill of his desires coming true there was an undercurrent of safety he was surprised to feel. He was safe with her, he knew this innately. Safe from judgement or ridicule, safe to expose those parts of him that were weak or ugly without feeling like he was ceding the high ground, leaving himself open to an attack. And that small undercurrent of safety, somehow, heightened everything else he was feeling. Allowed him to let go.
“I can practically hear you thinking, you’re doing it so loud.”
Belle’s voice, throaty from her screaming earlier, sent a shiver down his spine. He burrowed his head against her breasts, anchoring himself in the moment, and apologetically kissed the skin there. One kiss turned to two, and before he knew it he was taking one of her rosy nipples into his mouth and sucking reverently on it, like he had often imagined doing in his own home, usually after a few drinks. She was wonderfully responsive, squirming in the most delightful way, each movement sending sharp spikes through his groin and reminding him that if he didn’t manage to do something about it he was liable to explode. Luckily his lass was bold and brass, and the sort to take charge, and so when he was distracted by her lovely breasts- just the right size for his hands, and so, so soft- she moved one hand down to grasp him firmly and, with the help of a bit of shimmying, guide him to her entrance.
“Oh, fuck, I forgot to ask about…” She hissed when a startled movement made him bump her clit with the tip of his cock. “Protection. I-I mean, I’m clean and on the pill but if you want-”
He had no doubt that there were condoms in the room. It had been, after all, paid for by Corrie to unsubtly encourage him to fuck someone silly in it. The drawers of both nightstands were probably chock full of them, likely in all colours and sizes, and it would take but a moment to crawl over either one to grab what he needed. But the thought of feeling her fully was too good to pass up.
“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m clean too. Can I- can I really…?”
He couldn’t finish the phrase, nor take that last plunge, but before he could try to shake himself out of his stupor she draped her legs around his hips, hooking her feet right in the dip where his spine met his ass, nudging him rather unsubtly forward till he was, blessedly, balls deep into her, his cock enveloped by silky, wet heat that had him almost coming right then and there. He gritted his teeth and almost bit his tongue off in an effort to not shame himself, body tense for another reason entirely as he fought to control himself. It seemed to take forever but eventually he began to thrust, first tentatively, afraid of hurting her or discovering he hadn’t quite gotten it together as he hoped he had, but need, that itch that was growing to rule every instinct he had, slowly pushed him to go faster, to thrust harder. Belle met him move for move, canting her hips forward, her nails digging into his back in a way that should have felt painful but only enhanced the pleasure building up inside of him. She was, like before, delightfully vocal, and disarmingly demanding, telling him to go harder, to give her more.
“Insatiable little minx,” he grunted, trying not to stare at her breasts as they bounced with the force of their actions. If he got distracted he ran the risk of spending himself inside her without bringing her to orgasm at least one more time and that was unacceptable. “You’ll be the death of me.”
It felt a little bit like he was on the brink of death, of a pleasure so acute it was indistinguishable from pain. His hard-earned self-control was close to snapping and only his pride was keeping him going. Desperate to feel her flutter around him he braced his upper body on his left arm and both his knees, leaving his right hand free to trail down her stomach and dip in-between her thighs, looking for that bit of flesh that he had previously only touched with his lips and tongue. He let her cries guide his fingers, letting her gasps and keens set the pace as he stroked her slowly at first, increasing the tempo and the pressure in response to her needy demands. Finally she tensed beneath him, back arching in a perfect bow as she came, loud and uninhibited, her cunt gripping him tight as it spasmed, the feeling too much for him to bear. His orgasm was quieter, his groans muffled by her hair and skin as he pressed his head against the crook of her shoulder and spilled himself into her for what seemed like forever, a catharsis that felt both physical and mental.
Afterwards he had enough sense to collapse to the side instead of falling bonelessly on top of Belle like he had wanted to. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, and he felt cold and clammy, but a second later Belle was cuddling up to him, draping a leg over his, making sure to keep her feet away from his ankle. He drew her close, greedily seeking out her warmth and the reassurance she brought. He dared drape an arm around her, his fingers ghosting up and down one of her exposed arms.
“Any complaints?”
He kept his tone light, flippant even, but he paid attention closely to her face, trying to read her expression. She looked dishevelled and delightfully smug, satisfaction oozing out of her, stretching out like a cat in a sunspot, but then frowned, her nose wrinkling a bit. He tensed, preparing himself for whatever had put that look in her face. Maybe she was having second thoughts already?
“I’m sticky.”
“Come again?”
“From the edible paint and your valiant efforts to rid me of it. Don’t misunderstand me, it felt heavenly when you were licking the paint off but now that my skin is dry it feels… well, sticky.”
“Oh.” He shook his head, willing his blood to flow upwards to his brain again and allow him to think somewhat coherently. “I’m sure the bathroom’s facilities are more than adequate. These sort of rooms usually come with the full package, a spacious shower and a bathtub with all the bells and whistles.”
Her eyes sparkled and he patted himself in the back mentally for clearly saying the right thing.
“Oh, it’s been ages since I’ve been able to take a bath. The apartment above the library only has a rather pitiful shower stall and I love a good soak in a tub every now and then. Some bubble bath, a glass of wine and a good book… And maybe some company.”
There was no mistaking the look she shot him, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering with promises.
“You don’t suppose the bathtub here is big enough for two, do you?”
Her tone, mellow and just the littlest bit sultry, had him aflame and made his tired body reconsider the time it would take to rise to the challenge once more.
“Only one way to find out.”
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kelyon · 2 months
Text
Courtship 5: Outfit
Lacey figures out what she's going to wear on her date
Read on AO3
The pile of clothes covered Lacey’s twin bed. She’d spent the better part of an hour matching blouses with slacks with sweaters in a vain attempt to find the magic combination that would make her look less like the president of the student council and more like Mr. Gold’s perfect slut. 
Nothing worked. So far, her best options were to wear her summer sundress in the middle of winter with no coat, or to take a pair of scissors to the long black skirt she had worn to her mother’s funeral. That last one might have been an option, if she had a sewing machine like Mara. But she didn’t, and showing up at Mr. Gold’s house wearing unhemmed rags was probably as bad an idea as showing up wearing pants. If she had a sleeveless top, she might consider wearing the skirt as it was. She could try to go for a sort of hippy, Bohemian look. But the most revealing blouse Lacey French owned had puffed-up sleeves, like a fucking five-year-old. 
Groaning, she fell backwards onto the pile. Some of this stuff she had got in middle school. The fact that they still fit her had been an advantage every time she’d decided to spend her limited funds on books instead of clothes, but it also meant that Lacey had never aged up her personal style. She didn’t have anything that made her look or feel like an adult. 
The purple-blue dress shimmered in her dirty clothes hamper. She had jumped the gun by wearing her only sexy outfit on her first date with Mr. Gold. She had set the bar too high. Now he would have expectations of how Miss French liked to dress. More than that, Mr. Gold in his suits had standards. If she met him looking like a mess, he’d drive off and leave her on the curb.
At least he didn’t seem to mind if she left him looking like a mess. He hadn’t minded bringing her home with a wrinkled skirt and no stockings or underwear. She wanted that to happen again, but before it could, Lacey had to look presentable. None of her clothes were cutting it. She had to take action. 
She pulled a white button-up off the pile and rubbed a smear of foundation over her hickey. Then she went downstairs into the shop. Dad was sitting by the cash register, looking through a faded design book. 
Mom had known all the designs for bouquets and arrangements by heart, but Dad always needed to double check with the book. 
“Anything happen today?” Lacey asked.
He shook his head, didn’t look up.
“We should call up everyone who ordered from us last year and remind them that V-day is in less than three weeks.”
“They know,” he grumbled. “This time of year, no one has any money. The men at Fish King will get paid on Friday, that’s when the orders will start. But they won’t really pick up until the next payday, the eleventh.”
He was right. It happened like that every year. All the orders came in at the very last minute. Valentine’s Day weekend was two solid days of constant work getting everything put together. 
And it was too far away to do Lacey any good.   
“So I’m guessing this is not a good time to discuss the subject of me ever getting paid for the hours I put in?”
Her father looked at her like she had just told an offensive joke that wasn’t even funny. Had his eyes always been so bloodshot? Had he always looked like a sad cartoon dog?
“You keep your tips.” He looked down at the book again. “You have money when the store has money, when we’re not racking up daily fees from that bastard Gold.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Lacey rubbed her hands on her jeans. “Just thought I’d ask.”
Of course Dad didn’t have any money to give her. That was their whole problem. Game of Thorns was a family business, the only income any of them had. For as long as she’d worked in the store, her pay had come in the form of food and shelter. Her reward for helping keep the place open was that it stayed open. It might not have been unreasonable to ask for more, but she knew it was unattainable. 
“Ask again when Valentine’s is over,” Dad said. “We get out of this hole… I’ll try to make something work.”
She’d heard that before. Her father always had all kinds of plans and dreams for when things got better. Not that things ever did get better. Not that they ever would. The only thing worse than knowing that fact would be admitting it. So Lacey gave her father a tight smile and pretended she believed him, just like she always did.
****
She made her way over to Marine Automotive, where her Uncle Manny was locking the front doors from the outside. When he saw her loitering, he beamed.
“Hey! There’s my favorite niece!”
Uncle Manny looked like Dad if nothing bad had ever happened to him. He had the same height and stocky build. He had the same curly hair that was also the bane of Lacey’s existence. But where Moe French was loud when he was angry, Manny French was loud when he was happy--and he was always loud. He wrapped Lacey up in a bear hug.
“How you doing, Ace? What brings you by?”
She cut to the chase. “Are you going to the Rabbit Hole tonight?”
Her uncle wasn’t a huge drinker, but he was the only person Lacey knew who regularly went to Storybrooke's only bar.
“I wasn’t planning on it. They’re aren’t any games tonight. But I take it you need an escort?”
Lacey raised her shoulders in a half-apology. “They won’t let me in without a parent-slash-guardian.”
“Ah, to be young again!” Uncle Manny wrapped one arm around her. “You’ll miss it one of these days, I promise you. But yeah, we can have a night on the town. I’ll even buy you a Shirley Temple.”
“Oh come on,” she gave him a playful nudge. “I am an adult, even if I can’t drink. I should at least get a Coke and Coke.”
“Sounds like a plan.” 
****
The Rabbit Hole was dead. Between the lack of sports on TV and the town-wide lack of money until payday, most people were staying home. The only ones here were people like Leroy Miner, people who had nowhere else to go. Like the old song said, sharing a drink they called loneliness was better than drinking alone. 
Undeterred, Lacey took her uncle-approved non-alcoholic beverage over to the pool table by the fireplace. She took off her hoodie and unbuttoned her blouse a little. This whole thing was a risky move, but it was the best plan she had. Hustling pool paid off more often than it didn’t.  
Eyeing the room, she bent over the pool table, just far enough to get a little attention. She lined up a shot and missed on purpose.
“Oh crap!” she said too loudly. “Must not be my night.”
After ten minutes of staged failure, Lacey let herself land a shot. She squealed when the ball went into the pocket. The sound made people’s heads turn, and she treated them all to a too-wide, too-apologetic smile.
Only one person smiled back. Keith Sherwood turned on his bar stool to watch her. Lacey tried to remember her other encounters with Keith. Did he usually stare more at her ass or her boobs? For safety’s sake, she did both. She leaned far enough over the table that Keith could look down her cleavage, then moved around to the other side for the next shot. She stuck her ass in the air, practically humping the felt to keep his attention.
“Boys always make it look so easy,” she pouted after another ball just barely missed the pocket.
When Keith began to walk over to her, she turned her back to him. That way she could pretend to be surprised by his arrival. With careful concentration, Lacey managed to get a ball a full foot away from what anyone watching would have assumed was her target. It was actually harder to be bad on purpose, but it paid off.
“You having fun, sweet thing?” Keith leaned against the pool table, beer in hand, right in front of her.
Lacey giggled. “It’d be more fun if I had someone to play with.”
Keith chuckled. A lock of his hair fell down into his eyes. “I bet it would be. You had a lot of fun playing with me last time, didn’t you?”
How much money had she taken from Keith the last time she had tried this? Sometimes she got cocky and her marks got mad about being taken. Lacey couldn’t remember if she had ever crowed about fleecing Keith. Unfortunately, he probably did. 
She fluttered her eyelashes. “It was a lot of fun,” she cooed. “I think I got lucky that night.”
“I bet you’re gonna get lucky again.” He was standing too close to her. “I bet your luck will get better and better all night, especially when we start playing double or nothing.”
Crap. She had definitely rubbed Keith’s face in it last time. Now he was wise to her. That was the problem with a small town. Oh well, at least she’d tried.
“So is that a bet?” she said in her real voice. “Do you wanna put money down on whether or not I’m actually hustling you? Cuz I’ll take you up on that one.”
Keith shook his head. He put his hand down on top of hers on the edge of the pool table. He was still smiling.
“You know there’s another game we can play together. It’s a lot more fun than pool.”
Ugh.
Lacey backed away. “It might be fun for you, but I don’t think I’d get much out of it.”
He followed her. “How do you know? Maybe it’d be more fun if you hustled me. That’d make things interesting, wouldn’t it? Twenty bucks says I can make you see heaven.”
She snorted. “Did you just say you’ll pay to screw me?”
Keith kept smiling. “You were gonna screw me all over this table and take my money anyway. I like my version better.”
Lacey’s blood suddenly went cold. This wasn’t funny anymore. It wasn’t a game. This asshole would seriously give her money if she went home with him. It would be so easy to go along with it. Twenty dollars for two orgasms--his would be real, hers would be fake. 
Would that be enough to buy a new skirt? Was she seriously fucking considering this?
She clenched her jaw. 
“I’m not a fucking hooker, Keith.”
He raised his arms in a pacifying gesture. “No harm, no foul,” he said. “I just don’t see how it’s any different from taking a girl to dinner first. Man pays for sex either way.”
Turning away, she slid her pool cue back on the rack. 
“You’re a pig.”
“Go ahead, darlin’, keep talking dirty. See what happens.”
Lacey kept her head held high as she went back to the bar where her uncle was nursing a beer.
“I need to get out of here,” she told him.
“Sounds good.” Uncle Manny took out his wallet and tossed a few crumpled fives onto the bar. “I’ll walk you home.”
****
 Outside, Lacey pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her hoodie and hugged her arms over her chest. This stupid button down was too frumpy to make her sexy and too thin to keep her warm. 
“Pool wasn’t any good for you tonight?” Uncle Manny asked casually.
“No,” she admitted. “Fricking Keith threw me off my game.”
“What do you need money for anyway? That dad of yours not feeding you?”
“I need money cuz I don’t have any.” Lacey kicked at a chunk of dirty snow. “Nobody does.”
“I’ve got a little, for the smartest kid in Storybrooke.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You wanna tell me what it’s for?”
Lacey bit the inside of her mouth. She didn’t want to lie to her uncle, but she sure as hell didn’t want to tell him the truth. She walked in silence for a minute. He stayed with her. Finally, she said it.
“I wanna get some new clothes.”
“Like a real coat?”
She shrugged. “I mean, maybe. I could. If I had enough.”
“And this is a sudden yearning that couldn’t wait?”
She shrugged again. There was nothing like being around a parent-slash-guardian to make her feel like a complete child.
“Ace, what’s going on?”
She took a breath. “I… don’t want to tell you.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Lacey French, if you’re doing things you don’t want people to know about, then you shouldn’t do them.”
“It’s nothing bad!” Lacey pushed him away. “It’s just… personal.”
“That’s not reassuring,” he said. “What’s going on? What do you need money for?”
“I told you, to buy clothes!”
“Clothes for what? You can tell me, Lacey. I’ll help you out if you’re honest.”
“I just want to look nice on a date!” She shrieked the words out into the night. They hung in the air with the cloud of her breath.
