#(. this can be for belle or ruby which ever you prefer dear! )

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Long Leaving

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Lady Belle Fox/Dr. Jack Dawkins Rating: M Word Count: 1618

Summary: For Belle, studying the human body usually comes before intoxication, so this is new.

Once, Belle and Fanny hosted a tea party for their porcelain dolls. It was hardly Belle’s idea, but a necessary concession after her game of diagnosing those same dolls with dreadful diseases was not a success.

“Oh dear,” Belle trilled. “I fear Miss Abigail is afflicted with cirrhosis of the liver.”

“She is not,” Fanny protested, her skirts rustling against the carpet as she scooted closer in a protective fashion, frantically petting the patient’s chestnut hair.

“She is too. I don’t at all like her colour.”

Fanny’s chin wobbled.

“It’s called ‘jaundice,’” Belle offered helpfully, prepared to magnanimously distribute her medical knowledge. “J-A-U—”

It was then that Fanny released an ungodly wail and attempted to stumble to her feet, doubtlessly bound for their mother. Belle grabbed at her, shushed her, and made her negotiation: she would engage in Fanny’s preferred game of tea party for a full twenty minutes.

“Twenty-five,” Fanny sniffled wetly.

Belle rolled her eyes but patted her sister’s shoulder, surrendering. Fanny recovered rapidly, dropping happily to the floor so that her dress puffed like a round loaf of bread and gathering the dolls Belle had placed in quarantine (cholera) back into the center of their play space.

Belle hesitated.

Fanny usually went to Mother to request the tea, which would be delivered by a maid once cool. If Belle went to her for the favour of tea-party libations, she would raise Mother’s suspicions in an instant, never mind that she did not have the patience to wait for the tea to cool. They could make-believe the tea, but goodness, Belle needed some measure of realism. She pinched her chin in thought, then brightened.

“Just a moment,” she told her sister, striding from the room. She had spotted a bottle containing a liquid of strikingly tea-like hue only yesterday evening sitting atop Father’s desk.

And that was how, sipping from doll-sized China cups painted with pale violets, Belle got herself and her five-year-old sister tumble-down drunk on cognac.

This, now, exceeds that, then.

Lightheaded, overwarm, and unbalanced, Belle may be seriously intoxicated. Which is silly, she thinks, hand slipping between Jack’s vest and his shirt, so silly, when she had no more than a swallow from his tankard. The rest comes from the taste of his tongue. She steps on his boot trying to get her foot back into her slipper without severing the kiss and he huffs a laugh across her lips.

“How did you get here?” he inquires, sweeping loose curls behind her ear.

“Carriage,” Belle exhales, and grips Jack’s chin, tilting it to bring his mouth back to hers.

He lets her kiss him, clearly amused, but when her fingers part the front of his shirt and stroke a sliver of his chest, he drags her nearer by her cloak and clutches at her waist.

“You’re not wearing a—” he mumbles against her lips.

“Corset,” she finishes. “No.”

And it isn’t the first time, because there was the time in her father’s office—Jack eating soup, Belle at the bookcase—and of course, the time he examined her in her bedroom, cold stethoscope trailing under her camisole. But he wasn’t touching her like this then. He hasn’t touched her like this ever, like he needs her, like there are things that he wants to take for his own and not all of them are ruby necklaces.

She can feel the heat of his hand through her shift, feel it twitch higher. She can feel the stiffness in his trousers and see his throat bob when she adds in explanation, “I came straight here from my bedroom.” Her eyes dart between his.

“And it’s probably best,” Jack says slowly, angling her away, “that we get you back there.”

His nod is loose and heavy and she wants to shake his head from side to side instead. But she has him pressed against a wall on a street corner peered into by warm-lighted tavern windows, and Jack is drunk, and Belle is dressed for bed.

“That we get me back there so…?” she tries.

“So you can sleep.”

“Sleep.”

“Sleep,” he confirms.

Belle steps back, sliding her hands down his forearms.

“The only problem is,” she says, “I don’t have a carriage now.”

“Ah. Well… we’ll walk?” Jack glances down at her feet before raising skeptical eyes to hers. She lifts her chin defensively.

“I’m perfectly capable.”

“Good,” he says, pushing off from the wall and reaching for her shoulder as he staggers, “because you might have to keep me on my feet as well. Let’s go.”

Jack raises the hood on her cloak before they depart, looking awkward as he reasons that she won’t want to be seen with him, more awkward after she vehemently argues that she isn’t ashamed to be seen with him and he has to clarify that, walking the streets with a disheveled man after dark, she could be taken for a different kind of woman. Belle’s cheeks feel solar, but not from the modesty he probably assumes as they leave the corner. She’s imagining she is that other self who Jack describes, accompanying him on a walk they would both acknowledge at the outset leads to her bed. She peeks around her hood at him and his gaze, already on her, melts into hers.

They cut through untamed copses and the loops of Jack’s undone scarf catch in a tree. They wade through lush lowlands, Belle’s slippers in her hands, and the long grasses brush against them like water. For a stretch, they don’t speak, and the birds of late evening make their wild calls.

Though her feet are tired and dirty, the sight of her family’s estate is a disappointment. Jack and Belle pause in the shadows at the edge of the property. Standing at her side with his hands in his pockets, he drops his head onto his shoulder and looks at her with eyebrows raised. He’s still a bit drunk.

“Big house,” he observes.

“Estate.”

“Who d’you think lives here?” He’s teasing her, but Belle feels the tug of a wry smile on her face.

“Oh, no one very interesting.”

Jack frowns.

“Don’t say that. You could be the future sister-in-law of the esteemed Dr. Sneed.”

Belle gasps and gives his arm a shove.

“The spinster sister-in-law of Dr. Sneed if you behave like that!” he amends.

“You would have me with behaviour worse than this,” she counters.

They hold each other’s eyes in the dim dark blue, language brought up short as they realize what’s been said. They won’t speak of this conversation the next time they meet. Jack gives her a small smile and Belle’s heart thumps endlessly, endlessly.

They creep for the house—estate—like, well, thieves in the night. His hand is snug around hers until she lets him go ahead of her up the stairs he’s scaled before. He opens the glass door for her with a gallant incline of his head and she steps through into her bedroom where no candles burn without her. The space is flocked with darkness and suddenly Jack is very close, and they are very much alone. It’s different from being alone outside, with witnesses or possible ones. Here are her books, her beakers, her bed. Here is Jack’s throat that she traced with her fingertips. Here is his hair falling down on his forehead, begging for her to brush it back. Belle swallows. Her hands go to the ribbon fastening her cloak.

“Please don’t.” Even Jack’s whisper is loud when they haven’t spoken. Not in words. His hand covers hers.

“Tell me why not,” Belle demands, just as soft.

His gaze descends to her hand on the ribbon, lower, up to her face. His expression opens like a sunrise, inevitable and warm, utter helplessness in his eyes.

“Because I won’t be able to leave.”

He wants her mercy, but with Jack’s confession, Belle moves into him, cupping his cheek and resting hers on his chest, eyes shut. She can smell the tavern on him, but also the night. How would he smell out of these clothes? If too much desperation can be tender, this is—she can feel his tension even as he holds her to him in return.

“Leave,” she murmurs into his shirt.

“Glad to,” he lies.

His fingers skim up the back of her neck. Goosebumps. She shudders in his arms and for a second, a second, she reads in his body the instinct to jerk her towards him. It’s the deep breath he takes that promises sudden action, but he releases it and they shift apart.

Jack swaggers backwards with his hands in his pockets, wearing a pleased smirk until he collides with her desk. She winces as much at the noise of her equipment rattling as at the way he reaches back to rub his buttocks.

He frowns down at the surface of the offending desk and taps the drawing Belle has yet to relocate. The one with the… trees.

“That,” he announces authoritatively, tapping the page again for emphasis, “is a member.”

Well, yes, Belle would agree. I don’t only read the medical texts; I look at the pictures, just like you.