Uncle Manny looked at her, confused and sympathetic at the same time. Eventually, he broke out into a broad smile.
“But that’s great, honey! You should go on dates. Why-- why didn’t you say so to begin with?”
She pulled her hands up through the neck hole of her hoodie to rub her face.
“I’m… It’s because of who I’m going out with.”
Uncle Manny scoffed and put his arm around her as they walked. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of dating someone. Unless it’s someone you should be ashamed of, but then you just don’t date them. It’s not a girl, is it?”
Lacey shook her head, to which Uncle Manny nodded.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that, not in this modern world. You know I’m with you no matter what.”
She nodded. 
“And of course, no boy is ever going to be good enough for you. But as long as he’s not married, or some kind of asshole like that bastard Gold, there’s no reason to sneak around like--Lacey?”
She had stopped in her tracks. She looked up at her uncle and chewed on her lower lip.
Realization dawned. Uncle Manny let out a long breath. 
“Lace.” His voice was rough. “Tell me you’re dating a married man.”
Lips pressed together, she shook her head. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Standing in place, Uncle Manny stomped his work boots onto the sidewalk. The intent seemed to be half to warm his feet and half to cool his head.
“Gold,” he whispered. He pointed in the direction of Mr. Gold’s pawn shop. “That Gold? The guy that has every working person in Storybrooke by balls? The guy who’s practically the reason all of us are living paycheck to paycheck? You’re going on dates with him?”
She shrugged. “It’s only been one date so far, but he asked me to come to his house on Friday.”
“And you said yes? What, does he have something on you? Is that why you need money?”
“No!” Lacey insisted. “I was telling the truth! I just need clothes that are good enough for him.”
“‘Good enough for him?’ He’s not good enough for you, Lacey! That man is a scourge. He’s a parasite. He’s--he’s old enough to be your father!”
“If he was my father, I wouldn’t be in this situation. I’d actually have a good life.”
“You have a good life.” Uncle Manny wasn’t angry anymore. Or if he was, his anger had become still and stern. “Your parents worked every day to give you a good life.”
“And where did it get them?” Lacey snapped. “Where did it get me? Yes, we work hard, but our only reward is getting to work even harder. And I’m so tired.” Her face was hot. God, she was sniffling. “Being with Mr. Gold feels like a break, and that’s all I want anymore. Just a freaking break.” 
Uncle Manny’s arms were around her. He pulled her against his coveralls that smelled like motor oil and sweat. He squeezed her tight and patted her back as she tried to stop crying.
“Sorry,” she sniffed when they broke apart.
“Hey,” he tilted her chin up and looked her in the eye. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
Despite her tears, Lacey laughed. It was an old joke for them. She knew what her next line had to be: “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”  
He hugged her again, kissed the top of her head. They didn’t talk until they were in front of Game of Thorns.
“I’d stay for dinner, but I’ve had Moe’s cooking before.”
She snorted at another joke she’d heard a thousand times, then she turned serious. “Um. You’re not going to tell anybody, are you?”
“About your…” he searched for the words, then shrugged, “love life?”
“Yeah. You know my dad will blow a gasket if he finds out I’m even talking to Mr. Gold, let alone--”
“Yeah, I know.” Uncle Manny cut her off. Clearly, he didn’t want to hear what she was doing with Mr. Gold.
“So, please don’t tell him? Promise?”
Her uncle sucked his teeth and slowly shook his head in silence. It took a long minute before he looked at her again.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re an adult. You know your own mind, you can make your own decisions. It’s just--be smart, okay? You are an adult, but you’re also our little girl. Me, your dad, your mom, rest her soul--we don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I promise I won’t get hurt, if you promise not to blab my business all over town.”
“Aright,” he sighed. He pulled her in for a tight hug. “I promise. Just--please, take care of yourself.”
  She squeezed her uncle, then headed for the door. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
****
Lacey spent the entire working day on Thursday psychically willing the phone to ring with orders, preferably orders that had to be filled as soon as possible. Doing a rush job would give them an excuse to charge extra. She wouldn’t wish a funeral on anyone, but wouldn’t this be a great weekend for an impromptu wedding? So many of Lacey’s problems would be solved if just one panicked bride would come in and beg them to fill Dodci’s Dance Hall with centerpieces and garlands, not to mention all the bouquets and boutonnieres and flowers for the church too. Or maybe someone important could get sick and everyone in Storybrooke would send flowers to the hospital. Wasn’t there anyone in Storybrooke who was celebrating anything? Did people not have birthdays in late January? There were so many reasons people could need flowers. But this wasn’t a day when people did.
Hustling at the Rabbit Hole wasn’t an option anymore. If this were any other occasion, she would borrow a skirt from Mara or Janine, but that didn’t seem like a possibility. They wouldn’t take the news of her going on a date with Mr. Gold any better than Uncle Manny had. Mara’s store, where she also lived, was rented from Mr. Gold, and Janine had taken out a loan to pay for her beautician supplies. Both of them--really everyone in Storybrooke--saw him as the enemy. As far as they cared to think about it, he was the reason they were poor. If Lacey told her friends how much she wanted to be around him, they would think she was crazy, or morally degenerate.
Maybe she was. 
Or maybe they were wrong. Had her friends ever eaten at Bella Notte? Had they ever worn a dress that made them feel like sex on two legs? Had they ever watched a hapless waiter get strong-armed into breaking a stupid law for them? Had they ever been inside Mr. Gold’s house? Had they ever taken clothes off just because a man had asked them to? Had they ever known the thrill of promising to do whatever another person told them to do? Had they ever known the peace of being an object, of kneeling silently at someone’s feet?
Could they even understand why that was something anyone would want? Let alone that it was something Lacey craved in a place deeper than her bones? Some dark, hidden part of her soul wanted Mr. Gold, like she had never wanted anything else. 
And not having enough money to buy a stupid fucking skirt might keep her away from him forever. She could not abide that thought.
When Friday was another dud--a few orders came in, but they wouldn’t pay until delivery--Lacey knew that she was out of options. Since Mr. Gold would be picking her up tonight at eight, she was also out of time. So she did what everyone in Storybrooke did when they had nowhere else to go.
She went to the pawn shop. 
****
Lacey had always been intrigued by the phrasing of Mr. Gold’s store. The sign said Mr. Gold Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer. Most stores advertised the goods sold inside, but Mr. Gold advertised himself. This was who he was, this was what he did. No one came to this store because they needed things, they came because they needed what only he could offer them. Usually, they needed it enough to pay whatever price he set. 
When it came down to it, Lacey really wasn’t that different from any other desperate soul who came to Mr. Gold. The only difference was what she wanted.
It was three in the afternoon. Not technically her lunch break, but it wasn’t like she was getting paid to stick around the flower shop. Lacey changed into some gray dress pants and covered her work shirt with her least-frumpy cardigan. She stuffed her purse full of old toys and oddities that might--cumulatively, optimistically--be worth about ten dollars. She yelled at Dad that she was going out for a minute and then walked over to Mr. Gold’s.
The bell rang over her head when she walked through the front door. Mr. Gold was behind the counter, writing something in a ledger. He looked up at the sound and gave the slightest grin when he saw that it was her. 
“Miss French,” he said, with just a touch of warmth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Lacey bit her lip, but forced herself to stay cool. She looked around at the shelves and display cases, slowly making her way forward. Another time, she would have marveled at the art and jewelry and historic do-dads, but now she slunk past them.
“I…” she dragged out the word, unsure of what she was saying as she said it, “was wondering… if you have any clothes for sale.” 
Mr. Gold raised his eyebrows. “Clothes?”
“Yeah.” She stopped in front of a spinning rack of necklaces. She couldn’t look at him. “You know, like vintage stuff?”
He walked over to her, behind the display case. “I’ve got some historic naval uniforms, but nothing that would suit you.”
He was in front of her now, so they were separated by nothing but two feet of glass and gadgets. She didn’t raise her head. Some of these necklaces were really pretty. One gold chain with a mother-of-pearl pendant spoke to her for some reason.
“What do you need, Miss French?”
His voice was gentle, coaxing. He understood how much she hated what she was doing. He probably talked to a lot of people who were feeling what she was feeling. At least he didn’t seem to be enjoying her discomfort.
Lacey took a breath, and looked up at him.
“I need a skirt,” she admitted. “I don’t have anything to wear on our date tonight.”
He blinked. Then his face grew infinitesimally softer. 
“I see,” he said. 
“I brought some stuff.” She set her purse on the counter, began to pull out the junk she’d brought from home. “I thought I might--”
“Please,” he held up a hand. “You don’t need to do that. I’m more than happy to assist you, Miss French.” He turned away from her, went back over to his antique cash register. 
“I can pay you back…”
“Oh you will,” he grinned. He took a bill out of the cash register and set it on the counter. Lacey came closer and saw that it was a fifty. “Will this be enough?”
She fought the urge to snatch the money and run all the way to Modern Fashions. It was the same feeling she’d had when he’d given her the money to tip that stupid waiter. The thrill, the rush, of having cash and knowing she could do anything with it. Fifty dollars was more than she had spent on clothes in the past year. Fifty dollars could cover the bill at Granny’s for her whole family--or at least for Janine and Mara to have real lunches.
Fifty dollars was more than twice what Keith had offered her to have sex with him.
Lacey pulled her hands back. She dug her fingernails into her palms. 
“I… I shouldn’t accept this,” she said.  
“Why not?” Mr. Gold asked, unperturbed. “Are you worried I’ll take advantage of you? Wouldn’t you say that ship has sailed, Miss French?”
She looked down at the dirt-stained sneakers she wore for work. In a resigned whisper, she told Mr. Gold the same thing she said to Keith at the Rabbit Hole.
“I’m not a hooker.”
“Of course not.” Mr. Gold’s voice was smooth and confident. He came out from behind the counter to stand in front of her. Slowly, he raised his hand to cup her cheek, subtly forcing her to look at him. “You’re a woman who knows what she wants and who will do whatever she needs to do to make it happen.”
Lacey’s breath shook. Her eyes were hot and she was trembling.
“What do you want?” he asked her. He really was being very patient. 
“I want to go on another date with you, Mr. Gold.”
“And what do you need to do in order to make that happen?”
“I need--” she stopped. I need a skirt wasn’t the right answer. Mr. Gold had asked her what she needed to do. “I need to get some money, Mr. Gold.”
“Ask me for it.” He gave the order like it was a caress. “Ask me for the money and I’ll give it to you, Miss French.”
 This wasn’t like with Keith. This wasn’t being so desperate for money that she’d have sex with a stranger. This was being so desperate for sex that she’d take money to make sure she’d get it. She’d let Mr. Gold pay her like a whore just to make sure he kept treating her like a slut. 
She swallowed. She had to swallow a few times before she was brave enough to speak.
“Please, Mr. Gold, will you give me fifty dollars so I can have something suitable to wear for our date tonight?”
“I would be happy too, Miss French.” He lowered his hand from her cheek and picked the bill up off of the counter. Gently, he took her hand by the wrist, placed the fifty on her palm, and closed her fingers over it.
He grinned at her.
“Buy yourself something pretty.”
Lacey clenched her jaw. Now he was enjoying this. She bit back words that would make him take the money back. Instead, she said what she knew he wanted her to say.
“Thank you, Mr. Gold.”
“You’re quite welcome, Miss French.”
He turned around then, went back behind the counter. Lacey understood she was dismissed. Facing the door, she took a breath and checked to make sure none of her tears had spilled out onto her cheeks. 
Before she opened the door, Mr. Gold called over to her. 
“Miss French,” he said. “If you happen to buy a red skirt and wear nothing underneath it, I will eat your cunt for dessert tonight.”
Lacey’s eyes went wide. Her shock was less for what Mr. Gold had said and more for his nonchalant tone. He was talking about sex in the same way he would talk about running errands.
“Do you understand me, Miss French?”
What about it did he think she didn’t understand? Then Lacey realized she hadn’t answered him. Mr. Gold expected an answer when he spoke to people. 
“Yes, Mr. Gold,” she said. Shock had made her voice a little breathy. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Gold.”
He gave her a nod. 
Dazed and excited, Lacey left his shop and made her way down the street to Modern Fashions. She had a red skirt to buy.
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chippedcupwrites · 3 months
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Giftee: @notalwayslate Merry Christmas, dearie! I have had the most fun being your Santa. I've seen many years of RSS come and go, but this is my first year participating and I couldn't have asked for a better giftee and prompt. Writing this fic has brought a lot of joy to my holiday season and I can only hope that it brings a little bit to yours too ♥ | AO3 LINK |
Prompt: "her picture in a locket"
Summary: Rumplestiltskin's heart beats with a singular purpose – to reunite with his lost son. But his heart only has so many beats left before it fully gives into the Darkness. An enchanted locket known as "The Heart's Caretaker" may be his only chance to save what little light still burns within him. He just needs it to reveal the one person in the realm destined to banish his shadows and bring love back into his world.
| 'Skin Deep' prologue, very Rumple centric, character studies, canon divergence, verbal sparring, Marchlands world-building, Jefferson & Rumple friendship, background Papafire, hyper-fluffy epilogue |
"Portrait of the Heart" | (5/5) | (12.7k) | AO3 LINK | 🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄
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veronicaleighauthor · 25 days
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ask game: 🥤!
🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love
If we're talking published author, it's Jane Austen.
If we're talking favorite fanfic author?!?!?! I can't list just one. Here we go! @rarepairheathen, @mariequitecontrarie, @spottytonguedog, @bad-faery, @leni-ba, @galactic-pirates, @jackabelle73, @celticheartedfangirl, @charlotteashmore13, @emospritelet, @ishtarelisheba, @nothingeverlost, @scribbles-by-kate
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ace-cf-cups · 2 months
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Happy Skin Deep day!
As many other events/things in this fandom, last year I was watching from afar while this year I strive to actively participate in the life of Rumbelle fandom ( also this sounds very fun ), so I wanna try playing "Fluffify This!")
In short, send me angst prompts to turn them into fluffy ficlets about Rumbelle!
Golden Lace, Woven Lace, Woven Beauty and Anyelle/em prompts are also accepted.
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cartoonjessie · 3 months
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Make Me Feel Alive Again - a Rumbelle Secret Santa 2023 gift for the delightful and talented @kelyon || Rumbelle AU where Rumplestiltskin never let Belle go, and thus canon runs a little... differently... || When Regina meets Belle in the Dark Castle, she harms Belle in a way only Rumplestiltskin can save her... || 14567 words || COMPLETE || Read the story here || Listen to the fanmix here
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shipperqueen93 · 1 month
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So uh. The tiktoker who asked me for smut fics now wants angst fics.
Anyone got a link to Karner Blue....
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jackabelle73 · 3 months
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Hello, @threepwoodmarley !! Let me introduce myself. I am your very tardy Secret Santa. My apologies for my lateness, but your fic is finally here!
Well... at least half of it. Two of three chapters are posted. I hope to have the third and final chapter up soon. The mod of @rumbellesecretsanta agreed that it would be okay to post what I have, and I promise that I know exactly how this fic will end.
One final note... you'll notice that your prompt is no where in this fic -- YET. I haven't forgotten it, and it will be included in chapter three.
In the meantime, please enjoy the first two chapters and Happy New Year!
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shadowedoracle · 2 months
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A Fear of Needles
Happy Fluffapalooza/ Skin Deep Day Everyone!
This is a short little ficlet that came to me at about 6:30AM when I was trying to grab a few hours sleep after getting my CCA ballot done. Since, apparently, when I desperately need sleep I actually wonder about whether/ how much the population of Storybrooke is vaccinated... Then this came to me.
Not sure It's exactly what I was creating as I was falling asleep but it's close enough. I've only done a very basic proofread so if there are any typos/ obvious errors let me know.
***
“I still don’t see why I need to do this.” Rumple muttered to his wife as they sat in the doctor’s waiting room. “I’m the Dark One, I don’t get sick.”
Belle shook her head, wishing she could roll her eyes as perfectly as her husband could as he returned to what he clearly thought was his winning argument.
“We’ve been over this already Rumple. You might not get sick like the rest of us. But we don’t know for sure that you can’t transmit a disease to someone else.”
“I’ve never done so in over two hundred years as the Dark One.” Her husband said huffily.
She looked at him levelly. “And for most of those years you lived alone. So that’s not as strong a point as it sounds on face value -- and you know it.”
“Humph, perhaps. But we lived in a world rife with disease and no prophylactic treatments such as vaccinations. You’d have thought if I was a carrier there’d have been some evidence of it.”
“Perhaps. But the data we have is just insufficient to be sure Rumple. And we need to be sure.” She laid her hand on his leg which was twitching slightly, a sure sign of his nerves. “I know you wouldn’t want to be the source of any harm to Gideon, if you could prevent it. Neither of us do. So by getting vaccinated we’re taking an important step towards ensuring we don’t harm our son, even indirectly.”
Rumple deflated.“I know.” He sighed. “I know.”
She knew he did know. They’d had this conversation before, multiple times now, and despite all of Rumple’s arguments she knew that ultimately she had the winning one: Rumple could never countenance being the source of any harm coming to their son, no matter how small the probability.
“Mr Gold?” Doc’s voice called through the waiting room.
They stood up and followed him into his office. After Doc had checked Rumple’s appointment details and medical record details-- well Mr. Gold’s medical records, so the age was made up since the computer system wouldn’t permit ages above 150, apparently -- he busied himself preparing the syringe.
Rumple looked at the needle with wide eyes, then his eyes darted to the door then to Belle. “Even if I agree this is necessary. Why are we doing this here? Why not go to Portland or Boston or New York? Somewhere with real doctors. Not a bunch of people who got there medical knowledge from a curse.”
“Hey!” Doc said. “We've spent over 28 years practising medicine in this land. We’re hardly new to things like injections.”
“I seriously doubt repeating the same day over and over gave you as much medical knowledge as you claim.” Rumple sneered.
“Enough Rumple,” said Belle. “We’ve discussed this before. It’s safer doing this here where you have magic, just in case either your body or your magic, reacts badly to the vaccinations.”
“Still doesn’t mean, I think allowing an inexperienced, non-formally trained doctor to stab me with a needle is a good idea.”
“I’m right here you know!” cried Doc.
“I’m sorry Doc.” Belle said knowing Rumple wouldn’t apologize for his remarks and wanting to reassure the dwarf. “I know you know what you’re doing. You’ve vaccinated most of the town by now, including Henry and Gideon.”
Rumple quietened at the reminder that both his son and grandson had been vaccinated by Doc. But as Doc swabbed his arm and picked up the syringe, he started fidgeting again.
Belle shook her head mentally. Who would ever believe the Dark One was afraid of needles? Time to break out the big guns. She put her hand on his thigh and leaned in so close that her lips brushed his ear. She made sure her voice was so low that Doc wouldn’t be able hear. “Rumplestiltskin, if you sit still and behave yourself from now on, I promise that tonight, once Gideon’s asleep, I’ll reward you in any way you desire.”
Rumple turned his head and softly brushed his lips against hers then whispered back, “deal Mrs Gold."
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March Prompts
Moodboard:
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Non-smut: relation, painter, hiccup
Smut: Choosing to do nothing is still a choice after all.
Random: (song lyric): "I'd rather be a hammer than a nail." Simon and Garfunkel - El Condor Pasa
gif:
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A reminder for all:
If the prompts are 3-5 words you don’t have to include all of them. Imaginary bonus points if you do :) but zero stress they just have to include a couple in some fashion so it fits the prompt.
If the prompt is a quote you can include it at any point, it doesn’t have to be the opening line.
If the prompt is the image moodboard (multiple images) you can be inspired by one of them, be inspired by two, be inspired by the lot, get a feeling from the thing and not one of the images specifically - it’s all good. There is no wrong way to approach this.
If the images on the moodboard are of Robert or Emilie’s non-rumbelle characters (eg Rush, Macavoy, Claire, Heiro…), don’t feel you have to use that character. They’re just there for a bit of variety.
Anyelle and anyem are welcome if you do want to use them, though!
if you are inspired by the gif prompt, similarly, your creativity is your only limit. It’ll be a real treat to see you might come up with.
Happy Rumbelling!
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mrgoldsdearie · 3 months
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Please, help. He are going to be on the streets with a child.
Cash App: $Dearie909
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thestraggletag · 1 month
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Ties of Blood, aka the Rumbelle cursed!faux!incest, Part Two
Summary: There’s nothing more tragic than ripping two lovers apart, except piecing the broken pieces together wrong. Never say the Evil Queen doesn’t know about revenge.
Rating: NC-17
Part One here.
Hey, it only took me FOUR YEARS to put up part Two! This fic will likely have four parts so I'll be finished before the decade's over.
Enjoy the big cliffhanger at the end of this chapter!
She figured it out seconds before Miss Swan blurted it out to the entire assembly, too late to make a hasty and discreet retreat. She forced herself to look relaxed and betray no emotion as Emma confessed the truth.
"The fire was a setup. Mr. Gold agreed to support me in this race, but I didn’t know that that meant he was going to set a fire. I don’t have definitive evidence, but I’m sure. And the worst part of all this was - the worst part of all this is - I let you all think it was real. And I can’t win that way. I’m sorry."
Out of the corner of her eye she saw her brother stand up and slowly walk away, understanding that he'd avoided sitting next to her because he knew what would happen. Knew Emma Swan enough to predict exactly how she'd react, down to her spontaneous confession. It was terrifying, how he could do that. And it was terrifying, for a whole lot of different reasons, how much he seemed to already know Miss Swan. How he could get inside her head so easily.
Once he was gone she felt some people turn their attention towards her, and it took all she had not to acknowledge it, to pretend she didn't notice it. As soon as she could, however, she slipped out of the hall, hastening home. She felt a sad sort of relief to find the house dark and quiet, Rabbie having retired to his room early for the night, allowing her to do the same and be alone with her thoughts. And they centred around Emma Swan and Mayor Mills, the two women who seemed to hold her brother's interest. It was difficult to tell which one he seemed to favour, and she could see either as being his preference. On the one hand he seemed to be doing the impossible to try and keep Emma Swan in town, toying with her in a way that could easily be interpreted as flirting, but on the other his hatred of Regina bordered on obsession, and could have easily been hiding a deep attraction. She was certainly privy to a side of him Rabbie fought to hide from Belle herself. Besides, the mayor had a dangerous sort of beauty that she could understand would be attractive to someone like her brother. Things were getting out of control, were escalating. A fire was too much to ignore, to excuse.
The days after the fire and the election were filled with the tense silence of things unspoken, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Though neither mentioned it Belle heard about clandestine meetings in the woods with the mayor and unexpected acts of kindness towards the sheriff, including the exchange of information- something Rabbie priced highly- in exchange for "tolerance".
Though she had told herself that she would've been happy if his brother decided to pursue Emma Swan she wasn't sure of it now. But she should try to embrace it, try to see the positive side of it. It was good of Rabbie to take an interest in someone new, good for him to interact more with people. When she expressed a wish to invite either woman for dinner, however, he seemed set against it, as if he found the idea distasteful.
"It's just... you seem to have so many things in common with both women, Rabbie. I thought inviting either for dinner would make a nice change from lonely nights with the town lunatic."
Her brother banged a closed fist on the table, startling her into dropping her cutlery. He seemed contrite as soon as he saw the scared expression on her face, reaching out with that same hand to take one of hers.
"Do not refer to yourself as that. Please. You're not... you're not crazy."
She wished she could agree, but she knew there was something wrong with her. She had dreams sometimes, strange and elusive and unsettling, and often she'd be hit by a sense of wrongness in the middle of the day, as if the world around her... wasn't real. Certain people also made her feel strange, like Maurice French. There was something about him that made her strangely nostalgic and yearning. The mayor, on the other hand, terrified her, and she didn't very well know why. But it was a cold, visceral sort of fear, deep and inexplicable. And her brother... Well, of course she loved him, but sometimes that love felt... wrong. In ways she didn't really want to explore at all.
It was happening more and more, which in turn had her feeling more and more like the little girl trapped in the asylum she'd once been. And like she'd deserved to be there.
"I'm sorry. I know you worry. And I don't want you to, I want you to... enjoy yourself. Mingle a bit more. Perhaps take the new sheriff for a drink or two, now that things seem to be better between you."
He looked puzzled, as if it had never occurred to him to view Miss Swan in a romantic light. Then again her brother was good about lying to himself when the mood struck him, it was altogether very possible he was in denial.
"You're seeing things, dear."
Belle chuckled, a mirthless sort of sound.
"Wouldn't be the first time."
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Without Graham to go to for some peace when things got to be too much Belle got into the habit of visiting his grave to bring fresh flowers and sit awhile to enjoy the peace and quiet. Her brother had thoughtfully seen fit to install a wooden bench, Marco's handiwork judging by the simple elegance of the design. Unwilling to go visit her friend empty-handed she became a regular visitor of Game of Thorns. The flower shop was poorly kept and Moe French looked like a man who could barely keep things running or his life together, but there was a sort of dignity about the man, the shadow of something great that had faded away with time. His flower arrangements were certainly beautiful, and his merchandise well cared-for.
Though he was wary of her at first her sunny disposition soon had him warming up to her and once she expressed her interest in flowers he became a veritable chatterbox. Every time she stopped by he'd have a new flower arrangement for her, taking great pains to tell her interesting tidbits about the flowers. She got used to stopping by with something to share, muffins or cookies or anything else she might easily carry in a tupper, once she realised the florist seldom remembered to eat during the day. He spoke, sometimes, of his wife- Belle hadn't known he was a widower- and how she'd been the one with the business sense, a force of nature that had kept the house and the shop running smoothly and profitably. He'd tried to emulate her efforts after she passed away, but he'd quickly found himself overwhelmed by daily life.
"I'm just no good outside a greenhouse, it seems. Plants come easy to me... Everything else usually becomes too much."
For some reason, she felt the overwhelming need to fuss about his clothes and his eating habits, though she knew that would imply far too much familiarity. Moe French was a gruff sort of person, and she was nothing but a glorified customer. He did seem not to mind her intrusions on his time, cheering up when she entered the shop and not at all eager, it seemed, to send her away.
Once, after a particular rotten day- she'd woken in the middle of the night with the remnants of some sort of horrible dream about her and made her way to her brother's room only to find him gone, and nothing had quite gotten better after that- he'd offered to show her to his greenhouse, which was fascinating. A large portion of it was occupied by rows of hydrangeas.
"It was my wife's favourite flower. Funny, some days I can hardly remember her face, but I've never forgotten she loved hydrangeas."
For some reason it didn't surprise her to find the late Mrs French had also favoured hydrangeas. It certainly explained why the flower shop always kept them in stock and in such an array of colours. Belle had thought perhaps that the florist did it to curry favour, to try to appease her brother come rent day, give him a reason to be lenient. She rather liked the more romantic explanation, it made the flowers seem less mercenary. And it fit her newfound understanding of Moe French as a man who'd loved fiercely and lost, who was hopeless at anything remotely business-related- something her brother often commented on, in a far less diplomatic manner- but made the most beautiful flower arrangements imaginable and spent a lot of his time talking to his plants in his greenhouse, claiming it helped them grow.
Changes were definitely happening, and though Belle could have done without a lot of them she rather liked some others.
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He hated it. Couldn't quite tell why, but he hated it. Somehow the florist had always rubbed him the wrong way, for no apparent reason. He was a snivelling, barely-functional excuse of a man, with the worst business sense he'd ever seen, who saw fit to blame all of his woes on others. Granted, he was not the only person in Storybrooke Gold was less than impressed with, but there was something about him, something special that pushed his dislike into outright, seething hate. Being in the florist's presence for long tended to make him violent, to fill him up with an inexplicable rage.
Belle's soft spot for the old man made him strangely apprehensive and anxious. It felt almost as if he thought Moe was dangerous for his sister, like he wished to do her harm, which he knew wasn't true. In the past, however, that awful feeling in the pit of his stomach had not been recurring, since Belle crossed paths with Mr French only seldomly. The flowers that decorated their home were picked up by him or, more often, by Dove, his only employee. The library and the flowershop were far enough away from each other and Moe French wasn't into reading anything longer than a magazine. Gold doubted he even had a library card.
But after Graham died Belle had acquired the habit of visiting his grave, often bringing with her a bouquet to place near the headstone. Which meant she was suddenly visiting the flower shop often and that set his teeth on edge. Especially when it became clear his sister was taking a genuine interest in the florist and he seemed to be responding in kind. Belle had never given him the impression of wanting a father figure. They had both tacitly agreed, once they'd been reunited, that each was all the family the other needed. He didn't like the notion that he wasn't enough, that he'd failed somehow, in some way he couldn't fathom. That he was lacking.
Moe was a lonely man, who likely found himself nearing retirement and dealing with the regrets of a life half-lived. He had a vague notion that he'd once been married, long ago, but there had been no kids, and later on his wife had passed away, leaving him all alone. A man with no family, with no friends, with very little in the way of a future. He could understand that someone like that might start to covet things that weren't his, things he desired. For some reason the idea that Moe might actually have... an unseemly interest in his sister had never crossed his mind. Man was no lecher, which might easily be his one and only virtue. But he did have some sort of interest in Belle, man lit up whenever she was around and became someone capable of carrying a conversation and not simply grunting. He'd tell her about plants as if they were a fascinating subject and, much to his chagrin, it led to botany books joining Belle's multiple book piles around the house. Books were how Belle best expressed herself, and so he'd learned to read the book piles. Victoria Holt novels when she was feeling down and needed a bit of romance with a twist, Agatha Christie when she was feeling bored with the quiet daily life of Storybrooke, Cortazar for when her mood was dark and strange and she needed stories to match and so on. Everything new that caught her eye would eventually end up in the piles and, over the years, he'd been their biggest influence. Law review books when he was handling a tricky case, art history books to learn more about whatever big project he was working on, even the odd medical journal whenever there was an interesting or relevant article about physical therapy for people with his sort of injury. To see a bit of Moe French in the piles set him on edge.
He tried to tell himself when rent day came along that he wasn't taking any sick pleasure from running the numbers and discovering that French was a whopping three hundred and fifty bucks short. Told himself that he was simply following protocol when he called Dove to provide muscle protection as he prepared to seize the florist's collateral, his van. So what if he'd perversively and carefully picked out what he was wearing that day, down to the paisley purple and silver tie? It simply meant he knew the power of appearances.
He told himself over and over he was in the right, preparing the arguments in his head to tell Belle once she, without a doubt, went off on him for it. He rehearsed them over and over and was in the process of reciting them in his head for the seventh time as he approached his house when he noticed the front door open. It was too soon for Belle to have closed the library and made her way home so his guard was immediately up. Once he made his way inside he reached for the Walter PPK he kept near the front door, removing the safety quickly as his eyes surveyed the living room, already noticing some valuables missing, as well as things strewn about, clear evidence of a robbery.
The appearance of Miss Swan a few seconds later, far from welcomed, put a damper on the plans already forming in his head. It was too much of a coincidence, being robbed the same day he'd moved against Moe French. This had all the markings of French's brand of sloppiness, down to the many expensive items he'd left behind because they weren't glittering baubles. He wouldn't have guessed anyone else was involved if he hadn't noticed a particular object missing. It was a small, insignificant thing, a bone china cup, dainty and chipped, that had once belonged to an expensive tea set his aunties had owned. Belle had chipped that cup as a baby, and so when the aunties were forced to sell it they had omitted the cup, which he had saved from the trash and kept in secret for years, the one thing Belle had touched that he could get his hands on. It was worthless except to him, nothing that could have possibly attracted the attention of someone ransacking the house for valuables.