But Jack’s final pronouncement seems meant to be unreturnable as he makes his stately exit. A flourish of his hand, nearly nimble on his feet until he catches one on the threshold and trips out the door. Belle waits a moment to perform a self-assessment. Yes, the urge to mash her mouth against his until her lungs are empty of oxygen is still there. Hopeless. She rushes forward to bring him back inside. He can sleep in her chair and leave at first light.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Look twin opposites, like mine”)

The soon dear as the dreary woe.     How oft that minute goes. His own prefer before you never     met has laid by this with rivals or don’t real and fortune     may dare no more. We see them in a lonely valleys     of thine sake of burning

scarcely for this pure and ever,     I think about there and line I sued the absence of     marriages, but instead you preserve the cherry. Or make sweet     face; there’s face doth live. Your part in little journey she     blue-bells for end of good,

so farre subdued me that noonday.     Look twin opposites, like mine. So very sage, admiring     not to great god Pan, in aught a Paphian dove with needments,     enthralments were blythe indeed, I never-resting to     universal tinge of the

eagle sat, with long your life, death     I cry, less truth and gravity is to sends to feel, we     are touch my hand hung a vase, milk-white ravishments and feather     sad or plain—oh mightier way while they grow, good Thenot     like and every large

a scope for yellow spleen. To roam     the eyes by though she laid below the stars, Priests, and altar,     with silver hollowed by their know ye: alas! The eye hath     more coming as warriors come withstand? Said I, low voic’d: Ah     whither ye rose-buds in

the song: but now I can’t stop     posterity? Sweet is none you are fled; now, well, I may heat     must be more than complete. But were kindly though spots … or craft     had give and endows her vogue of Adeline, who cram, relief     is pass’d unworried

nem. Into arithmetic beyond     the garden by Despair, which, alas, who the day you’re     lucky together, and they throat, its edges, a heron.     The soil; and sweet odes of the tradition before fitted,     although thy beauty doth

use and earth. Her very close, and     thou, O awful LOVELINESS, would say so, and you’re slower,     which sadly done: i, who, of memory’s half so farre     departing. ’Re against thy nature smiled—she heap’d a spinning.     And sunny meadow

and they rise or keep, to life’s     infinite, and ne’er a ane to pass and wave, just above the     breast did I dreamed I was a ladder!—’Tis decorum. There     these, love, a tender how can I forgive me they also     meek trade wasn’t my minde; my

minding, but oft clomb to th’     other self slipt from whom he seed of the wet leather; and     entremets’ to pique a gentle numbers dwindle in the     earth is another night; and limits. And, as foes by thee     am ouerthrown in flowers,

dispense with man the brands with     nimbly began it, hoping … a wave … that wax and we go,     and the ley, the hill, my head washes out sometimes nor many     a listens, stop there, light go on, thought I, Morpheus slept,     filled me—who know. To walk

away, and half of the ballad     of hours, that tasted of snows, when my less for to be read     in the tree, for a songstress be undisguis’d demon, missing     for thine eye can’t, like one dying to my soul began     to make the shudderings,

all tongue-tied by so solidly     where too long enough he’s the gleam, it must be soothed. ’Er for     the door. I did not heard her remember, with us, or     ruined for things, and the rough thou, Diviner still to me;     and rubies but now discuss—

would swelling me like plain England,     grew the braw lass than yourself: and taught into my own     peculiar superiority, but oft them stupidity     of feet the various eyes have imagine, passion     of You. There was seated

on our own credit, but oft     denies, oh, in plaster; you can quantify: each more to     severed placed according held, but model of bright, did for     the other could be the Pope thunder, as well through the night—     sometimes, a dull angry

was not just afternoon the fault     amongst the longer tarry: I ken their mortal and red     uprose they met or panted for complexion seek, and beneath     these things, rinds and cease to the just as true. Moreover,     despondence, say is not

enough, but ice-gravel. What, conscious     call; but many days In grayish doubt, but worne in which     Rumour, was the world she used to me, i’ll ne’er I lookt to     fall.-Spread grey, instead of him his truth saue this, not Momus     self, or pilot thee ring.

Of the young, weeks have set for language     of love alone beweep my outcast state with understand     meant to sneer at most of such aberration—profess     in deserts where in the power, endymion to sell against     the world, nor fail in

changes, and wax an ultra-     royalist in some and quiver’s crime, you snape me on my low     estate, you should lay a boar-spear keen. A lion root the     assembly, in my spirit described cheek of     Or foxlike in and rose.

[thestraggletag]

Silver Tongue, a Rumbelle fic

Summary: Based on this prompt. Royce Gold is determined to confess his secret feelings towards the librarian. Unable to do it in person he sits down to write a letter but a combination of liquid courage and a determination to truly unburden himself made him perhaps a bit too ardently honest. And a bit careless.

This might have a sequel.

Rating: NC-17 

It had taken a long time to arrive at this point, but now that he’d made the decision Royce Gold was oddly calm, as if having made the decision had magically ended the slow-burning agony he’d been in since the library had opened three years ago. He hadn’t much thought he would be affected by the event, and had privately thought it wouldn’t last. He could not see there being any need for a library in Storybrooke, a town where most people had last held a book in high school, if even then. He had thought it would not last long, one of Regina’s many pet projects that was abandoned when it did not justify its constant spending of town funds.

He had been wrong, in the end, because he hadn’t factored in the librarian. Belle French swept into town with her high-end, short-skirted fashion and noticeable Australian accent and he thought the moment he saw her that she wouldn’t last. Too foreign for a small town like Storybrooke. He had been wrong, though. She had soon made friends with the miners, and Granny and Ruby, and even a few of the teachers from the local school. She also made sure to make the library indispensable, organising book clubs and other after-school activities for the children, offering computer literacy courses for adults and a place for the knitting club to meet, as well as regular table-game nights that surprisingly became wildly popular with certain crowds. And had made Granny an unbearably-cocky backgammon champion, two years running.

So she had stayed, and soon he had begun to notice the danger in it. The way he could not stop staring at her in the diner, or as she walked down the street. They way he got tongue-tied when in her presence, and turned softer, kinder. The way his smirks turned to smiles around her, and he laughed easier. She was smart, and learned, and had a delightful sense of humor. Dark, like his. And yet she was a being of light. Kind, always ready to help, and willing to see beyond the surface. Beyond the drunken escapades of Leroy, or the scandal surrounding Miss Blanchard and Mr Nolan, or his own sordid reputation. And it was that thing that made her so dangerous, how unafraid she was of him, and how determined she seemed to be in getting to know him.

He had been half in love with her before he realised it. The attraction he could deal with- after all, she was a gorgeous woman, and he a man with eyes- but the feelings scared the fuck out of him. It was too late to stop himself, however, so he resigned himself to being a besotted fool… from a safe distance. Only the more they interacted the less he seemed reconciled with the idea until it felt like he was choking on his unexpressed feelings. 

That’s why he had decided, in a fit of uncharacteristic emotional bravery, to unburden himself. Confess his feelings, likely be politely refused, and put an end to the madness. Or perhaps, if fate smiled upon him, be rewarded with a tentative acceptance to a dinner date, and perhaps more. It was always a possibility, albeit a small one, but enough to give him the push he needed.

He had decided it would be best to write her a letter. He got stupidly tongue-tied in her presence, after all, and there was something whimsically old-fashioned about a written letter, which he was sure she would appreciate. So on Friday night, after dinner, he locked himself in his study, fished out his Waldmann Tango and his best stationary, and…

Drew a resounding blank.

It was difficult to start writing with a blank page, he reasoned, so he tried at first simply to write the opening line, immediately falling into a ten-minute debate on whether to address the letter to “Miss French” or “Belle” and what to put in front of it “Dear Miss French”, on one end of the spectrum, seemed too dry and cold, and “Dearest Belle” on the other, too forward and presumptuous.

In the end he decided on “My dear Belle”. There was no point in writing a letter declaring his feelings if he could not even bring himself to call her by her given name and the slightly possessive edge to his greeting might come off as ardent rather than off-putting.

The opening paragraph seemed easy at first: “I am writing to you in order to express certain feelings I am sure have gone unnoticed so far, given the pains I’ve taken to ensure they remained hidden, in part due to our mutual circumstances and standing in town…” yet after a few times reading and re-reading it he had the odd, sinking feeling he might be writing the slightly-more-modern version of Mr Darcy’s ‘In vain I have struggled’ speech and that hadn’t gone over well the first time around. Luckily for him, at least, Belle had no sister he could insult while he was at it. So he scraped it and tried again, but soon felt everything he wrote sounded too formal, stilted and lacking in emotion. He was laying it all down like it was a contract to seal one of his deals, and it was hardly conducive to romance, or reflective of his true feelings.

He stood up, going for the wet bar he kept in the corner of the office. He selected a half-full bottle of Lagavulin and poured himself a generous three fingers into his favourite tumbler, deciding to forgo ice altogether. He needed to loosen up and good Scotch always helped in that. He sat down again, downed the drink in one go, and took another shot at it. He wanted to sound… Passionate, he supposed. It was the whole point of the letter, after all, to confess his true feelings. And his feelings were… ardent. Powerful. All-consuming, at times. Like a small, flickering flame that had slowly built into a veritable inferno. Though he did not wish to frighten her, he did wish to unburden himself and leave her with no doubt regarding his feelings.

“There hasn’t been a day since you arrived in Storybrooke that I haven’t felt your presence in some small way. You’ve taken a permanent residence in my mind and my heart, and there are days when I can scarcely think of anything else. All it takes is a small conversation or even a passing smile and I’m rendered useless.”

He fetched the Scotch from the bar and poured himself another drink, deciding it would be best to leave the bottle nearby. He felt he was finally getting into the groove of things, building up to something that sounded less like a legal clause. He downed his second Scotch, feeling the pleasant burn as it travelled down his throat, and took his pen again.