No one knew where he kept the cup, though. Only Belle, of course, who might not remember breaking it as a toddler but had heard the story enough times to repeat it from memory at the drop of a hat. But no one else even knew the cup was of any significance.
‘Regina.’
He turned around, as if expecting someone to materialise behind him. He shook his head, wondering if there was something in the water. First Sheriff Graham seeing wolves in the woods and now he was hearing noises. And there was a nagging feeling, one he couldn’t explain, regarding the mayor. As if some part of him knew she was responsible for it, just like Belle had been sure she was responsible for the good sheriff’s death.
It didn’t matter how the florist knew anyway. Perhaps it was a coincidence. What mattered was getting the cup back intact. Everything else could wait.
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He felt off kilter, in a way he could not explain away. Like he had spent half the day on autopilot, doing things without a conscious thought or a good reason. Kidnapping the florist had been a deliberate move, that one he could not excuse. After all the man had touched what was his and needed to know that such actions carried consequences. But what happened later… that he had no reasonable explanation for. The rage that overtook him when he heard Mr French’s pathetic pleas for leniency, his desperate attempts at reasoning with him, he could not explain. It felt like something foreign, something subconscious he could only scratch at, that was dying to push its way out of his body. A voice told him that Maurice had done something awful. Something beyond redemption. That he had taken Belle from him, in a way that was permanent, and that he needed to pay for it.
‘He hurt her,’ the voice told him, over and over until it was howling inside his head, drowning out the desperate cries from the florist and the sound of Sheriff Swan identifying herself on the other side of the door, demanding entry. It wasn’t until she barged in and cuffed him that he snapped out of it, as if awakening suddenly from a dream that felt too real until the last second.
“What the hell were you thinking, Gold? What did he do?”
“He stole.”
He thought about the cup, but somehow other images kept popping into his head instead. Of Belle, dressed in a blue dress he could not recall her ever owning, lounging around in an unfamiliar, palatial place. Of them dancing around each other, the air charged with something he could not describe. And then himself, alone. Devastated. Because Belle was… gone?
“That reaction was about more than taking a few trinkets. You said something about how he hurt "her", what happened to "her"? Who was that? What did he do? If someone needs help, maybe I can help. Unless this is about your sister, in which case I would remind you about the virtues of sharing. She’s a grown woman capable of choosing who she socialises with.”
“No. I'm sorry, Sheriff. I think you heard that wrong.”
He was in no mood to have whatever discussion this was turning into, not with the Sheriff or anyone else. He knew what people thought about him, and his relationship with his sister. But it wasn’t any of their fucking business. They weren’t family, not like-
Except he had called Maurice her father, hadn’t he? Why had he done that? At the moment he hadn’t thought about it. Words had just poured out of his mouth, as if he had always wanted to speak them. As if he had been dying to say them.
“You really don't wanna cooperate.”
He really, really didn’t.
“Look, we're done here.”
He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to have to explain to others what he could not even begin to make sense in his head. He just wanted to go home, to Belle’s relaxing company. Sheriff Swan slapping cuffs on him jarred him out of his little fantasy.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
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The cells back at the sheriff’s station were not known for their comfort, and his headache wasn’t helping matters. His mind felt scattered, as if it was difficult to concentrate. He struggled to make sense of things, to keep it together. Nonsensical images flitted about his mind, of places he had never seen, a life he had never lived. And that voice, that damnable sing-songy voice, kept whispering in his ear, taunting about how he did not remember, how he had forgotten something important.
When the mayor came, it took everything in him not to snap because he realised that whatever was going on wasn’t happening in his head. Regina knew. She knew and he was in the dark, yet for some inexplicable reason she thought the opposite. There was a power struggle happening, and he was on the losing end of it unless he figured out fast what the fuck was going on in his town.
The glee in the mayor’s face when she realised that he did not know what she was talking about was a bitter pill to swallow, but the return of his chipped cup softened the sting. He needed to be out to figure out what was going on and how it connected to everything else wrong around him.
A quick call later, which Sheriff Swan had allowed him only after he had rather mockingly reminded her of his rights, had him out of the station in little time at all. DA Spencer was nothing if not shady, after all, and though he had no expectations of loyalty- he was sure Spencer was dealing with him only because Regina had not come knocking with a better offer- it got him out of his more immediate and pressing problem. He would deal with the charges themselves later.
He hoped, rather foolishly perhaps, that his slightly-rumpled estate would put off whatever inevitable confrontation would eventually happen between himself and his sister but it was a testament to how angry Belle was that she seemed not to notice the way his limp was noticeably more pronounced once he was finally home.
“What the hell has gotten into you? Are you mad?”
He shrugged off his coat and hung it in the rack near the door, unable to help the way his eyes went up and down Belle, making sure she was alright, that no harm had come to her in the time he had been indisposed. She looked healthy. And absolutely furious. Worse than that. She looked betrayed.
“I was merely seeking justice. The good sheriff didn’t seem to be going anywhere with her investigation of the theft in our home, so I took matters into my own hands. Miss Swan clearly did not appreciate me showing her up, so to speak, by finding the culprit and making sure there wouldn’t be a repeat offence.”
So what the handle of his cane was covered in a bit of blood? Headwounds bled easily, everyone knew that. 
“Moe French is in the hospital! You should’ve seen him in the hospital bed, covered in bandages, practically unable to move!”
“You went to visit him?”
It felt like a betrayal, knowing that while he had been seething in prison, dealing with Regina and getting his precious cup back, his sister had been visiting the person who had violated their home and taken things of untold value to him. Hadn’t she thought about visiting him? About his comfort? He had done all he had to protect her, after all. To protect them.
“I had to! I had to see for myself, apologise on your behalf and make sure he knew we would cover all medical expenses.”
“Like hell we are.” He had never raised his voice to his sister before, not that he ever recalled, and yet something about their current dynamic felt so strangely familiar. “Not an ounce of my money is going to that snivelling little leech.”
“So it’s your money now? That’s how this is? Your money, your power, your reputation. That’s what you were protecting when you were beating a defenceless Moe French, wasn’t it?”
“He doesn’t deserve your fierce defence of him. He never has. He’s beneath your notice, and yet you’ve insisted on paying attention to him. Of spending time with him. Of course he was going to take advantage of it eventually, of your kindness and your bleeding heart.”
He stalked off towards the wet bar in the corner of their living-room, serving himself a generous three fingers of 30-year-old Macallan, trying not to remember it had been a gift of Belle’s for his last birthday. 
“I’m not some idiot that someone can easily take advantage of! And you don’t get to dictate who I spend time with! I keep quiet about your social life, don’t I? Meeting with the major in the woods at night, having questionable encounters with the sheriff. Things any other person might have questioned you about. But I kept silent, I’ve not complained about how much less time we spend together, how you’ve become more secretive, more cagey. You have no right to dictate to me in return.”
Rabbie scoffed, downing his drink and contemplating pouring himself another. It wasn’t the first time his sister implied he was paying too much attention to either the mayor or the sheriff, and he was sick of it. It wasn’t true, for one, and he disliked that his sister kept both pushing him towards the two women and then acting strange when she perceived he was spending too much time with either of them. He disliked how they had wormed their way into their home. For him, both women were… business connections, which he cultivated and utilised for his own benefit, to maintain and grow his hold over the town and make things go the way he wanted them to. But all that stopped mattering as soon as he crossed his front door. Their house was their private sanctuary, a world of their own. That’s why he had taken such a dislike to the mere idea of Moe French violating their space. And it rankled that she didn’t seem to hold the same sentiment.
“Stop it! Stop whatever weird little thing you’ve been imagining it’s happening between me and the sheriff or, God forbid, the mayor. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, you’ve completely lost-”
He stopped himself, the enormity of what he was about to say hitting him a second before he did. But he could see from the way that Belle’s eyes suddenly filled with tears that it was too little, too late.
“My mind? Say it. It’s what everyone thinks, after all. The truth is you’ve never cared about my social life before because I had none. Because everyone in this town keeps their distance from me, like I’m some sort of wild animal that’ll attack them unprovoked at any moment. And they’re not necessarily wrong, are there? I… I have these dreams, sometimes. So vivid they feel more real than my life here sometimes. And I have these inappropriate-”
This time she was the one that stopped herself, her eyes suddenly not meeting his as she side-stepped him to head towards the stairs. He knew her well enough to know she was planning to go up to the library to read herself to sleep. The library was her personal space, like the basement workshop was his, and they had a tacit agreement not to step into each other’s rooms without express permission, making them places where they could take a break from each other. He would have let her go, only he felt like she had been about to say something important. Monumental. As if she had been about to give voice to something that had, for the longest time, been unspoken between them. He grabbed her by the arm, gentle in spite of the tone and charged air in the room.
“What were you going to say?” 
“Nothing.”
He could see her folding into herself, escaping into that bit of her mind he could not touch and it infuriated him. She never did that with him, not on purpose. She was always an open book where he was concerned, the one person he didn’t have to worry would have ulterior motives.
“It’s not nothing. Why are you lying to me? You’ve never done that before.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that he only ever lied to her for her protection. There were things she was better off not knowing, things he was happier if she could safely deny having knowledge of. Things she might find unseemly or unpalatable and would struggle to reconcile with her values. Belle was a much better person than he was, than most people were. He didn’t want her to have to pit her love for him against her sense of right and wrong. 
But saying that suddenly sounded incredibly condescending.
“Don’t change the subject. This isn’t about me, it’s about you. And when it comes to us I’m always honest with you. And until now you’ve done the same. But there’s something you’re keeping from me.”
The way she wouldn’t meet his eyes told him that he was right.
“Can you really say that? You think I don’t realise you’ve been different these past few months? Ever since Emma Swan showed up, as a matter of fact.”
She was right, of course, but not in the way she seemed to be implying. Something had indeed changed the day Henry Mills had dragged his very reluctant biological mother across the townline months ago. He could not pinpoint what, or when he had first noticed it. When things he had kept mostly buried beneath layers of denial, started to surface. When he began to hear a niggling voice in the back of his head that told him there was something wrong with the way he felt about his sister. In the ways his eyes and hands lingered on her at times, in the way he felt when other people- other men- took her from him, even if it was only for a little while. It was the only part of what made beating Moe French make sense, this notion that this man was there to take Belle away from him and needed to be stopped. The other part of it, the blind, consuming rage, that remained a mystery to him.
 “Stop this obsession with the bloody sheriff. Who cares about her? Why do you insist on bringing her up between us? Acting like-” Like a jealous girlfriend. “-like you’re insecure. Like you’re afraid we’re drifting apart.”
“Aren’t we? When was the last time we had lunch together when I wasn’t the one taking the trouble of going to the pawnshop to make it happen. When was the last time we went a week without something making you skip dinner? The last time we sat down to watch a movie?” Belle’s eyes welled up, her face a mixture of anger and sadness that made him want to wrap his arms around her, even though he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it. He still held on to her, both hands on her arms now, his cane dropped. He trusted her to keep him upright.
“Sometimes… sometimes I think I love you more than you love me.”
“No one could love anyone more than I love you.” He felt his hands tighten around her upper arms and though a part of him knew he must be hurting her he could not make himself pull away. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. It’s the only thing I’ve ever felt sure about in this world. The only thing that feels right.”
“Does it? Because it hasn’t felt right for me lately. Like I’ve woken up and realised that the way we are is not… It’s not good for us. It’s not healthy. It’s not normal.”
“Fuck normal. No part of our lives has been normal. What we have is not normal, it’s better. Better than what most people will ever have. It feels good, doesn’t it?” He let one of his hands wrap around the back of her neck, the other going around her waist to pull her closer to appease the blind panic welling up in him at the idea that Belle might pull away. “You feel this? Whatever this is, it can’t be bad. Not between us.”
They never knew what happened first, whether it was Belle looking up or Gold looking down. One moment they were simply close, foreheads touching, the air charged between them, and the next their lips grazed, tentatively at first, the pressure increasing as something sparked between them. Belle sighed, her hands pressing against his shoulders to be able to stand on her toes and lean into the kiss and it was all that was needed for Gold’s carefully-curated self-restraint to snap. Suddenly he was hauling her close, his mouth pressing insistently against hers, coaxing her lips to open so he could slip his tongue into the warm heaven that was her. He growled, feeling exhilaration course through him as he kissed her frantically, with a desperation he had never felt before. Something sizzled between them, something that felt a bit like electricity travelling all over his body but he pushed that feeling aside, concentrating instead on the feeling of his sister’s hands sliding to the back of his neck, one taking a lock of his hair and tugging on it, urging him closer. She was soft and warm and wonderful in his arms, and he could not shake the feeling that this was right. It was what they had always meant to be doing, what their entire lives had led to. Why he had always been resentful of men sniffing around Belle, why he had always compared women to her. The few women who he had dated had all closely reassembled her, but he had never noticed. All a pale imitation of her, he could see now as he fisted the back of her shirt, his hand seeking the warmth of her skin. She was perfect, and she was his. His beautiful little sister, his true love.
‘That means it’s true love!’
There was a bright flash of something and next thing he knew Gold was on the floor on the other side of the living-room, a searing pain in his forehead and a deluge of confusing memories hammering into his brain. A spinning wheel. A dagger.
Baelfire. His son.
A curse to become reunited with him. And just as he was about to accomplish it… a flicker of light. One that had been snuffed out.
Dead.
He looked across the room, at his sister sprawled next to the couch, her eyes wide as she looked at him.
“R-Rumple?”
“Belle.” He had said her name a thousand times as Mr Gold, but it felt different, like he was talking about a different person. And, in a way, he was. Not Belle French, but Lady Belle. Except she was supposed to be dead. Regina had told him-
Fuck. How could he have been so stupid?
“You’re real. You’re alive.”
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kelyon · 2 months
Text
Courtship 3: First Date--His Place
After dinner, Gold takes Lacey back to his house.
Read on AO3
Mr. Gold’s house was a salmon-pink mansion in the good part of Old Town. This was a popular neighborhood for flower deliveries, so Lacey had at least been in the door of most of these places. But she had never been inside Mr. Gold’s house before. She didn’t know anyone who had. 
He unlocked the door and held it open for her. Lacey tried not to gape at the size of the place, the obvious quality and care. The front hallway was paneled in wood--not fake wood paneling, but wood--polished and clean. No chipped paint or decades’ worth of smudged fingerprints anywhere. 
Most of the house was dark. Lacey couldn’t see up the stairs or down the hallway. The only light was a mini-chandelier, with ropes of crystals that sparkled like the sequins on her dress. The darkness outside was so complete she could see her reflection in the panes of glass on each of the double doors.  
“This is lovely,” she smiled at Mr. Gold.
“Thank you.” 
He locked the front door behind them, then shrugged off his coat and hung it onto one of a row of empty hooks on the wall. When that was done, he went over to a door on the other side of the entryway. It was a closed door, made of shiny wood so dark it was almost black. He stood in front of it, with his cane in front of him, like he was guarding whatever was in the room behind him.
“Miss French,” he began, “you don’t have to be here.”
Lacey raised her eyebrows. “Well that’s a great start to a hookup.”
“I’m quite serious,” Mr. Gold went on. “I want you to understand that I am not compelling you to do anything. We’ve already discussed that what goes on between us will have no bearing on your father’s situation with the rent. If you leave now, or if you want to stop at any point in future, it will not affect my opinion of you. If you’re ever in need of my assistance, you’ll be able to come to me and I will treat you like anyone else.”
Lacey pressed her lips together. She didn’t want him to treat her like anyone else.
“At any point,” he was still talking, “you can ask to go home and I will drive you back. It is of utmost importance that you understand this: You are acting of your own volition, without coercion or threat.”
She looked at him, hands on her hips. She ran her tongue over the back of her teeth while she thought.
“You sound like you’re gonna try things I shouldn’t let you get away with.”
He came towards her. “I have tastes,” he said simply. “I have desires. I have things I want from a lover that many people--quite reasonably--balk at.” He was close enough now to whisper in her ear. “And I have an inkling about you, Miss French. I think it’s possible that you have desires of your own, desires you wouldn’t dare ask another person to indulge in.”
Her face went hot. She didn’t say anything.
Now he spoke more evenly, but still low and seductive. “At the restaurant, you asked me why I chose you. Let me tell you now: I chose you because it’s possible our desires might align. You might want to receive what I so dearly wish to give.”
He stepped away. He hadn’t touched her but he had been so close that having him gone threw her off balance, at least mentally. He stood in front of the door again.
“I’d like to be right about you, Miss French, but I need you to tell me if I’m wrong. Before you get hurt.”
Lacey blinked. She took a breath, got her bearings. “Are you planning on hurting  me?”
“I’m planning to give you every pleasure you can think of and a few more I’m sure you can’t. If you follow the rules.”
Oh. So this was another game. Straightening up, Lacey looked him in the eye. “What are the rules this time?”
There was that glint in his dark brown eyes. That gleam she had come to realize meant he was happy with her, or proud of her. She had done something right.
“This is my study.” Mr Gold tapped his knuckle against the wooden door behind him. “For tonight, this room is our field of play. When you come into this room, you will obey me. Without hesitation, and without question. Do you understand?”
The hairs on the back of Lacey’s neck stood up. The house was warm, but a chill went through her. 
“What will you tell me to do?”
“Nothing you won’t like,” he promised. “Any time you don’t want to obey, you just have to walk out this door. The game will be over.”
Lacey crossed her arms over her chest and tried to ignore how good the scratchy fabric felt against her bare breasts. 
“So are you gonna make me call you ‘Master’ or something?”
“No,” he chuckled at the suggestion. “No, I’m Mr. Gold. That’s quite enough for one lifetime.”
So at least she wouldn’t have to fawn over him like he was God. She just had to do what he said. Everything he said.
“Is this another game I can win?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”
“I meant, would there be another prize?” Technically, the very fact of her being here was her reward for winning the game at the restaurant. 
“I’ll find ways to make it worth your while, Miss French. To my way of thinking, the greatest prize for winning will be the chance to play again.”
He wanted her. Somehow, the thought hadn’t occurred to her until now. It had been so obvious. Of course Mr. Gold wanted to screw Lacey French. She was young and hot and he was old and lonely. But there were a lot of girls in Storybrooke who were young and hot and Mr. Gold chose her. Mr. Gold wanted her. He saw something in her that he didn’t see in other girls. He wanted things--unmentionable but specific things--and he thought he could only get them from Miss French.
He wanted this to work. He wanted her to want him. He wanted her to want to play his games. The fact that she did only made the revelation that much sweeter.   
“Okay,” Lacey moved toward the study. “Let’s play.”
He held up his hand to stop her. “You should take a moment to collect your thoughts. Make sure this is really what you want, Miss French. Then, before you come into the study, take off your stockings and your underthings. Leave them out here. Put your shoes back on, and come join me. Or tell me that you want to leave.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
She spoke softly, but it was the boldest declaration she had ever made in her life. 
Mr. Gold gave her a small smile--an actual smile, the first she’d seen from him. Then he made a nod that was almost a bow. He went into the study and left the door open behind him.
****
Alone in the entryway, Lacey let out a long breath. Mr. Gold had told her to collect her thoughts but all she could think about was how horny she was, how alive she felt. All she could think about was what Mr. Gold had planned for her. Exactly how unconventional were his tastes? Would she walk into the study and discover him putting on clown makeup and wielding a meat cleaver? What did he want? What did he want from her?
She wasn’t going to find out in the hallway.
Lacey backed away from the glass-fronted doors into the dark interior of the house. Then she pulled up her skirt and rolled down her panties and her stockings all in one go. Good thing she had shaved her legs after all. She stepped back into her sensible black pumps and crossed the threshold into Mr. Gold’s study.
He was lighting a fire in the antique fireplace when she walked in. He was fully dressed and not in clown makeup, which was a good sign. When he saw her, he tossed the long match into the catching flames.
“That was quick,” he remarked.
“I know what I want.”
He came toward her, until they were standing close enough to kiss. With the hand that wasn’t holding his cane, Mr. Gold cupped her cheek. It was the first time they had touched anything more than their hands. 
“And what is that?”
The word you lay on the tip of her tongue. I want to know you. I want to know what you want and I want to give it to you.
Of course she couldn’t say that out loud. Sentiment was a little treacly for Mr. Gold’s taste. He liked bitter, not sweet.
“I want adventure,” Lacey said instead. It was mostly true. “I want something I can’t get from any other man in this town--something I can’t imagine most of them would even be able to understand.” She pushed herself toward him, pressing her body against his. She put her hand on his chest. “I want more, Mr. Gold. I want much more than this… life.”
He took a step back, then another. With his body gone, her hand hung in the air. He gave her one of his long, appraising looks.
“The first rule,” he said softly, “is that you don’t touch me. I will touch you, and I may give you explicit instructions on where I want your hands or your body, but I will not have you pawing at me like a pickpocket.”
Lacey’s cheeks burned. From embarrassment this time, not anything fun. “Oh.” She lowered her hand. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to--”
“That’s why I’m telling you. I don’t want you making that mistake again.”
She swallowed down her guilt and nodded her understanding. She kept her eyes downcast. She really was sorry to have made him uncomfortable.
“I spoke to you, Miss French.” He came close again.
She looked up at him. “Yes, you did. And…?”
“And when I speak to someone, I expect the courtesy of an answer.”
“Oh,” Lacey said again.
He shook his head. “That won’t do at all, dearie. Say, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.’”
A flash of anger went up her spine. Who the hell was he to nitpick her behavior? Sure, they were playing his game, but that didn’t give him the right to patronize her!
Boldly, she matched his stare. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” The sentence was hot in her mouth as she spat it out. But the words were right. She was following the rules. “I apologize Mr. Gold. Forgive me, Mr. Gold.”
Now he grinned. “Three times is a nice touch, but remember to say please when you want something from me.”
Lacey managed to conceal her eye roll with a long blink. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”
He put his hand on her waist and pressed his body against hers. She couldn’t tell if it was a reward or a tease, the closeness she was allowed to have, but only on his terms. The warmth of him steadied her. It dampened down the sparks of her aggravation.
She felt his breath on her ear as he whispered, “Good girl.”
He slid away from her and once again Lacey was left feeling dizzy and off-balance, like she had just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl.
“Do you know how to pour whisky, Miss French?”
Lacey blinked a few times to clear her head. She looked around. He was in the far corner of the study now. A section of the bookshelf folded out to reveal a little compartment with bottles inside.
“Uh, is it different from pouring any other liquid?”
Mr. Gold nodded his head toward the bar. “Come here,” he ordered casually.
Lacey hurried to obey. She darted around a large couch with her arms out slightly in front of her, like she was being pulled by something on her wrists.
That was weird. Why had she done that? Lacey shook her head to clear it. When she got to Mr. Gold, she put her arms down by her sides.
“Pay attention,” Mr. Gold ordered. “I want you to be good at this.”
“Yes, Mr. Gold.”
He positioned her in front of the bar, standing behind her. Reaching over her, he placed a finger on the lid of one of the bottles.
“Johnnie Walker Blue Label,” he explained. “Blended Scotch whisky, two hundred dollars a bottle. It’s good enough for everyday use.”
Two hundred dollars for a bottle of booze? A bottle of good enough booze?
Before she could marvel any further at how the other half lived, Mr. Gold took Lacey’s hand and placed it on the sky-blue bottle. With him guiding her, she took the bottle by the neck and pulled it out of the row.
“You may unscrew the lid.” He murmured it into her hair like it was a sweet nothing.
Lacey watched to make sure her hands weren’t shaking as she did what he said. Mr. Gold helped her pick up a short glass and set it on the bar. Her hand covered the glass and his hand covered hers. 
“Pour until it’s the height of two fingers.” He had his other hand over hers on the bottle. “Or three, in your case.”
She stopped before he could tell her to, when the brown liquid reached the top of her middle finger. She pushed away from him, just a little. Just enough that she could pick up the glass and spin around to face him. 
“Like this, Mr. Gold?”
The lines in his mouth deepened. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Count to ten--slowly, out loud--then come and serve me.”
“Yes, Mr. Gold.”
She watched him walk over to a stuffed leather armchair by the fireplace. Before he sat down, he took a pillow from the couch and set it on the floor next to his chair. As she counted, Lacey looked at him, at the power he radiated. The chair he sat in wasn’t a throne. Mr. Gold wasn’t a king. He was something bigger than that. Something dark and eternal. Just what, she wasn’t sure. It was a mystery to be uncovered. 
When she was done counting to ten, Lacey went over to Mr. Gold with the glass in her hand. Some instinct made her bend at the waist when she offered him the drink. It paid off when Mr. Gold’s eyes swept down the line of her spine and lingered on her ass. Was he thinking about his order to take off her underwear?
“Well done,” he said as he took the glass.
Lacey made a pointed look at the pillow by Mr. Gold’s feet. “What next?”   
“Next,” Mr. Gold sat back in his chair. He swirled his whiskey in the glass and took a drink. “Next you will go to the top drawer of my desk, on the right-hand side. Open it, and bring the contents to me.”
“Yes, Mr. Gold.” Obediently, Lacey crossed the room.
The desk was a thing of beauty, rich dark wood and a leather writing top. It was large enough and sturdy enough that it could function as a bomb shelter if Storybrooke was ever under aerial attack. Lacey French had become valedictorian while doing homework at her kitchen table. If she’d had a desk like this, she would be a Rhodes scholar by now.   
In the top drawer on the right-hand side, Lacey found a strip of foil-wrapped condoms, a box of rubber gloves like at a doctor’s office, and white tube with the label facing up to read: ANAL LUBRICANT.  
She blinked. 
For a long minute, she just stared at the objects in front of her. The things Mr. Gold wanted to have close at hand. Then Lacey took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. In one motion, she scooped the supplies into her arms and walked back to Mr. Gold. 
The condoms and the gloves went on the table beside him, next to his drink. The lube he placed in an inside pocket on his suit jacket, close to his heart. 
He gestured to the pillow on the ground. “Would you like to kneel at my feet, Miss French?”
At that moment, Lacey didn’t know what she’d like. She had some ideas, or thought she did. Her formative years had been shaped by age-inappropriate romance novels. But it was one thing to fantasize about things--to imagine them and even want them. It was something else entirely to drag a secret desire out into the cold light of reality.
Mr. Gold was leaning forward, staring at her. He was waiting for her to answer, to obey, to keep playing their game. The game that had suddenly become too real for her.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He tilted his head. “You may.”
Lacey breathed. There was no other way to say it than to say it. 
“Anal?”
 Mr. Gold smirked. He sat back, comfortable again with how things were going. “You’ve never done it before?”
“No,” Lacey almost laughed. “It’s supposed to be gross, right? Or complicated, or dangerous?”
“What good thing in life doesn’t have an element of complexity or danger?”
“But don’t I need to, like, do an enema or something first?”
“That’s what these are for,” he gestured to the condoms and gloves. “It’s my understanding that being overzealous with cleaning actually increases the risk.”
“Really?” Lacey had never done research on the subject, and the few romance novels that featured anal were annoyingly vague on the details. Apparently Mr. Gold did this enough to develop a preference for it, so he was now the leading authority. 
“If you want to be clinical, Miss French, an enema will dry out the anal passage and leave you vulnerable to microtears, which can lead to infection.”
“I’m sorry, I stopped listening after I heard the word tear.”
“Micro,” Mr. Gold emphasized. “As in microscopic.” He patted his jacket where he’d just put the bottle of lube. “That’s what this is for, to make everything… smoother.”
Lacey dug her nails into her palms. The sharp, stinging pain eased her nerves. 
“Why did you put it in your jacket?”
“To make it warm for you.” He took a drink, then set down his glass. “Anything else?”
“You’ve done this before.” It wasn’t a question. “A lot?”
“Yes.”
“With who?”
“A gentleman never tells,” he smirked. “Suffice it to say it was long ago and far away. You’re in no danger of running into any jealous exes.” 
Lacey let out a breath of a chuckle. Learning more about what was going to happen had helped. Talking to Mr. Gold, listening to his unshakable self-assurance, had helped.
She smoothed her skirt.
“Do you still want me to kneel, Mr. Gold?” 
He picked up his drink. “Very much.”
Nodding, she went to the place beside him and got down on her knees. She sat up straight in a perfect L, the way people did in Catholic church.
“You can relax,” Mr. Gold said softly. “You’re going to be down there for a while, Miss French.”
His arm draped over the chair to hold her by the back of the neck. Gently, but with firm pressure, he pushed her down. She was still kneeling, but sitting on her legs. Now Lacey felt like she was in a karate class.
“There,” he said. “Isn’t that better?”
There was only one answer Miss French could give: “Yes, Mr. Gold.”
****
For at least fifteen minutes, Mr. Gold sat, and sipped his whiskey, and touched her. He tried to play with her hair, but quickly realized it was an unmanageable rat’s nest full of bobby pins. After that, he kept to her neck, her ears, her cheeks. He played with her idly, as if she was a pet, or some kind of ornament with an interesting texture. Just a thing for him to fidget with while he was thinking.
His fingers were soft. Mostly they grazed over her, practically teasing. Sometimes they pressed in. Sometimes he rubbed her with several fingers at once. He made his way down her back like that, massaging the spaces her dress left bare. Whenever she reacted with a sigh or a muffled moan, he touched her more. 
It was a quiet time, with nothing but murmurs between them. They watched the fire, listened to the crackles and pops of the burning logs. Lacey felt her pulse slow. Her thoughts wound down into almost nothing. Mr. Gold’s touch, his presence, could thrill her, yes, but right now it calmed her. It helped her be ready for what she knew was coming. 
“Have your legs gone numb?” he asked her after a while.
When was the last time Lacey had felt her toes? “I think they are, yes.”
“Good.” 
Pushing himself up with his cane, Mr. Gold got out of his chair. Then he bent down over Lacey, wrapped one arm around her chest, and with surprising strength, lifted her to her feet. She couldn’t stand under her own power, but he walked her to the couch and let her fall over the arm. Lacey braced against the cushion, holding herself up on her elbows.    
“Stay there,” he rasped. 
It sounded like he was out of breath. Had hefting her around worn him out? Or did it excite him to see her like this? If there was ever a position for a girl to get fucked in the ass, Lacey was in it. 
She breathed. It was going to happen. She looked down at her hands. They looked so pale and small against the wide expanse of tufted burgundy leather. Before the date started, she had managed to wash away all the potting soil from work, but she should have painted her nails as well. Maybe tomorrow she’d stop by the drug store and splurge on burgundy nail polish.
While she was thinking inane nonsense, Mr. Gold was running his hands up and down her thighs. 
“So soft,” he murmured. “So lovely.”
“That’s the miracle of exfoliating,” Lacey quipped.
As soon as she spoke, his hands stopped. “No, it’s the miracle of youth, Miss French. Enjoy it while it lasts. Can you stand now?”
Experimentally, she pushed herself up off the couch and put her weight on her feet. “Looks like it,” she said.
“Good.” 
As she stood, he pressed against her again, his front to her back. His breath was hot and delicious against her neck. Carefully, slowly, he put one hand on the front of her thigh, just below the very short hemline of her dress. 
“You know what I want,” he whispered. “The fact that you’re still here means you’re willing to give it to me. Is that correct, Miss French?”
“Yes,” Lacey breathed. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”
Still with the same deliberate slowness, he dragged his hand over her thigh and under her skirt. He rested a minute on her hip bone, right over what would be her pantyline, if she was wearing panties.