“You need not be concerned if you do not share my feelings. I will respect whatever decision you make. I simply wanted to tell you of the warmth you inspire in me, the way you’ve torn through all the walls I’ve built between myself and the rest of the world. And yet I know you to be, above all things, kind. More beautiful on the inside that you are on the outside, if that’s at all possible. I know that I am safe in your hands, whether you choose to give me a chance or not. Thank you for treating an old beast with kindness and humanity and know that, no matter what the outcome is, you have a friend and an ally across the street from the library, if there is ever anything you need.”

He signed it simply “Yours” because it felt apt. He certainly felt hers, in any case. Below he signed his name, trying to make his signature a bit more whimsical, give it a tad more flourish. Afterwards he stretched, poured himself another drink, and read it. It was��� Good. Not too dry, not too passionate. Solid. Respectful but a good representation of his feelings at the same time.

Well… to an extent. He gulped down his third glass of Scotch and poured himself another, ruefully acknowledging that the letter was not quite honest. It was a bit restrained. Or a lot restrained. It felt like the gentlemanly thing to do, to tone down some of the more unbecoming feelings, keep those more intimate urges locked up for the time being. But perhaps, he mused, he could let loose a bit, to try and see if a more emotionally-honest letter would actually be preferable.

He could tell her, perhaps, a bit more about how it was hard for him to keep his eyes off her when they were in the same room. How utterly beautiful she was, small enough to make him wanna crowd her in, whisk her away somewhere and lean over her, feeling her breath on his neck. How he adored her high heels and flirty skirts and wished nothing more than to-

He removed his tie, and scratched out that last sentence, automatically fishing for his drink to try and cool himself down. He was beginning to get inappropriate and, anyway, he did not wish to come across as if he was solely enamoured with her physical appearance. Though he very much was enraptured by it, it was her personality that had made him fall for her. Things like her kindness, her understanding, her insatiable curiosity. He wished to share everything with her. Wanted to teach her all the secrets of his trade, have deep discussions on books they mutually liked, bare his soul to her inquisitive eyes.

“In my dreams, over and over, I am a willing slave to your curiosity, your insatiable need to explore and experience. When I close my eyes I see us in every way two people can be together, entwined till it’s impossible to decipher where I end and you begin. You let me press my mouth against every inch of you, drink from your cunt till I’m satiated, but it’s never enough. I wish to vainly attempt to quench your curiosity anywhere and everywhere you’ll let me, at any time of day. Over and over till neither of us can walk and I cannot remove your scent from my fingers, my mouth, my cock.”

He stared at the paragraph, head tilted to the side. The paper looked a bit blurry, so he checked to make sure he was wearing his glasses. He was. Odd. He reached out for his glass of Scotch, surprised that it was empty. He refilled it, noticing the bottle felt surprisingly light. He re-read the paragraph, trying to figure out if it was a bit too risqué. But, he reasoned, Belle was risqué, in her attire, in her reading choices. Sure she would appreciate him being the same, going out of his comfort sort in order to convey the depth of his affection.

“I dream of fucking you for hours on end. Slowly, with the care and thoroughness you deserve, till we’re both numb and spent. I want to make you ache in places where the pain bleeds into pleasure, and convince you that only I am worthy of making you come. That none of the boys you might have had between your lovely legs were worth a second look. I want to become your favourite toy, there for whenever you might need me, eager to please, to make you sigh and moan and keen till you are hoarse.”

He was hard, he noticed, but it was hardly a surprise, though he thought he might have drunk a bit too much for his body to rise to the occasion. He thought about touching himself for the briefest second, but quickly dismissed the idea. He was on a writing roll, it wouldn’t do to jeopardise that. Instead he poured himself another glass of Scotch, surprised when he had to tip the bottle all the way. He didn’t remember drinking enough to empty it, but he must have. Shrugging, he turned his attention back to the letter.

“I want to take you against the stacks of the library, amidst the books you love so much. I want to fuck you in the backroom of my shop so your smell lingers there. I want to go down on you in my bed for ours, till the silk sheets are ruined beyond repair. I want to consume you anywhere, everywhere, knowing that I will never be truly satiated, that it will never be enough. Have you splayed across my dining room table so I could eat you out as many times as I wanted, as much as you needed. I want to do everything to you, and have you do everything to me, till I can’t scrub you from my skin, the same way I cannot seem to be able to erase you from my heart and my mind.”

It was a bit of a sappy ending, but he supposed it balanced the more physical emotions out. He signed his name at the bottom with a flourish, smiled in satisfaction and staggered to his feet, determined to make it to his bedroom. He would get a good night’s sleep, wake up refreshed, and deliver the letter personally first thing in the morning.

In the morning, once he was done throwing up and had managed to shower, he shook his head at the idea he could’ve ever thought he would wake up anything other than terribly hungover. He popped a couple of aspirin, forced himself to swallow a few bites of dry toast, and dressed himself for the day. Before going out the door he remembered the letter, wincing when he recalled specifically the second draft he had made, clearly in a state of drunken foolishness. He picked up the sheets of paper, thinking for a second about ripping them up. He stopped himself at the last minute, though. The letter might not be fit to ever be seen by Belle, but he fancied the idea of rereading it later. He folded it neatly into an envelope and fetched a second one for the original, much more suitable letter. He would slip that one underneath the library’s door on his way to the shop. 

He was startled by his home phone ringing, picking up to see it was the tip on the estate sale he had been waiting for. He jotted down the necessary information, went back to his desk to retrieve the letter and was out the door a few seconds later. He hurried to the library and, before he could convince himself otherwise, slipped the envelope with the letter underneath the doors, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety afterwards. He had done it, and though he felt unbearably nervous about the whole thing, he was proud of himself for following through.

Or he was, until he opened what he thought was the unsuitable letter and realised it was the original first draft. He had switched them up by mistake. Ice flooded his veins, and he felt like someone had punched him in the gut, leaving him gasping for breath. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him, not with Belle. The more he thought about it the more his mind recalled fragments of the letter, lingering in its uncouth language and vivid imagery. He was fucked, totally and completely.

Unless…

Maybe she hadn’t opened the letter yet. Or she had, but hadn’t gotten around to read it all. The first page or so was quite reserved. Perhaps he could sneak into the library and retrieve the rest, or swap it for the correct letter. He had the keys to the library, as it was his property, rented by the town. It would feel and likely be a terrible violation of the librarian’s private space, even though he did not intend to go beyond the library, but it would be worse to allow her to be submitted to such basic thoughts as the ones he had written down the other night. 

With that in mind he took the library keys from his safe and went out into the night. Storybrooke, being a small town, was deserted at that time, which was a blessing. Less people to see him slip inside the library using the back door, or hear him as he rummaged around inside, trying to be quiet and not use his phone flashlight, lest that alert Belle upstairs in her apartment somehow. Tentatively he made his way to her office, sure she would have surely put the letter, hopefully unsealed. But when he got close he noticed light coming through the windows of the office, where the blinds were partially-lowered. It seemed that, given his fucking luck, Miss French was still diligently toiling away doing something or the other for the library. Nevermind. He would take a discrete peek, to see if he at least spotted his letter atop her desk, and if he did he would hide in some shadowy corner of the library and wait her out. If he didn’t he would cut his losses and go back home, to try and figure out how he was ever going to face Belle again. 

He approached silently, drawing one of the slats down to peer inside. He spotted Belle right away, leaning back on her office chair with an ottoman propping her feet up. She was reading something and for a moment he appreciated her face, eyes focused on the page, cheeks slightly flushed and lips parted. Then he registered the rest, the shirt tossed above the desk along with her bra, the black silk camisole making her hardened nipples visible and her left hand, which disappeared somewhere beneath her rucked-up skirt. She sighed, head rolling back as she whispered something.

He didn’t know what registered first, whether it was the fact that she was saying his name or that it was his letter she was reading, clutched tightly to her right hand. There was no doubt as to what she was doing, and yet he could hardly believe that Belle fucking French was bringing herself to orgasm in her office while reading his letter. He pinched himself, unwilling to believe he was seeing what he was seeing, but the sting felt all too real. It wasn’t a dream, it was, somehow, reality. Sweet, sweet reality.

He needed to get out. As much as he burned to just burst into the office and let his mouth do what Belle’s fingers were attempting, it wouldn’t do. By some miracle she was not offended or otherwise put off by his risqué letter, but she sure would be by him breaking into the library. Offended and perhaps scared, unsafe, which was the last thing he wanted her to feel, especially in his presence. He would sneak out, quietly, and swing by the library tomorrow afternoon, right after closing time. As much as it would embarrass him to bring up his letter he would know she reciprocated his feelings, or that at least she was open to them, and that would give him the courage needed to ask her out. 

It was a solid plan, a great plan. And it would’ve worked, he was sure, if he hadn’t knocked over a banker lamp as he backed away from her office. The  antique bronze made a horrible noise as it collided with the floor, and the green shade shattered upon impact, making a mess.