For a moment, they breathed together. Lacey had the thought that this moment for him was what entering the study had been for her: Crossing a threshold. 
He slid his hand down, over her pubic hair, and into her pussy. 
She hadn’t realized how wet she was until she felt his fingers dip into liquid heat.
“Fuck,” Mr. Gold hissed. 
Lacey’s teeth chattered, but she grinned. “You sound surprised.”
“Pleasantly,” he assured her. His fingers began to move. “Delighted, actually.” He rubbed his face against her neck. His stubble prickled her skin.
She moaned.
“Are you always so easily aroused, Miss French? Do other men slide into you so effortlessly?”
He had found her clit shockingly fast, but he didn’t press against it too hard or for too long. He seemed to know without being told how she liked to be touched, how she touched herself. He pressed two fingers into her core for just a moment, dipping down and pulling up more wetness to slather over her lips and folds. His hand was quick and constant and everywhere.
“I asked you a question, Miss French.”
“No,” she answered breathlessly. “There’s only been one and he didn’t care much about me. I had to--oh!--take care of myself most of the time.”
“Well, there will be no more of that,” he muttered, still working furiously. “A woman’s pleasure is a prize, Miss French. It should be worked for, and savored.”
It was hard to think of an answer right now. It was hard to think of anything besides the swell of feeling he was pulling up out of her. No, Hunter had never touched her like this. She had barely ever touched herself like this, or found herself as wet as Mr. Gold made her.
She felt something building, felt herself rising and arcing, ready to reach the peak. She was going to--she was--
Abruptly, Mr. Gold’s fingers stopped. He kept his hand on her mound, holding it, but not doing anything.
“What?” Lacey turned around as best she could to look at him. “Why did you stop? I was almost there!”
A slow smile spread across his face. “I know,” he said. “You’re not subtle with your orgasms, Miss French.”
“I--should I be? Is that a thing you want?”
“Not particularly.” He squeezed her cunt and Lacey shuddered. “No, it’s to my advantage that you’re so… demonstrative.”
Groaning, Lacey fell forward over the arm of the couch. “You’re just fucking with me, aren’t you?”
“No, Miss French, I’m fucking you. I have every intention of letting you come.” With his other hand, he pulled her back up, pressed her against his body. He growled into her ear. “You’re going to ruin my jacket sleeve with your sopping wet cunt.” He let her go. “But only when I allow it. Do you understand?”
Breath shaking, Lacey tried to pull herself together. It was harder than it had been before. Blood pounded in her ears, the pulse of pleasure denied, the throbbing need she knew Mr. Gold could feel against his hand. She managed one breath, and then another.
“This is called edging, isn’t it?”
“It’s called obedience, Miss French. It’s called doing only what I want you to and only when I tell you to do it. It’s called being a good girl.”
Lacey clenched, she shuddered. She was going to come whether he wanted her to or not. She didn’t have a choice. Her body was just doing this.
“Fight it,” he snarled. “It’s a skill like any other. You can just stop.”
It was like falling. Like thinking there was one more stair and then you stepped up onto nothing and landed hard. Like waiting for a sneeze and not having one. Like trying to force yourself not to have hiccups. It was a weird holding sensation, as Lacey staved off her natural reaction. 
Somehow, she managed it. The feeling passed through her. She was able to calm down, control herself. Just like he wanted.
“Perfect,” Mr. Gold whispered. “I knew you could do it.’
Her teeth chattered. Lacey felt strangely wrung-out. Overwhelmed. Her mind and her body had somehow disconnected, and there was only the slightest tether between them.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Mr. Gold.”
****
Two more times he brought her to the edge and made her pull herself back. Each time it was harder and when he finally allowed her to come she was barely aware it was happening. Her body took over entirely, thrashing and screaming, grinding against him. Her mouth begged for more--Lacey heard herself say the words--but it was removed from her mental reality. It might as well be happening to a character in a book. 
Mr. Gold permitted her as many orgasms as she could take, then gave her one more when she thought she was done. By the end of it, she was slumped over the arm of the couch. Utterly boneless, utterly spent. Her mind was quiet. Her body was exhausted. In that moment, nothing mattered. In that moment, she floated on a cloud of perfect safety and peace.
When he decided she was done, Mr. Gold gave her a satisfied pat on her hip. At some point, her skirt had gotten rucked up to her waist. Her naked ass was up in the air, the perfect position for him to do whatever he wanted.
Through bleary eyes, Lacey watched Mr. Gold walk back over to his chair, to the little end table where he had set the condoms and rubber gloves. He put on only one of the gloves, and flexed his fingers with a satisfied smirk. Then he tore one of the condoms off the strip and walked back over to Lacey. He slipped the foil square between two of her limp fingers.
Putting his weight on his cane, Mr. Gold crouched down so he was on her level. Lightly, he brushed her hair away from her face. “You’re going to hold onto that for me until I need it. Do you understand?”
Blinking slowly, Lacey nodded. 
He tilted her chin up, so she looked him in the eye. “That’s not what you say, is it Miss French? Is that how you communicate with me?”
He was gentle, almost teasing, but she knew he was serious about what he wanted.
“No, Mr. Gold,” Lacey murmured. Complete satisfaction had brought her to a place of complete compliance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.”  
“That’s the way.” He stroked her hair as a reward, with the hand wearing the glove. She could smell her pussy through the rubber. “Do you understand what I want from you?”
 She squeezed the condom between her knuckles. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”
He gave her a fond grin. “Good girl.”
****
He stood behind her and opened her legs. He played with her pussy for a moment. The  sudden pleasure jolted her out of her stupor. He spread her wetness back towards her ass.
“Barely even need lubricant,” he muttered. “With a cunt so wet, so sloppy.”
He punctuated the word by jabbing his fingers hard into her cunt. Lacey let out a keening moan--it wasn’t painful, just intense--and he soothed her with gentle rubs.
“But that’s the way I want you, Miss French. You’re a mess of desire, absolutely filthy. You don’t mind getting dirty, do you dearie? No. No, I think you like it.”
His thumb was circling her asshole now, while his other fingers played with her cunt. He paused, briefly, and Lacey heard the snap of the lid opening on the tube of anal lube. A spurting sound, then a new substance on her body. 
The lube wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t as hot as her own juices. Lacey shivered at the feeling--at all the feelings--all the sensations and reactions Mr. Gold had drawn out of her.
“I do,” she whimpered as he rubbed the lube around her asshole, as his thumb made short, exploratory ventures within. “I do like it, Mr. Gold. God, I fucking love this.”
Behind her, he chuckled. His free hand rested over her ass, spreading her apart ever so slightly.
“You’re taking it well,” he murmured. 
Slowly, he eased the whole of his thumb inside her. Lacey closed her eyes and focused on the feeling, the invasion, the unusual fullness. Mr. Gold didn’t move his hand. He seemed to be listening, seemed to be as attuned to her reaction as she was.
“Well?” he breathed.
Lacey tried to think, but he had already fucked all the words out of her. “It’s… weird…”
“Unpleasant?”
“No. I mean--no, Mr. Gold.”
He squeezed the soft flesh of her ass and she knew that was her reward for speaking to him correctly. Then he began to move his thumb. At first he only rotated his wrist, so his whole hand moved in a slow circle. Then he began to spread outward, making the circle wider. Making her asshole wider. He slid out partially, then eased his way back in. All the while, Lacey lay draped over the couch, vaguely aware of the distant pleasure, but mostly overwhelmed. Mr. Gold hadn’t even gotten his cock out and she had already been well and truly fucked.
He added more lube, then started with his fingers. One at a time, he used the same patient experimentation as with his thumb. He explored her, filled her, fucked her.
“I’m going to start with two now,” he told her. “I’m going to open you up, and then I’m going to need that condom.”
Through her blissed-out haze, Lacey nodded. Then she corrected herself. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”
Again, he squeezed her. “Good girl.”
Two fingers was odd, especially once he started moving them. Odd was the only way she could think of it. It didn’t hurt, and it didn’t really drive her wild, at least not as much as his fingers in her cunt had. Lacey got the impression that this act wasn’t for her. Mr. Gold was just preparing her so she’d be alright with him doing what he wanted. 
That was fine. God knew he had already given her plenty. Mr. Gold might as well take something for himself. And in Lacey’s current state, she wouldn’t have been able to do much for him anyway. Better for him to do the work, better for her to just take it.
He plucked the condom from her fingers. She heard the sound of a zipper, of foil being ripped open. She heard a slight hitch in his breath. Then his hands were on her again. He spread her open and glided into her ass.  
Mr. Gold gasped. His clean hand gripped onto Lacey’s hip so hard it was sure to leave bruises.
“Fuck.” He choked back the word through gritted teeth.
With one arm, he roughly pulled her up and turned her neck to look at him. His cock was still inside her, but there was no pain or even discomfort. He felt amazing.   
“You’re sure you’ve never done this before?”
Lacey tried to hold herself up on the couch. “Not that I remember.”
“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, you’re just a natural slut then, aren’t you? You just walk around in your day to day life with an arse that’s begging for my cock?”
He thrust his hips into her for emphasis. Lacey moved with him, realizing for the first time how tightly their bodies were joined. Become one was a romance novel phrase for fucking, but she felt the truth of it now. In that moment, Mr. Gold was a part of her, and she was a part of him. They were one thing, one animal, united in a singular drive.
It felt so right. It felt so good to be with him. So natural, so perfect. She was his and he was hers. They should never be separated again.
He must have felt the same thing. With his clean hand, Mr. Gold turned Lacey’s head to look at him. He stared at her for a moment. His eyes washed over her face, searching for some answer. He must have found it, because he pulled her even closer, and kissed her. 
She kissed him back, wet and sloppy like her cunt. It was an awkward angle with him inside her, but neither of them stopped. His hand moved over her body, over her dress. He squeezed her breast through the fabric and she trembled.
Their mouths broke apart, but they were still one being below the waist. For a moment, Mr. Gold stared at her again. His mouth was loose and slack from the kiss. He looked softer than she had ever seen him before, softer than she could ever imagine him being. He looked open and tender. He looked like he could love her. 
He was beautiful.  
One second later, his features sharpened again. His mouth hardened into a smirk. He bent her down over the couch. His cock pulled out about halfway and then rammed into her.
“Rest assured, dearie: You’re going to remember this.”
****
He took her hard, banging her into the couch with such force that the furniture shuddered forward with his thrusts. Lacey cradled her head in her crossed arms and let herself go loose. He made noises, animal grunts and muttered swear words. Her moaning was so constant it was almost a drone, a single music note that rang out over and over.
How could something so brutal feel so good? Mr. Gold fucked her like a beast, unyielding, unending, and she knew she had been made for him. To be thing he fucked, that was the only purpose she had. Through her haze of bliss, she understood it with perfect clarity. She accepted the fact. She loved it. This was where she belonged. This was all she wanted to do, to be, for the rest of her life. Lacey French was gone, even Miss French had faded away. She was something else entirely now. She was sex itself. She would take anything he doled out to her. She would take it gladly and beg for more. She really was a perfect slut.
His perfect slut. 
His thrusts became faster and stronger. A snarling stream of exclamations poured out from his mouth and over her body. Abruptly, he grabbed her. His arm pulled her up to stand while his cock kept pushing her down into the couch.
 “Ohh,” she sighed. It was all she could do.
His mouth was on her. On her cheek, on her neck. He kissed her with possessive bites, marking her. Claiming her body as his. 
He worked on one spot, just at the nape of her neck. He sucked and gnawed at her flesh until the pain he was giving her outpaced the pleasure. Her moans became high-pitched and pleading, but she didn’t want him to stop. She never wanted him to stop. 
Her pain was enough to send him over the edge. His thrusts became erratic, jerking and sliding, deeper and deeper, until he gave one final push.
When it was over, he let out a heavy sigh against her shoulder. For the first time, she noticed he was trembling, just like she was. Panting, he leaned against her. He rested his head on her neck, pressing his lips to the place he had marked. He wrapped both arms around her waist.
He held her.
Lacey kept shaking, shook more than she had while he was fucking her. Those movements had been all his, there had been no need for her to add to them. Now that he was still, Lacey’s body shuddered. Her hips thrust forward against the couch, her ass ground against him, even while his cock was softening inside her.
Mr. Gold chuckled in her ear. “Again?” he murmured. “Don’t you have an off switch?”
“I wish I did,” Lacey said as she clenched and convulsed. 
Finally, the wave crested through her again. She came with a grunt, her hands clawing at the leather cushion. Then she slumped forward, exhausted. Her body still twitched and throbbed, but those were aftershocks. She was done. 
Mr. Gold rubbed one hand over her back and down to her ass. He patted her like she was a friendly dog, like she had done hard work and done it well. Like she was a good girl.   
“I’m going to pull out now, Miss French.”
She made a vaguely affirmative noise and he didn’t chide her for not being correct. The heat of his body left her and she felt the familiar sensation of something vacating her asshole.
“Oh shit!” She lifted her upper half off the couch. “Did I--”
“No,” Mr. Gold answered before she could finish the question. “It just feels like it because you’ve never had anything else come out of there. At least, I assume. You took my cock with such ease, one might accuse you of feigning your innocence.”
Lacey groaned and crawled forward on the couch so her legs were on the cushion with the rest of her.  She lay on her stomach, her bare ass slowly getting cold.
“I never said I was innocent, Mr. Gold.” She rubbed her face. “Fuck, I’m sure not innocent after tonight.” 
He was over by a trash can. The hand wearing a glove held the full condom. He hooked the thumb of his other hand under the edge of the rubber so when he pulled the glove off, it went inside out. The condom went with it, so now everything dirty was in a neat little latex package for him to throw away.
He tucked in his shirt and zipped up his pants, but he had never even taken off his jacket. Five minutes after coming in a girl’s ass, Mr. Gold looked like he had spent the evening quietly reviewing the details of contract law. He knew it too. There was a swagger in his step as he came back to her. He was every inch the cocky bastard. 
 “Innocence is overrated, though there can be some pleasure in destroying it. Can you stand, Miss French?”
She could, but it was a multi-step process. She hauled her legs down to the ground--God, she was still wearing her shoes--and forced herself to sit up on the couch. Groaning, she got to her feet. Her legs were a little wobbly, but she was able to stand up straight.
“Very good.” 
Mr. Gold put his hand on her waist, just above her ass. He walked her out of the study to a bathroom in the hall.    
“Clean yourself up,” he instructed gently. “Feel free to use the washcloths. Come out here when you’re done.”
She obeyed him groggily, moving like she was underwater. The lube felt so slick and unnatural as she tried to wipe it away with toilet paper. Anal sex wasn’t that gross, but the aftermath sure was. She washed her hands and soaked one of the washcloths in hot water to put on her face. It was soft and new and good-smelling. Lacey breathed in the steam, the scent of lavender. Lavender was one of the few flowers she could actually stand the smell of.
She sighed.  
She looked in the mirror. Her face was flushed from the heat, her cheeks and forehead splotchy. If she pulled the collar of her dress over to one side, she could see the hickey Mr. Gold had left on her. The shape of his lips seared darkness onto her skin. She hoped it would last a while. It was her only memento of a very momentous night.
Her hair looked about the same as when she’d left home. There was some advantage to being so messy. Wild hair easily hid the wild things Lacey got up to.
When she got out of the bathroom, Mr. Gold was waiting for her. He offered her a glass bottle of sparkling water. She took it, and drank.
“Thanks--uh, I mean, thank you, Mr. Gold.”
They had left the study, but were they still playing? Would he want her to keep up the formality? He didn’t correct her. His pleased expression only deepened.
He put his hand on her bare back and gestured with his cane to a wad of cloth on the floor.
“I believe those are yours, Miss French.” 
“Oh!” She crouched down to pick up her pantyhose and underwear. “Sorry about that, Mr. Gold.”