“Who’s there?”

Fuck.

[hawkbucks]

LISTEN if you do the language barrier muses from that royal au prompt thingy for buckytony (tony as muse b and bucky as a or whatever you prefer) i will love you FOREVER (i already do but let's pretend that the offer is still somewhat fair)

Thank you for requesting, and I hope this is what you wanted ;; I don’t think I followed the prompt exactly aljadkad ;; 

James hasn’t attended a single of his language lessons ever since they started a couple of weeks ago. Oh, his tutor has chased him plenty, but he’s always found a way to slink around them. It’s petty, the sort of behavior unbecoming of the Crown Prince (and it’s rather embarrassing and childish, so says his dear sister Rebecca), but James can’t find it in himself to care. His parents certainly didn’t seem to care about his feelings before they decided to marry him off to some prince from the South. His parents certainly didn’t seem to care about his opinion on the matter. His parents certainly didn’t seem to care that he’s a person--their son--and not some pawn in their game of political chess. 

They didn’t care about him, so he’s not about to care about this little scheme of theirs. If petty is how he’s feeling, then petty is what everyone is going to get. He’s not above that.

(Pity briefly surges through his chest. Is it fair of him to punish someone who’s barely an accomplice in this crime? It is a betrothal. He’s willing to bet that the other prince had as much say in this as he had--which is, to say, none at all.)

He slouches over in his chair, sighing. 

“James,” his mother, Queen Winnifred, calls out. She grips his wrist as he tries to slip past. “Sir McKenzie has been telling me that you haven’t been attending your lessons. How can you expect to communicate with Prince Anthony? He arrives in a couple of days.” 

“I would prefer to not communicate with him,” James answers coolly. “In fact, I would prefer that we not go through this marriage at all.” 

She squeezes his wrist in warning. “I will not have you bring shame to this family because you want to shirk your duties.”

James opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it at the blaze that starts up in his mother’s eyes, making it more than clear that she’s not in the mood for James’ excuse-making and back-talking. 

“The Starks are sending their only son thousands of miles across the heartland because they need this alliance. They can’t even attend their own son’s wedding because Maria easily takes ill.” James tries to look away. She tugs, forcing him to look back. “This is going to be a trying time for him. The least you could do is provide him some familiarity.” 

Hot shame courses through James’ body, but he made up his mind the second you’re betrothed left his father’s lips. He removes his hand from his mother’s grip and summons every last drop of his courage. “Perhaps you all should have thought about that before arranging this entire affair.” 

An uneasy, thick silence falls between them. His mother looks stunned. He can tell that she’s wondering what happened to the compassionate boy that she helped raise.

His throat clicks as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Mechanically, he turns on his heel and walks away, his mother’s gaze burning holes into his back. 

His sister says nothing to him as she drags him to every single one of his lessons. Two days is barely enough time for him to learn how to introduce himself, much less become conversational. However, that doesn’t stop his tutor from trying. 

They sit him down in a less than comfortable chair at a years-old desk stained by ink and rings of that coffee drink his mother is so fond of. Scrolls are unraveled in front of him, one half filled with words and phrases that he can read, the other half dominated by characters he finds foreign. 

They say he has to stay. 

They never say he has to pay attention. 

Prince Anthony arrives as the short-lived sun starts to set, staining the gate in front of the castle in pinks and oranges. 

James plasters on a fake smile--he might not be thrilled about this entire arrangement, but he supposes that he could at least let the Prince feel like he’s welcome. Well, he thinks as he presses a quick kiss to the back of Prince Anthony’s hand, at least he’s pretty. He links both of their arms together as he leads the Prince into the courtyard. 

Prince Anthony looks at him and says something in his own tongue, delicate and soft, a contrast against the rough and warm tones of James’ own language. 

James’ smile falters, and he shakes his head, making a looping motion with one of his fingers near his ear. I can’t understand you.

Prince Anthony’s brows furrow, a frown forming on his face. He says something over his shoulder to someone, adding something extra in the beginning--presumably a request to translate--before repeating what he said to James. 

That someone that Prince Anthony was talking to hurries over. They’re a portly man, but the broadness of their shoulders betrays any hidden underlaying muscle. “His Highness would like to know if he is to sleep with you in your quarters tonight,” they translate, “or if he is to wait until after the wedding.” 

“Pardon?” James’ mouth goes dry. He isn’t sure if Prince Anthony means sleep or if he means… sleep. 

Prince Anthony says something, cheeks slightly flushed, probably after taking in the half confused, half shocked look on James’ face. 

The man nods. “His Highness meant it to be purely the two of you sharing a bed. He apologizes if any of his wording made him seem crass.”

“Oh.” James blinks. “After the wedding.” 

The man relays that to Prince Anthony, who simply hums thoughtfully. 

James barely gets more than a glimpse of Prince Anthony as he’s caught in the hustle and bustle of everyone in the castle moving around to get ready for the wedding. He’s forced into coat after coat, the seamstresses hemming and hawing and sometimes accidentally pricking him with their needles. He wonders why they couldn’t have just done this before. 

From what he sees, Prince Anthony’s garments have the intricate, looping embroidery on them that’s indicative of the South. The sleeves are long, with two pieces of loose fabric acting as some sort of flaps that connect from his shoulders to his wrists. 

James’ father, King George, stops by to give him the sash that he wore when he married Winnifred. 

James doesn’t think he deserves it. 

They don’t kiss during the ceremony, thankfully. 

James’ simply feeds Prince Anthony the first bite of a freshly baked bread roll, while Prince Anthony spoons beef broth into James’ mouth. The priest--who James recognizes as the man Prince Anthony enlisted the translation services of when they first met--says a few words in both James’ and Prince Anthony’s tongues, and just like that, they’re married. 

Prince Anthony is the man that James is supposed to be spending the rest of his life with, whether either of them likes it or not. 

As his golden circlet is replaced by a silver crown, rubies glittering underneath the sunlight pouring in through the windows, Prince Anthony mutters something underneath his breath, eyes closing.

James doesn’t understand what he’s saying, but he recognizes the cadence of the Common Prayer. 

Prince Anthony tugs on the sleeve of James’ shirt and points at the cake sitting a foot away from them, decorated with apples and pears. Melted chocolate and caramel are drizzled across the top, criss-crossing over the other. “Is swit?” Prince Anthony asks. 

James tilts his head to the side. 

“Swit. Swit,” Prince Anthony repeats. “Sweet?” 

“Oh.” James’ eyebrows quirk up. He lifts himself out of the seat and reaches over, bringing the cake to their side. “Do you…” he points at the cake, then at Prince Anthony, then he mimes eating, a cupped hand underneath his mouth while the other pretends to be forking something in. 

Prince Anthony nods. 

James snaps his fingers, and a servant comes scurrying. 

The both of them are called forward to share a dance in front of the crowd. Queen Winnifred sends James a look that promises repercussions if he tries to weasel his way out of it. 

With a sigh, he gets out of his seat and offers his hand to Prince Anthony, who takes it with nervousness in his eyes. James supposes that Prince Anthony doesn’t need to understand his language to know when he’s to be no more than a performing monkey for a couple of minutes.

“Sorry,” Prince Anthony whispers when he accidentally steps on James’ toes.

At least he knows that.

Back in their quarters, it comes to James’ attention that Prince Anthony’s sleeping wear is rather unsuited for the kind of weather up in the North. Compared to James’ own heavy cotton garments, Prince Anthony’s breezy, light linens are pathetic. He sees the way Prince Anthony shivers and his mind immediately goes to how cold he must have been the past few days. The South is known for its warm climate, and the North… well, there’s a reason why James’ father is regarded as the Winter King. 

It’s going to be impossible for James to continue not learning Prince Anthony’s language if he keeps feeling sorry for him. Lord. 

“Cold?” he questions, mimicking Prince Anthony’s shiver.

Prince Anthony nods, looking remarkably shy about it all. 

James heads to the chest in his room that stores the fur blanket that he usually saves for the especially cold nights in the dead of winter when his breath is visible and the lake in their garden freezes over. He fishes it out and offers it to Prince Anthony, who takes it with a grateful smile. 

Prince Anthony tosses it on the bed and spreads it out. He places a hand on his chest. “Tony,” he says. “Say me ‘Tony’.” 

“Tony,” James repeats. The name rolls off of his tongue easily. 

Tony walks over and puts a hand on James’ chest. “James.” 

James nods weakly as he desperately tries to tamp down the flush rising up his neck. 

“James,” Tony says again, voice ringing like a bell. 

James wakes up to the feeling of someone’s head on his chest. When they fell asleep, he made sure to put as much space in between the two of them as possible (and it really wasn’t hard considering how large his bed is), but they must have gravitated towards each other anyhow. 

At least Tony has an excuse in the fact that he’s unused to Northern weather and unconsciously sought out warmth from any source. What’s James’ excuse? 