He shook his head. “Not at all, Miss French.”
It would be too intimate to put on her underwear in front of him, and she didn’t want to excuse herself back into the bathroom. Lacey’s only option was to roll her stockings around her panties and hold the bundle in the hand farthest away from Mr. Gold. 
“I’ve got the car running out front,” he said. “I’d say it’s high time you got to your bed.”
“What time is it?”
“Just before midnight. I’ll see you home before your glass slippers vanish into fairy dust.”
Lacey snorted at the joke, then sobered when she looked down at her shoes. She’d gotten these sensible black pumps to wear at her mother’s funeral. Maybe it would be better if they did disappear. Then she wouldn’t have to think about tragedy every time she looked at them. 
Or maybe it would be okay. After all, now she could remember that these were the shoes she was wearing the first time Mr. Gold fucked her. 
****
He drove her home. The Cadillac was as smooth and as silent as a shark cutting through water. It was a far cry from the only vehicle she ever drove. The store’s delivery van coughed and rumbled like a workhorse that needed to be put out to pasture. Her Uncle Manny was over at least once a month to repair it. He used all his skill as a mechanic to keep that clunker running for just a little while longer. Just until things got better.
Lacey stretched out in the roomy warmth of the passenger seat. She luxuriated in this comfort for as long as it would last. She’d have to go back to reality all too soon.
“I can’t believe after all this I’m gonna have to take a cold shower.”
Mr. Gold looked at her. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but there was a tinge of amusement in his voice. “Is your libido that insatiable, Miss French?”
“Huh? Oh.” Lacey chuckled. “No, I mean literally. Our hot water tank is pretty much useless.”
He pulled over and parked in front of Game of Thorns. There was no amusement in his voice when he spoke again. “No one informed me of any problems with your hot water.”
Lacey blinked. “Why would we?”
“Because I’m your landlord, Miss French. Technically, that’s my hot water tank.” He shook his head. “I never should have taken your father’s word that everything was fine.”
“Um. I mean, it’s not a big deal. My dad’s gonna get it fixed eventually.” 
Like everything else in their lives would eventually improve. 
Mr. Gold didn’t say anything. He unlocked the door and Lacey took that as her cue to get out.
“I--uh--I had fun tonight.” She stood in the street with the passenger door open. “Thank you for a… really great evening.”
In the flickering street lamps, Lacey could make out the shape of Mr. Gold’s head, but not his expression. He was looking at her, but she had no clue what he was thinking.
“You’re welcome, Miss French.”
She shut the door, and picked her way through parked cars and piles of snow. He waited until she opened the unlocked side door of the building, and then he drove off. 
17 notes · View notes
chippedcupwrites · 3 months
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It's CCA time!! A time of year that I'm always excited for, because it comes with the excuse of reading and re-reading copious amounts of fanfic in the name of nomination research.
Here's a neat little masterlist of my fics and my videos, if you are in need of a thing or two to pad out your nomination form. 💙💜💙
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"The Finfolk's Bride" a series (currently) consisting of two fics; "Tomorrow" & "Ad Astra". In which Rumplestiltskin is a mischievous Fin and Belle is his ever-adoring human companion. (2/?) ∣ (3.4k) [possible noms]: Best Creature, Best Date, Best AU (Original)
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"Portrait of the Heart" a 'Skin Deep' prologue Rumplestiltskin's heart beats with a singular purpose – to reunite with his lost son. But his heart only has so many beats left before it fully gives into the Darkness. An enchanted locket known as The Heart's Caretaker may be his only chance to save what little light still burns within him. He just needs it to reveal to him the one person in the realm destined to banish his shadows and bring love back into his world. (5/5) ∣ (12.7k) [possible noms]: Best First Meeting, Best Rumbelle Secret Santa, Best Belle, Best Dark One Rumple
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"Lacey and the Tramp" a golden lace one-shot Gold and Lacey acquire a new furry companion...much to Gold's chagrin. Ft. Gold's mental agony of being haunted by Belle every time he looks at Lacey. (1/1) ∣ (1.5k) [possible noms]: Best Golden Lace, Best Comedy, Best Lacey
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"Pages of Reverie" a dark castle one-shot From a tome within the dark castle library, Belle unleashes a strange sleeping curse that forces her to confront her heart's deepest desire. Ft. Belle having a make out session with a dozen different fairy tale versions of Rumplestiltskin. (1/1) ∣ (2k) [possible noms]: Best One-Shot, Best Dark Castle
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"Belle French & The Dork One" - Rumple & Belle Three minutes of pure Rumbelle goofiness (with corresponding goofy editing). (2:55) [possible noms]: Best Video, Best Fluff Art
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"Mary on a Cross" - Gold & Lacey “Your beauty never ever scared me” (1:18) [possible noms]: Best Video
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"Autumn" - Rumple & Belle “You’re the sweetness in a warm cup of tea. When the world around us quiets, and it’s just you and me.” (2:46) [possible noms]: Best Video, Best Fluff Art
(+ here are links to my scant few gif sets and image edits)
18 notes · View notes
tickletorso · 3 months
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Finding the Fun - RSS 2023 Fic
Hello @of-princes-and-savages I am your Secret Santa and damn was this a labor of love! The flu almost stopped me, but I said "not today infectious demon, I have a gift to complete." So without further ado, I hope you enjoy this kinda angsty, mostly fluffy, with just a hint of smut Rumbelle fic.
I will also post it to Ao3, but probably not until tomorrow and I wanted to make sure I got this to you today. So, feel free to read it below....
Summary: Belle and Rumple are settled in Storybrooke with two year-old Gideon. One night, Belle has a mishap and it inspires the couple to try and bring back the fun into their relationship.
Notes: This is a little bit AU, because after Gideon is turned back into a baby, the family stays in Storybrooke instead of traveling realms. So magic exists and all of the characters' history is the same but I’m glossing over the whole “Rumple needs to break his Dark One curse” thing. Also, I researched it and baby deer walk 7 hours after being born. - That’ll make sense when you read it. 
Finding the Fun
Well, this wasn’t the oddest position Rumple had ever found Belle in.
There was the time in the Dark Castle when he’d found her perched high up on a ladder tugging on the window curtains trying to let light into the room. He’d been about to chide her, because it was called the dark castle for a reason, but she’d lost her balance and fell right into his arms. There were many other “Belle mishaps” (as he liked to call them) to choose from, but the ladder was his favorite. He’d ended up with his arms full of a beautiful woman, the sun shining down on him like a spotlight and she hadn’t looked at him with repulsion. Instead he saw curiosity and kindness in her bright blue eyes. He didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of his love for her. 
Currently, he was leaning against the doorframe of their son Gideon’s room. The hallway light behind him cast a luminous glow over the scene inside. Belle was fast asleep propped up by the headboard of their two year-old son’s bed. Gideon was cradled in her lap, equally fast asleep, his head resting against her bosom. He could tell even from across the room that Gideon’s breathing was a bit labored, and he could hear the occasional sniffle from what was undoubtedly a stuffy nose. 
Ah, Gideon finally caught a cold from one of the other children at daycare. Well it was bound to happen at some point. An autumn chill had recently swept through Storybrooke and with it inevitably came runny noses and germ-laden hands.
But his beautiful wife comforting their son wasn’t the ‘odd’ part of this tableau. It was what she was wearing. Rumple’s eyes trailed up her legs. They were covered in sheer black stockings and just a peek of a garter belt could be seen high up her thigh. He could just make out a pair of matching panties trimmed in scallop lace before Gideon’s little body hid the rest from view. His gaze continued to drift upward to her top. It was a thin and rather ragged sweatshirt with the words Storybrooke Library stamped upon it. It even looked like she’d done her makeup more than usual. Her eyes were darkly lined with a winged effect and her lips were a luscious merlot color. 
He tried to bite back a chuckle. Belle had sent him out for a bottle of wine and there had been a wicked gleam in her eyes. It appears Belle’s plans for a seduction had been rudely and quite suddenly interrupted by Gideon’s head-cold. 
Rumple gently closed the door and made his way to their bedroom where he was met with more evidence of Belle’s thwarted seduction. Hanging off the side of their bed was a black corset covered in a black scallop lace just matching her panties. The drawers of their dresser were all pulled out with clothing spilling out of them and several items strewn across the floor. The male part of him groaned at the missed opportunity. The rest of him had a good laugh while he cleaned up the room. 
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Belle stumbled down the hallway like a baby deer fresh from the womb. Her legs had fallen asleep while keeping Gideon propped up on her lap. Poor little Gid had woken up crying and panicked because he couldn’t breathe through his nose. He didn’t understand that it was just a cold, and he kept pointing to his nose crying “no no no.” Once she was able to calm him down they’d sat in the bathroom with the shower steaming to help loosen his stuffed sinuses followed by a small dose of cough medicine. He still hadn’t been able to sleep without Belle propping him up making it easier for him to breathe. Thank gods toddlers don’t care what their moms look like as long they’re there, because Belle looked very different than usual.
The house was already dark so it must be late. It was always disorienting leaving Gideon’s room after sleeping with him. It felt like his room existed outside of time and space; the white noise machine, the complete darkness he needed for sleep (he must get it from Rumple), the cozy warmth of his body when he insists on snuggling until he drifts off. It all effectively shuts out the world. So when Belle tiptoes out the door, it always takes her a long time to orient herself to the sounds, the light, and the cold of the real world. She has absolutely no idea what time it is. It could be tomorrow for all she knows. 
She makes her way into the kitchen trying to quietly make some tea before she puts herself to bed. The feeling is back in her legs because she definitely felt the chair she just knocked into which, of course, clattered to the floor. The sound echoing throughout the first floor of the house. With a great huff she slouched against the kitchen counter. So much for quiet. 
“Well well well. What do we have here?”
Belle jumped with a little shriek turning around to meet the very amused eyes of Rumple. 
“Rumple!” She pressed her hand to her heart, “You scared me.”
He shrugged and swaggered towards her pulling her into his arms. He was dressed for bed in his deep blue silk pajama set with a matching robe. The contrast in their attire was very apparent. Most of Belle’s makeup was rubbed off  and her hair was a frizzy, tangled mess from the shower steam. She looked up to see Rumple biting back an amused smile. The glee on his face made him look like the imp she’d known during their time in the Dark Castle together. Despite her embarrassment, she found her heart chuckling inside of her along with him. It had been a long time since she’d seen him find something funny other than from sinister irony. 
His voice was quiet and laughing when he asked, “Would you like to tell me about your evening?”
“Only if you make me some tea.”
“Deal,” he said, and with a peck on her forehead, left her arms to tend to the kettle. 
Belle picked up the chair from the floor and settled herself into it. She pulled a leg up under herself, and the silky slipperiness of her stockings made her grimace. The stockings weren’t made to withstand a steam bath and restless toddler feet snagging on them. They were designed to carefully encase each leg and then dramatically shown off in a big reveal that raises blood pressure (in addition to other things), maybe a short session of eye-fucking, and then finally are peeled off in favor of more naked activities. 
“I should get changed,” she muttered to herself.
“And deprive me of the sexy sight before me?”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Obviously this was not what I was going for. Gideon woke up with a cold and it all went downhill from there.”
Rumple set the tea tray on the table, and reached for her clasped hands. “I’m sorry sweetheart. Is Gid ok?”
“Yeah he’ll be fine. I think it scared him more than anything.”
Rumple sat across from her still holding her hand. “I suppose you can’t really explain to a two year-old what a head cold is.”
“Not really.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you. The situation is just….”
“Funny.” Belle supplied with a smirk. “I know. It is. It really is.” She fiddled with Rumple’s finger while trying to shake off the feelings of disappointment and frustration. With his free hand, Rumple began to fix their tea trying to pour hot water into the teapot without spilling. When Belle noticed his adorable attempt to make tea one-handed she released his fingers and clasped her own together in her lap. 
For two years they’ve been trying to heal together. They are both in individual therapy and in couples therapy. Even little Gideon went to play therapy once per month. Now that he is starting to develop his own sense of self they wanted to make sure Gideon had extra support in case their were residual effects from his time in the Dark Realm and…well, from everything else that had happened to him. Because so much had happened. Sometimes it felt like too much. All of the curses, all of the betrayals, and secrets. There were times early on when Belle couldn’t imagine their little family ever being happy together. 
Now, she sees glimmers of hope everywhere. In the way Rumple holds onto her hand even if he needs it back to make their tea; in the way he packs extra snacks in Gideon’s daycare bag “just in case he’s hungrier than usual;” in the way he tells her every single time he has a craving to misuse magic, and instead they talk together until a non-magical solution can be found. 
So tonight she had wanted to create something special for him  — ok, for them. Not that they hadn’t had sex in the past two years, but this was intended to be different. She wanted to play and have fun. It had been such a long time since they’d just had fun. She thought bringing that playfulness into the bedroom would in turn bring it back into their relationship on a whole. 
Rumple sat her teacup in front of her and she grabbed his hand before he could pull away. He looked up a bit surprised at her earnestness.
“I….” She started. “I….” She sighed. She didn’t know how to say it. How to explain what she had imagined for their night together. The simple explanation was not so simple anymore. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what Dr. Hopper had coached. 
The emotions behind a simple situation make it feel complicated. Un-complicate it by first stating the facts out loud.
Belle’s blue eyes pierced into Rumple’s. He could see her internal fight, but was mystified as to what it was about. His first instinct was to jump into the conversation and try to fix it, but he knew that wasn’t what she needed. He has a penchant for trying to fix everything and anything for the ones he loves. After hundreds of years and lots of therapy he’s finally curbing that instinct. 
You don’t have to fix everything. You just have to be present, listen, and then, if Belle asks for your help, you can work together towards a solution .
Finally Belle blew out a long breath and an even longer stream of words. 
“After Gideon went to bed, I sent you out for a bottle of wine even though we have a full wine cellar. I went to our room, put on makeup like Lacey used to wear, and then started changing into some sexy lingerie that I bought specially for tonight. Then everything with Gideon happened — ” she pulled her hands apart and spread her fingers wide as if she could grab Gideon’s untimely cold from the past and show it to him like a picture book at a children’s story hour. 
Once the facts are stated begin listing your feelings. Don’t go into the cause or the reasons for the feelings. State just the feelings.
“— and I am frustrated, disappointed, annoyed, embarrassed, and exhausted. Ok, I don’t know if ‘exhausted’ is technically a feeling but if it’s not it should be.”
Rumple brought his teacup to his mouth gently blowing over the hot liquid’s surface. A bubble of quiet contemplation settled around the table. He and Belle had been diligently working to keep their family together which meant they lived a sedate and routine-oriented lifestyle. 
“Sweetheart, not that I’m complaining, but may I ask what brought this on?”
Belle groaned internally, because of course that was his response. Any sane person would ask that question. Except most people would say something like ‘why did you suddenly decide to act out a cheesy seduction on a Wednesday night?’ 
Belle fiddled with the tiny handle of her teacup while her mind swirled with words creating half-explanations none of which would make sense to anyone outside of herself. Several times her mouth opened to say something but all she could accomplish was looking pleadingly at Rumple with big pitiful eyes. He grasped her limp hands and held them tight. 
“Belle…is there something -”
“-I’m bored!” She blurted out. 
They blinked at each other both surprised for very different reasons. 
“Oh”
“No, not in that way. Not bored of our relationship. I’m not unhappy. I cannot stress that enough.”
“…ok.” To his credit Rumple’s grip on Belle’s hands didn’t lessen. “But you’re bored.” He stated it like it was one of the many facts of their life together; Gideon doesn’t like peas, Rumple is the Dark One, and Belle is bored. 
“I miss the fun part of our relationship,” and even as Belle said it she winced, because in truth there relationship history wasn’t riddled with lighthearted moments. “I want there to be a ‘fun’ aspect to our relationship.”