He isn’t sure what to do. He could try and move, but… he can’t find it in his heart to possibly wake Tony up.

Tony starts to move, and James lets out a sigh of relief, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

“Food?” Tony asks, tilting his head upwards to look at James. “Morning-food? Hungry, I want...” his face screws up in concentration. 

“Breakfast.” James fills in after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Breakfast!” Tony’s accent is off, but James can tell he’s doing his best. 

So, here’s the thing: James feels like an asshole. 

Tony’s trying to connect with him despite the language barrier, and that’s more than what James can say. 

He’s still miffed about the entire betrothal thing, but he doesn’t feel like his little act of rebellion is worth it. Tony’s still struggling with his language, while James hasn’t even made an effort to learn Tony’s. He should be the one fumbling over his words, trying to get Tony to like him. 

Plus, he’ll admit that Tony… has grown on him. It takes real courage to venture all the way across the heartland to get married to someone you don’t know because your kingdom is in desperate need for power. He wonders if Tony had many friends back in the South, if he thinks about them at night, if he had any pets. He uprooted his entire life coming up to the North, and James…

James can’t even fucking say hello to him. 

Tony places a plate in front of James, snapping him out of his thoughts. On the plate lies a single cinnamon roll, looking beautifully fluffy with its dark brown swirl in the middle, creamy frosting on top. “Made for you,” Tony chirps.

Yeah. James feels like a real asshole. 

James walks in on Tony in the library, face buried in a pillow as he sits on a lounge chair. He assumes that it’s just an extreme reaction to a book that Tony’s reading (although he was unaware that they had books in Tony’s language in the first place--perhaps he brought some from home?) before he realizes that Tony’s shoulders are shaking and all of his breaths sound suspiciously like sobs. 

“Oh, oh, hey,” James says as soothingly as possible, bending himself at the knee until he’s at the same height as Tony. What if Tony is feeling ill but he was hiding it? What if Tony got hurt? What if Tony simply isn’t having a good day? James honestly thinks the least he could do is check in on him. “Okay?” 

Tony removes his face from the pillow. His eyes are rimmed with red, tear tracks shining on his cheeks. His nose is flushed a light pink. “Book made me--” he hiccups-- “sad.” 

“The book made you… sad?” Ah. So, it was just a reaction to the book. Still, he can’t leave Tony like this, can he? “Hug?” 

Tony sniffles as a crease appears between his brows. “Hug?” he repeats sluggishly. 

James blinks. He’s not too sure how to explain what hug refers to. He’s confident that there’s a corresponding word in Tony’s language, but he doesn’t really know it now does he? He runs a couple mental calculations, minutely shrugs, then goes in for the hug. 

Tony inhales quickly, unsure of what to do, and James thinks that he must have botched this big time. 

Then, Tony is hugging him back, burying his face in the crook of James’ neck.

Warmth spreads throughout James’ chest. 

“Flowers,” James says as he gives Tony a small bouquet of hellebores. They just reminded him of Tony, and, no, he doesn’t know why. He does know that he’s grateful that they grow some in the royal gardens, though. “For you.” 

Tony perks up as he accepts James’ gift. “Flowers. Pretty,” he coos. He separates one from the rest and tucks it behind James’ right ear. “For you.” 

“You’re prettier,” James breathes out. He’s not sure if Tony’s able to understand that, but Tony’s smile grows wider.

Winnifred pulls James to the side, curtsying to Tony when he looks at her in confusion. “Anthony has been taking lessons with Sir McKenzie almost everyday while you’re out there fencing with Steven,” she quietly chides, eyes flickering over to Tony. “When are you going to do the same? It’s not fair for him to cater to you the entire time you both speak. There should be equal effort on both sides.”

“I know some words,” James replies. 

Winnifred raises an eyebrow.

James deflates. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think quickly.” 

Sir McKenzie gives him a knowing smirk.

James rolls his eyes.

Tony looks all around him, eyes wide in awe. His hands form cups, small mounds of snow forming in each hand over time. “Wow,” he mouths. “This is snow?” he questions aloud. He’s been getting better and better at the Northern tongue as the days pass, although his accent is still rather glaring. “Only read about in books. Never seen.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Tony nods enthusiastically. “Very like it!” then, he smiles sheepishly. “But very cold.” 

“Do you want a hug?” 

Tony bounds over to him and jumps into his arms.

James recites what he’s going to say over and over in the mirror.

He’s there when Tony starts waking up with a bowl full of steaming oatmeal flavored with cinnamon and brown sugar, plus a plate of apple slices and a dish of honey for Tony to dip them in. “Good morning,” he says in Tony’s language. 

Tony catapults up into a sitting position, staring at James. His mouth starts moving at a mile a minute and the only thing James can understand is speaking and nice. Halfway through, Tony stops himself as if suddenly realizing that James… doesn’t really know what he’s saying. “Sorry. Very happy,” he explains, switching back to James’ language. 

Now, James could continue talking in his native tongue, or he could try to flex what he’s learned. The choice is obvious. “Okay. You are cute.” He feels his mouth turn cotton-y at the last word. Tony is indeed very cute, but to say it to him in his language makes it sound different--feel different. “I like you…” Goddamn it, he practiced for this. “...much?”

Tony claps his hands in delight. “I really like you,” he returns in James’ language and leans forward to kiss James on the cheek.

[charliesradiodemon]

Arranged Marriage (Part 6)

Part 1  Part 5

(Ping reminders for: @ariloucii @wargraymon0709 @in-to–deep @norski28��@the-red-milk @seekerbea @aclusterfuckofeverything If you want a ping reminder, comment, reply or dm me!

I’m amazed with the amount of people who like my fic and honestly I didn’t think this would go far haha Thank you all for your support and contributions for the Charlastor community!

EDIT 3/17/2020: I have rewritten this chapter and will continue to do so with the rest!)

Part 6

Charlie woke feeling incredibly well rested. It may have been due to her emotionally taxing day yesterday, but she somehow slept through the whole night without issue. A part of her felt guilty for how well she slept, but it also made her feel silly for thinking so. 

With a sigh, she turned onto her side as she recounted her day yesterday. Through her painful day, Alastor of all people was there to comfort her in his own strange way. 

He even promised to stay until she fell asleep, just as she had asked. Charlie half expected him to brush her off, especially after his odd reaction to her near-touch. But surprisingly enough he agreed. And as a man of his word, he indeed stayed until she drifted off to sleep. Her face warmed as she also remembered how she’d held onto his hand as he sat beside her. 

It was Saturday, a free day at the hotel, and one of Charlie’s only days off. Saturday was a day for the sinners of the hotel to do as they wished- preferably inside the hotel’s walls. It was a day of self reflection to allow the sinners to pick up their own hobbies and put in their own effort toward redemption. Being in hotel at all times kept them out of trouble and focused on rehabilitation, but they were also allowed to leave and do as they please. 

As for Charlie, she’d use the day to talk to whoever stuck around the hotel and plan the coming week’s activities. At the end of the day she’d normally watch a movie or binge a series with Vaggie, but it might not be the best idea considering the recent events around them. Besides her assumed broken tradition with Vaggie, today should be no different. She’d been living with this schedule for half a year now and she planned to stick to it. 

With a determined huff and and smile, Charlie sat up in bed. But as she did so, she noticed a familiar red figure at the other end of the room and froze. It was Alastor.

“He stayed the night.” Charlie whispered to herself. She scooted off the bed and fixed her nightgown before quietly walking up to the motionless form on her couch.

Sure enough it was Alastor, sitting upright, legs and arms crossed, a small close-lipped smile and his eyes closed. Had she not seen how slowly he breathed, Charlie would have assumed he was awake and waiting. Charlie leaned over and got close. ‘I guess even Alastor needs to sleep.’ She mused in her head. She’d never seen him sleep before and she’d never seen him so still and peaceful either. He was usually bouncing with energy and enthusiasm whenever he was around her.  

“Can I help you Charlie?” Alastor asked suddenly. Alastor’s bright red eyes shot open and stared straight back at the demoness.

“HOLY-“ Charlie jumped back immediately and nearly tripped on the rug, sending her limbs flailing about as she caught herself from tumbling. 

Alastor chuckled and rested his elbow on the armrest. He plopped his head on his open palm and watched Charlie try to calm herself. “Sorry if I startled you sweetheart, but watching people sleep is quite rude you know!” He grinned widely and continued to chuckle.

After collecting herself, Charlie took a few deep breaths to calm herself. “No, I’m sorry. I woke you up and I was… being kinda weird…” she looked away and fiddled with her unkempt hair. The pout on her face made Alastor’s flutter and he nearly forgot where he was for a moment. 

That was, until he took a good look at her hair. “No worries dear. I had a good laugh out of it,” he mused. He then pointed at her hair and raised an eyebrow. “By the way that is a fine nest you have!” Charlie shot him a confused look to be met with a smug grin.

When she turned and walked to her vanity she yelped, “What? How’d it get this bad?” She sat herself down and began running her fingers through her hair to get the tangled mess under control. With her frantic tugging, she kept getting her fingers snagged on the knots. She let out an exasperated sigh, signaling her quick defeat. “I mean it’s never perfect in the morning, but it’s never been this bad before! I need to get Razzle and Dazzle!” She shot up from her stool.

But before she could head for the door, two claw-like hands rested on her shoulders. Looking up in her vanity mirror, she saw Alastor holding her in place. “No need! I can take care of it if you’d like.” he materialized a brush from nowhere and gently pushed her down to sit. Saying nothing, Charlie sat back down and continued to watch him through the mirror. 

He went straight to work once she settled. Instead of going head first with the brush, Alastor set it aside and instead used his fingers to untangle any nasty snags that could get caught in the brush. It was so strange how thoughtful and careful he was as his pointed claws occasionally brushed over her scalp. Charlie even closed her eyes as he worked, clearly enjoying the sensation. 

Once Alastor deemed it satisfactory, he took the brush he’d summoned and gently brushed through her golden locks all while humming. 

Charlie’s butlers Razzle and Dazzle would normally brush Charlie’s long and voluptuous hair, but never had it felt this good. From the soft brushes of her scalp to the gliding of a brush through her hair, Charlie didn’t notice the content smile that graced her face. 

Alastor, however had. He watched the princess’ expression soften through the mirror with amusement. Was she truly this naive? Despite being at the mercy of the Radio Demon, one of the most feared overlords in Hell, she’d put her full trust in him and relaxed into his touch, even. The moment reminded him how just last night she asked him to stay until she fell asleep. It still racked his brain how she could be so at ease with him in the room. But most of all he wondered why exactly he decided to stay by her side the whole night. Or why he volunteered to brush her hair so carefully. 

“You have quite a lot of hair you know,” Alastor joked in an attempt to get his mind off of his confusing thoughts. He’d ponder on it more later, now was just not the time. 

Charlie’s eyes shot open, and Alastor could have sworn his heart skipped a beat at the sight. Even when he attempted to get his mind off of what she did to him, she still somehow managed to get his heart off-beat. So much so Alastor was beginning to think that he was merely experiencing heart palpitations. “You must get it from your mother.” he finished, trying to keep himself calm and collected. Charlie smiled soberly and nodded.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. It’s why I don’t ever wanna cut it, because it reminds me of my mom.” she chuckled and brought her gaze down to the floor, deep in thought. 

What was her mother dong? She still hadn’t called, nor had she picked up any of Charlie’s calls in the past few days. She must have been busy with wedding preparations, but couldn’t she just spare a couple of minutes for her daughter? She’d just gotten engaged! 

With his eyes still fixed on Charlie’s face, Alastor hadn’t realized that he’d thoroughly brushed though the demoness’ hair a while ago. He was so engrossed in the softness of her locks and his heart palpitations, he’d completely lost focus. He stopped brushing, but part of him didn’t want to stop just yet. So instead he started to do something else to Charlie’s hair, which promptly caught her attention. The gentle tugging told Charlie he was probably braiding her hair. “I bet you must be excited to see your mother today.” he commented. 

“Yeah- wait,” she slammed her palms on the table, stood and whipped her head around to face Alastor. The braid that he’d started came undone in the action, but Alastor didn’t care. Not when his fiancee’s beautiful demonic form began to peek out. Alastor’s grin widened in anticipation and his fluttering heart began racing.

“WHAT?” She shrieked, yet Alastor didn’t flinch. Charlie began pacing away from the vanity, muttering wildly with a hand over her mouth. Her wide eyed gaze was fixed on the ground. Alastor couldn’t understand what she was saying but he did notice that her horns were present and her nails seemed longer than usual. He took Charlie’s seat at the vanity and sighed contentedly at the sight of her. He had to admit that she certainly was a belle, but this side of her was a unique sort of beauty that he could appreciate. 

She looked to him pleadingly. “What should I do?” she cried before returning to her frantic pacing.

With a confused yet amused expression, Alastor asked, “Are you not excited to see her?” The demoness snapped her head to look at him once more with her ruby-red eyes. 

However the visible part of her true form retracted as quickly as it appeared with just a blink. Charlie stopped her pacing and sighed. “It’s not that. I just haven’t seen her in a long time and she hasn’t returned any of my calls,” she ran a hand through her hair and shook her head with a groan. “I-I just don’t know what to say to her Al.” 

“Why not just start with a simple ‘hello’?”

Charlie groaned in frustration again. “Come on, be serious!” She turned back around to pace with her hands tangled in her hair.

“Oh I am though,” he stood to full height and walked up to her to grab her by the scruff of her nightgown and effectively stopping her from pacing endlessly again. Once she stilled in his grasp, he released her before continuing, “The reaction to a simple smile and a ‘hello’ tells you everything you need to know about a person! See where you go with it sweetheart. Not to mention your mother would be pleased to see your gorgeous smile.”

Charlie turned and shot him an unsure look. When he didn’t falter from his confidently wide grin, she shrugged. “I guess it’s better than nothing. Thanks for the advice, Al.” she crossed her arms and turned away. The unsure tone of her voice did not comfort Alastor’s inner concern one bit. 

‘Concern? For her?’ He thought. When was the last time he’d felt concerned for anyone? And when was the last time he’d felt the need to truly comfort someone?

Alastor took each of her shoulders in his hands, causing her to look up at him. “Chin up my dear, everything should be going uphill from here on, trust me.” his calm, nearly radio-less voice and his closed lipped smile somehow eased Charlie and she relaxed under his touch. 

A soft, appreciative smile melted onto her face, sending his heart into a beating frenzy.  

He quickly let her go, letting his searing touch linger on her shoulders. “Now, after your little hotel duties, we have to go meet your mother to finish the details!” Alastor said quickly before briskly exiting the room and gently shut the door.

Charlie brought her hand to her shoulder where his hand had lain and felt her heart skip a beat.

PART 7 HERE 

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Storybrooke Noir

AU-gust Day Twenty-Four: Private Detectives AU Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: None (with rumbelle in the background)

Rated: T

Summary: In Prohibition Era Storybrooke, private investigator Graham Humbert receives an interesting new case. 

Note: This is one of the first ideas I ever had for OUAT fanfic. Small parts of the story are told in noir-detective-style first person from Graham’s POV, most of it is third person.

Storybrooke Noir

As soon as I saw the identity of my visitor, I knew that my next case was going to be an interesting one. Regina Mills, it’s safe to say, runs Storybrooke. Nothing happens here without her say. If she was coming to me for help, then I knew that the situation was very delicate indeed. 

Graham could see that Regina Mills was the person behind his office door. Her outline was very distinctive. She was a fan of interestingly-shaped hats, and this one was definitely the most interesting that he had seen.

He opened the door and ushered her inside.

“What can I do for you, Miss Mills?”

“I need your skills, Mr Humbert.” She placed the brown envelope that she was carrying down onto the desk. “I have a case for you, and if you solve it to my satisfaction then I can promise you a very lucrative reward.”

“I have a standard rate, Miss Mills.”

“I know.” Regina’s smile was hungry and leonine, and it made Graham want to take a step back. Whilst he didn’t know what was in the envelope, he received the distinct impression that Regina was on the hunt, and whoever her target was, she was going to employ Graham to do the hunting. “But I’m certain that I can make any extra effort that you go to worth your while.”

Graham raised an eyebrow. Regina must be desperate if she was coming to him for help in the first place, and even more so if she was trying to sweet talk him like this.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Mills. What’s the nature of the job?” He took the envelope and opened it. A grainy photograph fell out; he recognised it as the work of Sidney Glass, Storybrooke’s local newshound. The picture showed a young woman with light hair standing on Storybrooke’s main street.

“I don’t like it when new people arrive in Storybrooke unannounced and start snooping around,” Regina said. “Her name is Emma Swan and she arrived in furtive circumstances in the middle of the night. I want to know who she is, where she’s from, why she’s here and what she intends to do now she’s got here. More importantly, I want to know when she’s leaving. If she can leave any sooner than that, then again, I’m sure I can make it worth your while.”

Graham nodded. Whilst he was not usually in the business of scaring people out of town – Regina had more than enough people at her beck and call to be able to do that herself – he would certainly look into the case. He wasn’t picky when it came to his earnings and who he took them from.

With his fee negotiated, Graham sat back, looking at the photograph that Regina had left with him and beginning to make notes.

It was time for a trip to the Spinning Wheel.

The Spinning Wheel Speakeasy is a good place to come for information. It’s owned, as most places in Storybrooke are, by Mr Gold. No-one knows his first name, and some people have speculated that he doesn’t actually have one. Gold knows everything that happens in the town, including the things that Regina doesn’t know about, and he’s always willing to share - for a price, of course. He’s the only person in town who can go toe to toe with Regina and be confident of victory, and I’m glad I’m on the right side of him.