“Fun.” Rumple repeated it like it was the first time he’d ever said the word in his life. “Well, I’m not entirely certain what to do about that. Should I do something?”
Belle face glowed with warmth and happiness. The Rumple from only a few years ago would’ve never asked if he ‘should’ do something. He would’ve spent days and weeks plotting and planning without consulting her, and then revealed something ‘fun.’ 
“Let me try to come up with something and if it doesn’t work out then you can take a crack at it.”
“If its any consolation, what you came up with looked like it would’ve been spectacular.” Rumple placed a kiss on her hand and leaned in close, “Parental responsibilities simply got in the way.”
“So much for spontaneity.” Belle leaned in bringing her lips to his intending for a quick kiss, but the forward momentum of her body kept their lips locked together. She opened her mouth ever so slightly and Rumple’s fingers cupped her chin keeping her steady while the tip of his tongue gently caressed and coaxed hers. She exhaled and sank deeper into their kiss enjoying the comforting familiarity of it, and grateful that even after all these years her lips still tingled with excitement when he kissed her. When a natural break from the need to breathe inserted itself, Belle leaned back in her chair feeling cautiously excited about this new endeavor. 
———————————————-
This. Is. So. Horrible.
Belle wished it was physically possible to impale herself on the tiny dessert fork before her. The shiny object was sitting next to a plate of pears gorgeously poached in a spiced red wine reduction, and yet the only thought running through her brain (aside from suicide by fork) was her gratitude that the dessert course had finally arrived. 
Gusteau’s was one of the newer restaurants that popped up in Storybrooke after the Black Fairy had been defeated. A quiet curse-free existence seemed possible for the first time and many of the town’s citizens were investing in their hopes and dreams again. Resulting in many new businesses and restaurants opening their doors. 
Gusteau’s was the prime example of a fine dining experience. Heavy beautifully carved furniture was spaced evenly throughout the restaurant and crisp white linens covered the tables. Each tabletop was adorned with a low vase of roses and a miniature lamp that cast just enough light that one could comfortably gaze upon their dining companion. The room on a whole was swathed in heavy, rich fabrics and carpeted to dampen the foot tread of the wait staff as they hurried from table to kitchen and back again. 
Belle thought, at the time, it was the perfect idea for a fun night out. Gideon was enjoying a play date at the Nolan’s house. Their little boy Neal was a few years older, but he played well with Gideon always making sure to keep their games at a pace suited to a toddler. He had the sweet nature of his namesake and seemed to favor Gideon especially. More importantly, it meant their own house was unoccupied. While preparing for their evening out, Belle had visions of an elegant dinner enjoying sumptuous food and good conversation accompanied by just a tad too much wine. Maybe they would take a stroll in the crisp evening air by the water. She loved the mystery of the sea at night. It was a thrilling contrast, hearing the water churning against the docked boats, but the black night obscuring it from view. Once they were thoroughly chilled to their bones they would warm each other in front of their fireplace finding bliss in the comfort of their own home. 
But now…..
She just wanted to go home, throw on some leggings, and crawl into bed until the morning when they would go retrieve Gid. Hopefully he was having a better night. 
Rumple was twisting the stem of his glass of port between his fingers. They’d both given up trying to keep the conversation from stagnating. It hadn’t occurred to her that after hours of talk therapy they wouldn’t have anything to talk about. They started off the evening talking about Gideon - that was inevitable - and then Rumple’s shop and the library, but once those topics had been exhausted, neither of them knew where to direct the conversation next. They were in each other’s lives every day. There wasn’t much more to say that hadn’t already been said at the breakfast table that morning. And Rumple tried, he really did, but gods help them at one point he even commented on the weather. It’s colder than usual for this time of year…. That was it. It hadn’t even been something substantial about the weather that Belle could verbally latch onto and run with. 
So now she was left staring at her dessert like it was the saddest sight in the world. Resolutely, she picked up her dessert fork and (choosing life) cut into one of the pears. As the warm flavors of cinnamon and nutmeg burst in her mouth, she tried to think of something to say. 
“How is the port?” She reluctantly let the question escape her lips, but before Rumple could answer, a cheerful giggling from the adjacent table captured their attention. 
Squinting, Belle could make out a very young couple, in their teens, not-so-secretly passing a silver flask between them under the table. Each time the girl took a small sip she laughed producing a delightful jingling sound and the boy looked at her like she was the sweetest thing on this earth. They were tucked together at the table experiencing their first foray into ‘adult’ dating and all that it entails  — soft candlelight, fancy food and clothing, and hushed serious tones. But like most teens their natural enthusiasm for being unleashed on the world could’t be tamped down. They awkwardly held hands and fussed with their cutlery as they waited for their next course. They talked just a bit too loud. 
Belle’s mind jolted with memories, but she quickly realized they weren’t her memories. They were Lacey’s. Like a book she read long ago and could only recall small portions of the story, Lacey’s memories were vague and full of feeling more than specifics. However, in this moment, she could recall ‘memories’ of Lacey as a fresh teen going to parties and playing drinking games with her peers. She could feel the thrill of drinking alcohol like an adult. Mostly she remembered laughter. Laughing while a bottle spun round and round between her circle of friends; anticipating the person it would choose for her next kiss. Laughing when she proclaimed “Never have I ever…” and watching her friends sheepishly drink a shot and admitting to some embarrassing deed. Lacey’s nights out as a teen were a strange mixture of vulnerability and….fun. Belle could confidently guess that Rumple’s cursed memories didn’t contain anything like Lacey’s shenanigans, and she was positive he’d never participated in even the simple games children played in Fairytale Land. 
She reached across the table and took the glass of port from Rumple’s fingers. Gaining his attention, he seemed dazed like a schoolboy caught daydreaming during his lessons, Belle took a big breath and smiled at him. It was time to breathe some life back into this half-dead date.
“Let’s get the check and then I want you to come with me, but before you do, I need you to promise me one thing.”
Rumple’s eyebrows raised at that. They tried not to practice in promises. They were still learning their own limitations as a couple and making promises could be dangerous. 
“Belle, sweetheart, are you sure?”
“Trust me. Promise that you’ll keep an open mind.” She tried to infuse her smile with as much assurance as possible. 
“Ok, darling” Belle almost missed the sigh that accompanied it, but she wouldn’t be deterred. This was a situation of her own making and she needed to fix it. 
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The rush of wind was wonderfully refreshing. It was just what they needed after the heavy warmth of the restaurant. Belle had insisted on walking through town. They could get the car later. Rumple had never been happier to be cold, because it meant Belle was snuggled tight into his side. The small table at which they’d been seated at Gusteau’s made it feel like he was trying to hold a conversation with someone on the opposite side of a football field. No matter how hard he’d tried to keep the flow of conversation going it was inundated with long pauses and stilted answers. It’d been excruciating. He’d felt like he was failing Belle with each course serving more awkward pauses than the last until finally dessert was served with outright silence. 
Another gust of wind blew back the flaps of his coat, and he tugged them closer around him and his beloved Belle. They stood by the harbor looking out into the vast darkness of the sea. Belle was practically molded to him. He buried his face in her thick auburn tresses, once darker and curly they had straightened into waves with age, but it didn’t matter. He loved her no matter what. After all, he had changed too - his hair had been chopped short by his own hand. He was sometimes self-conscious of the change he’d made, but as if she could read his thoughts, at those times Belle would take the opportunity to gently massage his scalp letting her fingers slip and slide through his shorn greying hair. How he loved her. It was the reason he was so panicked about their lackluster evening - she was bored. She wanted to have fun, but honestly Rumple wasn’t sure he was capable of such a thing. His life hadn’t exactly been built on the idea of carefree joy. His parents had abandoned him and, until Belle came along, so had everyone else either by death, circumstance, or outright choice. What did he know about fun?
Belle turned in his arms nuzzling the smooth skin of his jawline which then turned into small kisses and nibbles. The biting cold and Belle’s amorous affection had him fighting for breath. 
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to ‘keep an open mind’?”
Chuckling, Belle murmured, “Not quite.” She pulled back a fraction so she could see his face, “Have you ever heard of Truth or Dare?”
Rumple faltered for a reply. “Uh…yes, it’s some kind of game teenagers in this realm like to play.” He couldn’t keep the perplexed look off his face. 
“Yes!” She hugged him tighter and he could feel her jump up and down a little. “I think we should play it.” His comically stunned face urged her to add, “I’ll even go first.”
“Why. Why do you want to play Truth or Dare? Darling we’re a bit old for such things.”
“Nonsense.” Her prim response was accompanied by a tug on his tie. “I think it’s just what we need.”
At Rumple’s raised eyebrows, she continued, “I think we are talked out. We need something fun to do. And unless you want to suddenly become more social and do a…” she floundered for an example, “a pottery class together or some other group activity, then I think playing some silly games together is just what we need!” 
Rumple still looked unconvinced. 
“Please, Rumple. Try. For me.”
And that was the straw breaking the camel’s back. They both knew he couldn’t deny her this. She never asked for much in their relationship, and how could he say no to a simple game? Even one that was excruciatingly juvenile. A great huff escaped him and after one long exaggerated groan, that made her giggle, he said, “ok ok. But you go first.”
Belle straightened up expectedly. “Ok, ask me!”
With an endearing smile, Rumple muttered, “Truth or Dare?”
“Truth!” 
Rumple moved Belle to his side and kept them walking along the pier. He pursed his lips and swayed his head playing at putting some serious consideration into the devious question he would ask. The question she would have no choice but to answer with complete honesty. Rolling her eyes at the theatrics, Belle waited with bated breath. 
“What is the last lie you told?” 
Belle snapped her head up in surprise. She really should’ve known that the infamous Rumpelstiltskin, wordsmith extraordinaire, would’ve chosen a question meant to disarm her. The look of smug satisfaction on his face made her want to kiss it right off him, but that could wait. 
“Hmmm I don’t lie very often.”
“Well you’re a saint, darling, but try your hardest to think of something.” 
Ignoring his sarcasm, Belle answered, “Last week at Granny’s, Snow and Red were arguing about how often a couple should have sex. I happened to walk in for a cup of tea, and somehow got trapped in the conversation.” At this Rumple snorted and Belle elbowed him in the ribs, “Anyway,” she said pointedly, “Snow was saying that after a couple has children, they’ll be lucky to have sex every few months! She expected me to agree, and well….clearly she and David are going through a dry spell and I didn’t want to make her feel bad…..so I just kind of smiled and didn’t disagree with her.”
“That’s it? A lie of omission?”
“It’s still a lie.”
“Barely.” 
“Oh please, it counts and you, sir,” she pointed a manicured finger at him, “are filled with glee to know that we’re having more sex than the king and queen.”
Rumple chuckled and played at trying to bite her finger. 
“Your turn! Truth or Dare?” The sparkle in Belle’s eyes made playing this ridiculous game worth it. 
 “Dare”
“I dare you……to sneak into Granny’s Diner and leave three hundred and fifty dollars in the tip jar. You mustn’t be seen and you can’t use magic.” 
“Absolutely not.”
“You have to! That’s the game.”
“What makes you think I have that large amount of money on me.”
“…….”
“Ok. I have that amount, but I don’t see why I should give it to — wait. Is it possible Granny is having trouble making rent this month?”
Belle arranged her face into what she hoped was the picture of innocence. “Life is full of possibilities.”
“Uh huh, only you my dearest Belle could take what’s supposed to be a devious game and turn it into a tool for good deeds.”
“It’s a gift.” 
“I only have hundred dollar bills on me. Do you have change?”
“No, but I’m happy to amend the dare from three fifty to four hundred.”
“How flexible of you.”
Belle grinned and grabbed the collar of his coat pulling him down for a kiss designed to leave him breathless. She pressed her body against his and sunk her fingertips into his hair pulling on the short locks. When she let him up for air, she whispered, “Complete your task and, maybe afterwards, I’ll show you just how flexible I can be.”
Without giving him a chance to blink, she pulled away and walked ahead of him. If she hadn’t been wearing such high heels he was certain she’d be skipping. Rumple just stood there reminding himself how to breathe and with a shake of his head thought, So this is what it feels like to know you’re being manipulated and not care in the least.
— - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In the end, the dare was quite easy to accomplish. At that time of night Granny’s only had a few patrons, thankfully the kind that liked to keep to themselves, and the only people working were a short-order cook and Granny herself. The plan had been to wait until Granny went into the back, and then Rumple would quietly walk through the front door, slip the money into the tip jar, and continue out the back door where Belle would be waiting. 
But as Rumple waited just outside the front door for the opportune moment, a giant crash could be heard and Granny went running to the back of the building.Before Rumple could register what was happening, he saw Belle scurrying down the street and Granny in the back yelling something about “damned raccoons.” Knowing it was now or never, Rumple whipped open the door, ran towards the tip jar sitting innocuously next to the cash register, and it wasn’t so much that he stopped at the counter rather that the counter stopped him—his custom-made Italian shoes weren’t made for quick movements on freshly mopped floors. So after slamming into the counter, he hastily shoved the cash into the jar, and hightailed it back out the front door. 
Miraculously, no one saw him. 
He found Belle hiding next to the pharmacy doubled over with snorts of laughter muffled by her hands. Her feet were bare and she was holding onto only one of her shoes. She tried to explain between giant huffs of laughter, but Rumple simply held up a hand and said, “Belle mishap.” Before Belle could ask what that meant, he gathered her in his arms and snapping his fingers *poofed* them back to their house in a cloud of magic. 
Belle was still giggling as they stumbled into their entryway kissing and pawing at each others clothing. Rumple wasn’t one to let other’s emotions effect him, but Belle’s joy swept them up creating an elation he’d never known before. They landed in front of the fireplace which had magically been lit and several fluffy blankets and pillows spread out before it.
Smiling like a fool, Rumple pecked kisses over Belle’s body as more and more skin was revealed to him. Her lingerie was nothing like the black corset ensemble he’d missed out on. Instead she wore a sheer forest green bralette with matching hip hugging panties. It was staggering in its simplicity, highlighting the fairness of her skin and giving her curves freedom to move. He delighted in it; kissing and biting and even tickling the spots he knew were most sensitive. Between breathy laughs Belle managed to divest Rumple of his own clothes, and they took their time reveling in each other.
Their previous lovemaking had been permeated with an intense need to show their love and devotion with their bodies. Trying to make up for all the past hurt by clinging to each other while they physically connected as close as possible for two humans to be. But this time was about joy and happiness. Their was no rush to reach their bliss. It would most certainly come, but this was about loving each other with light not darkness. Belle found a few of Rumple’s ticklish spots and for a moment lovemaking was paused in favor of a naked tickle fight until one of Belle’s legs ended up hooking over Rumple’s shoulder putting them in a delicious position that neither could pass up. With mirth in their eyes, a wordless conversation passed between them about Belle’s promised flexibility. 
They rocked together at a rhythm they both knew so well. The familiarity was far from boring. Instead they loved each other with gratitude as deep as their kisses. They were so lucky to know each other this well and for this long. The happiness on Belle’s face was mirrored by his own. It felt like sunlight surrounded them and clear blue skies were reflected in Belle’s eyes. Rumple realized that this was what fun was - it was turning your face towards the sun even on a cloudy day. It was actively finding joy and laughter, and if you can’t find it, you make it. Just like Belle did. 
Afterwards, they lounged by the fire enjoying lazy kisses and caresses. They teased each other about the horrendous dinner they endured, and Belle told him about Lacey’s memories saving their date night. 
“So what other games does little Lacey remember?”
Belle thought for a moment before ticking off her fingers, “Well there’s Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, Never Have I Ever-”
“Hmmm group games,” Rumple grumbled.
“We could play Two Truths and A Lie.”
“You would dare play a game that requires deception with words with Rumpelstiltskin?”
“Oh I think I could manage.”
Rumple tutted and pinched her side making Belle squeak, “Ok, but you go first.” 
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