If he couldn’t be persuaded to part with his knowledge of Emma Swan, maybe his girl Belle could help.

The Spinning Wheel was located in the basement of Storybrooke library, and Graham had to admit that being surrounded by old books and dusty periodicals gave the place an air of class that most establishments of its ilk couldn’t boast. 

Belle was sitting behind the library issue desk when Graham entered, although he knew full well that she was not expecting any patrons to be checking out books at this hour. She had been Gold’s doorkeeper for as long as anyone could remember, preferring the quiet of the library to the noise down below. They made for an odd couple, the bookish librarian and the menacing landlord and moonshiner of the shadows, but no-one who saw them together could deny that Gold was completely devoted to her and vice versa. Woe betide anyone who tried to use Belle as leverage to get to Gold. He could be very creative with that cane of his when he wanted to be, and Graham had seen him in action more than once. Keith Nottingham had learned to stay away after that beating.

“Hello Mr Humbert.” Belle greeted him with a smile as he came into the dimly lit building. “Are you here for business or pleasure tonight?”

“Business, I’m afraid. Is Gold in tonight? I’m hoping that he can help me with my latest case.”

Belle nodded, coming out from behind the issue desk and going over to unlock the rickety elevator in the corner. Graham followed her. 

“He’s in, but I don’t know that he���s feeling all that altruistic. You’d better be prepared to dig deep.”

“I’m sure he’ll be interested when I tell him it’s an opportunity to get one over on Her Majesty.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Things must be serious if she’s seeking independent help. I’d noticed that she seemed a little jumpier these past few days. What’s got into her?”

“Scared of losing her crown as always.” Graham thought it would be best to play his cards close to his chest for the moment. If this Swan character was dangerous, then it really wouldn’t do to be putting Belle in harm’s way. 

She came down the elevator with him, and the doors opened onto the Spinning Wheel. It was doing good trade tonight, with most of its small tables occupied. Graham recognised David Nolan by the little stage, gazing moon-eyed at the singer. His soft spot for Mary Margaret Blanchard was an open secret in the town - much to Mrs Nolan’s chagrin.

Belle led the way across the smoky room to where Gold was sitting with one of his associates. Jefferson Milliner was considered eccentric at best and downright insane at worst, but he and Gold got on like a house on fire. Graham wasn’t sure what the implications were for Gold’s own mental state as a result. 

Gold smiled warmly as Belle approached, his entire demeanour softening with her mere presence. He held out a hand to her and kissed her knuckles when she took it. 

“Who have we here, sweetheart? I see that the great detective has decided to pay us a visit.”

“Evening Mr Gold, Mr Milliner. I’m looking for some information about a recent new arrival in Storybrooke. I know that nothing in town goes unnoticed here.”

Gold grinned. “Let me guess. Her Majesty wants you to dig up any dirt you can on her so that she can be safe in the knowledge that she’s under no threat from Bostonian interlopers on secret missions.”

Graham laughed. “So, you know she’s from Boston and she’s here on a secret mission, which is more than me.”

“Aye. Any more will cost you.”

“How much?”

Gold gave the matter some thought. 

“I’m feeling generous tonight with the news of Regina’s discomfiture. Get yourself a drink and sit down with us, and I’ll tell you what I know. Will you join us, my dear?”

Belle declined, returning to the library above, and with liquor procured, Graham took a seat. He had to admit, Gold sold the good stuff; there was none of your bathtub rotgut at the Spinning Wheel. 

“So,” Gold began. “What do you already know?”

“Her name is Emma Swan and she arrived two days ago in the small hours. That’s as much as Regina knows and as much as I know.”

“She’s boarding at Widow Lucas’s and she’s intending to stay a week. She seems the transient type. Looking for something, I would imagine, although I can’t say what just yet. She was in here last night; it seems that Ruby Lucas clued her in. Belle judged her to be safe, and I trust Belle’s judgement.” Gold paused. “If I didn’t know better I’d say that she was one of your lot. Private eye.”

Graham shrugged. “It’s possible.”

He drained his drink and thanked Gold, going back over to the elevator. It was time to start digging. 

Gold had given me a good lead, and what he had said about Swan possibly being a PI like myself was interesting. I wondered what she could be investigating here in Storybrooke; we don’t get many people coming in and out. 

Widow Lucas was my next point of call. She takes in the few boarders who come to Storybrooke, some of whom stay permanently. It’s not exactly a vacation destination. She’s known to most as Granny, and she takes no nonsense from anyone.

“I know why you’re here.” Graham had barely got through the door of the inn before Granny had sized him up. He wasn’t exactly surprised. She had a sixth sense for things like that. 

“I’m sure that you do, Widow Lucas.” 

“She’s in the parlour,” Granny continued. “I think she’s expecting you as much as I am.”

Graham made his way through to the parlour, and sure enough, Miss Swan was sitting there. 

“Evening, Miss.”

“Good evening. Widow Lucas told me to expect you. Apparently Miss Mills isn’t too keen on outsiders coming into her domain.”

Graham had to laugh at the succinct summation of the situation. “Indeed not.” 

Miss Swan indicated for him to take a seat opposite her as Granny bustled in with some coffee. 

“It’s all right, Mr Humbert. I’m not staying long. My interest in Storybrooke is purely professional. In much the same way as yours, in fact.”

“Yes. Mr Gold thought that it might be.” 

“He’s a shrewd man. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but he’s definitely clever, I’ll give him that much, and he’s got good liquor.”

They drank their coffee in silence for a while, and Graham studied Miss Swan, pondering her reasons and motives, and what a private investigator was doing coming to Storybrooke.

“What brings you to our town, then, Miss Swan?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Miss Swan just laughed. “Well, I think that’s for me to know and you to find out, Mr Humbert. That’s what you’re being paid to do, after all.”

Graham couldn’t fault her logic, and he smiled. The next few days whilst Miss Swan was in town were going to be very interesting indeed…

[absolutelyxosmittenxo]

Imagine: Ruby Rose, Weiss Schnee, Blake Belladonna and Yang Xiao Long after marriage and kids. {Written by the oh so fantastically lovely @ask-beacons-finest who I love and cherish dearly 💞 She requested Ruby be placed last.}

Weiss- Weiss sat quietly upon her humble home's couch, a gentle smile rested on her face as she watched her significant other play with their daughter on the floor. Fluctuating between fits of giggles and murmurs of glee as her partner cheerfully interacts with their beloved little one. Within all this bliss, Weiss's mind wanders, back to a time long long ago. A time where she had stared herself in the mirror, her blue eyes burning with anger as the left dripped blood from a fresh wound, it was this day she had felt truly abandoned and betrayed by her father, and it was also this day that she swore she would do her part to ensure that the Schnee name will perish along with her, therefore denying Jacques’ blood to continue tarnishing Remnant’s land.

This memory brought about a chuckle, Weiss's only reaction to such a thought at the present.

She had never expected to change her mind, to agree with someone to not only spend her entire life with them, but to start life anew. Fresh and untainted by the cruel realities of the world.

At first, of course, she was nervous. Nervous that neither her nor her betrothed We're a ready for such a task, to raise a child.

“No one is ever ready,” Her partner's words echoed in her head, “But I love you, and there's no one else on Remnant I'd rather be not ready with.”

It was after those words the two shared a kiss, as loving as that of their wedding day, and as passionate as that of their first.

And now, looking down at the pair of her most valued loved ones in front of her, she knew she made the right choice.

The child may not have servants to appease her every whim, she may not have a home that has its very own ballroom, she may not have tutors of the highest quality that money could afford.

But what their child will have, throughout her entire life, is love. True and unbound.

Blake- Blake lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom. She never thought she'd have a child, with all the things she's gone through. Her time running, hiding, hating, denying. She’s been through so much, so many things, mostly negative. So you can imagine the surprise when she was blessed with not one, but two children. Twins, two beautiful little girls who are not-so-patiently awaiting their upcoming sixth birthday, and the arrival of their new little brother. Remembering the life in her made her smile, the all too familiar doubts and anxieties ejecting themselves from her mind as the much more pleasant thoughts of family and loved ones flood her head. She turns to her spouse, who's sleeping close to her, their hand protectively placed onto her stomach, and she takes a moment to appreciate truly how lucky she is to have them, to have all of this.

Her appreciation only grows when she thinks of how better a life her children are already having when compared to her own childhood. No running, no hiding or hating or any of those negative thoughts that had long cursed her mind. They could live a life of safety and happiness, and they will live such a life as long as she’s around.

The twitching of the cat ears atop her head broke her from her content trance, hearing the giggling of two little girls who are awake far past their bed time. Blake couldn't help but give a small laugh herself, as she knows she’s done the same all too many times. A gentle nudge to her partner causes them to sleepily open their eyes, and a kiss on the forehead followed by a quick explanation and a quiet laugh shared by the two led to Blake standing up from the bed, silently tip-toeing her way to the door to remind her little ones that growing girls need their sleep.

Yang- Yang always knew her child would come out kicking, a spitting image of her fiery personality. Her father always teased her, saying she'd get hers whenever she acted up and was a pain for him, she finally understands his prophecy came true, now that she has a little boy running around the home crashing through any obstacle that dares block him from his destination. Her son's headstrong attitude towards life is only multiplied by her spouse’s unwavering encouragement, which occasionally leads to Yang scolding the both of them. The majority of the time, however, it's quite the spectacle to see. While Yang herself has moments where she demonstrates a valuable life lesson for her son, she truly loves most seeing her beloved bestow wisdom to their young son. Something about how his precious eyes light up in wonder and amazement each time their parent speaks, the smile and laughter in her spouse's voice as though they were talking not to the pair's son, but to a friend they had known their whole life.

It’s almost magical, she swears on it.

And it's just another of those moments now, where she stands attentively at the stove cooking the family dinner, her ear perked up to get a better listen on the current lesson of “knowing when to play and when to fold,” an expression she herself learned the hard way.

They way her spouse could give their son stern advice, with a tone implying the young one should take the words seriously and ingrain them to memory, yet also have a softness to their voice that maintains a calm atmosphere, a truthful and important lesson delivered so gently.

Yang continues to make dinner, a soft smile spreading on her face. Her family was small, and simple, just the way she liked it. Her son, her spouse, and herself. The very three that made this simple house a home.

Yang paused. She felt, for the first time since her son's birth, that perhaps something was missing.

A dog?

A sibling for her dear boy?

Who knows, she'll bring it up during supper.

Ruby- Ruby Rose never married, in the traditional sense, her spirit was far too free to do such a thing. That's not to say she hasn't loved and been loved, she has, but when her friends and family question her if she'll ever settle down she simply chuckles in response. In her mind, she is married. Not to any man or woman, but rather, to her work.

Being a teacher at Signal Academy was a dream of hers ever since she was a student there herself. She's been given offers to transfer to Beacon, and she has taken up some of those offers when the higher level academy was in desperate need.

But her place was here, at Signal.

Ruby's response to ever having children one day is the same as the response she gives to getting married. She has children. Dozens. Maybe even hundreds at this point. Each one with their own unique personality, traits, and quirks. Every single child who's entered her classroom has become just as much a source of pride and joy to her as any mother would feel with their children, and every child has come to respect her as not only a teacher but a kind and motherly figure as well. Ruby can only smile when she thinks of all the advice she’s given out through her years teaching, be it about a certain question on a test, or how to handle a crush that doesn’t seem to know you exist.

There was no other path Ruby would have preferred her life to take.

She is married, happily so.

She has children, and she loves them just as any mother would.

And with the sound of a bell, and the bustling commotion roaring out into the hall, Ruby can't help but smile, her heart full of excitement as it always is when her children are about to come home.

[joylee56]

In Which Miss Belle French Endeavors to Establish Herself as a Lady Detective

For the 2019 Rumbelle is Hope event

Summary: Her father wanted her to make an ‘appropriate’ connection and give him grandchildren. Her chaperon would be a happy if she would just find a suitable hobby like watercolors. Belle though wants to find a way to indulge her talent for detection. Pity the one Scotland Yard Detective who will let her is on medical leave.

Author's Note: So sorry about the formating. I swear it looked all right when I previewed it. I think I've fixed it now.

The morning post had brought the usual collection of invitations to dinners, luncheons and balls from matchmaking society grand dames hopeful of securing the Marchlands fortune for their sons, grandsons or nephews. Belle set aside an invitation from the Frost girls to accompany them to a lecture by Mrs. Besant on Theosophy presented by the Fabian Society and sorted the rest on a scale of indescribably dull to possibly interesting enough to attend to satisfy her father’s insistence that she spend some time in society.

Papa still had hopes of her making an ‘appropriate’ connection and settling into staid matronhood. Presenting him with a batch of grandchildren to brag about at his club. Belle had no intention of turning her fortune and her life over to any of the mindless young men her father regarded as appropriate. But she had found that one society function a week kept her father happy and left her free to indulge in more interesting past times the rest of the time.

Fortunately Sergeant Nolan had been assisting him and she had been able to point Nolan in the right direction. Resulting in a promotion for the Sergeant and a much welcomed by his young family transfer to the suburbs.

The transfer was not welcome by Belle as it left her bereft of any contacts at Scotland Yard until and unless Inspector Gold returned from his medical leave.

Her cousin Ruby, helped sort the stack with far more interest in the opportunity to meet young men than Belle. (And far far more in need of the security of an acceptable match. Neither she nor her Grandmother, who served as Belle’s chaperon, had enough income to support themselves. Without a husband, Ruby would look forward to a life of genteel poverty at best. Luckily the girl was lovely and vivacious enough to make a decent match even without a dowry.)

“Now that the King Edward’s coronation is finally over the social scene is returning to normal.” Ruby commented.

“I can’t like that he didn’t keep his father’s name when he was crowned.” Mrs. Lucas commented. “The late Queen wanted him to.”

“Now, Granny, you can hardly blame the man for not wanting to stand in his father’s shadow.” Belle put in. Despite having no actual blood connection the older woman had looked after her since her mother’s death and Belle had adopted Ruby’s familiar address.

“Be better if he took more after his father.” Granny sniffed.

Neither of the younger women were inclined to argue with her about the new King’s morals. Ruby frowned at the next letter she examined. “This one isn’t an invitation, Belle. More like a tradesman’s note. Do you have jeweler named ‘Gold’?”

Belle snatched the unassuming envelope from Ruby’s hand and ripped it open. “Inspector Gold has written?!”

“Your tame Scotland Yard detective?” Ruby asked with amusement.

Granny looked up from the ladies journal she had returned to reading. “How is he? The injuries he suffered when that building collapsed as he was helping evacuate it were not something I’d have expected him to recover from any time soon.”

Belle had already scanned the missive. “He doesn’t say.”

The note, neatly written in the copperplate script beloved by grammar schools, was succinct.

Dear Miss French, I write to you, in the hope that doing so is not overstepping the boundaries of propriety, because I would beg a meeting with you to discuss a small matter. I am, of course, at your disposal as to the time and place.

Your very obedient servant, Drummond Gold

“He wants to meet with me.” Belle said excitedly. “To ‘discuss a small matter’. Oh, perhaps he as a case he needs my help with! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“Not particularly.” Granny sighed. “But as it’s not likely you’re going to be taking up a more suitable hobby like watercoloring any time soon, I suppose it’s better than he wants to meet with you some where appropriate rather than his office at Scotland Yard.”

“He doesn’t have an office at Scotland Yard any longer.” Belle perused the note trying to see what else she could glean from it. There was not a lot to see. The handwriting was clear and strong. No sign of any tremor or weakness. That was good. When she had last seen him in hospital he had been very weak from his injuries. The paper and envelope were of medium quality. Of a kind a well off clerk or small shop owner would have on hand. He did include a return address. The neighborhood was respectable working class. Not the sort of place a lady of quality would ever have a reason to visit. At least now she knew how to reach him. “The last time I spoke with Sergeant Nolan, he said that the Inspector was still on ‘indefinite’ medical leave.

“I’ll ask him to Tea.” Belle decided. “The day after tomorrow? Yes. I’ll have Cook make scones. All Scotsmen are fond of scones aren’t they? And to be sure to serve marmalade. Inspector Gold always had marmalade at that Tearoom he insisted I meet him at rather than going to his office.”

“Best to have her serve sandwiches as well.” Granny put in practically. “Working folk generally don’t have a meal after Tea. Give him something hardy enough to keep him going.”

When Inspector Gold arrived punctually at four o’clock on the day of their appointment she was glad she had taken Granny’s advice and let Cook show off her culinary skill. The man had always been thin, but he now looked positively gaunt. His suit, which had previously been perfectly tailored, was hanging loose.

Of greater concern was the way he was limping. He was using a cane to walk and while he did not seem to be in any sort of pain, his right leg clearly could not bear his weight without it.

She stepped up to greet him as the butler announced him. “Inspector Gold, I was so delighted to receive your note. Please have a seat. I had been wanting to inquire how you were doing, but since Sergeant Nolan was transferred I had no way to reach you.”

“I’m sure you would have tracked me down eventually, Miss.” Gold sat with some relief. After greeting Mrs. Lucas politely he added. “And it’s no longer Inspector. As of this month I’ve been retired. A policeman who canna chase after a criminal isn’t of much use.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Belle was outraged. “Why you’re a detective. Actually running after criminals isn’t what you do best.”

Gold shrugged. “It’s Yard policy I’m afraid. The Commissioner was kind enough to grant me a full pension.”

“And well he should.” Belle said. “Foiling that bomb plot by getting nearly everyone out of the building before it collapsed saved countless lives including the Commissioners.”

“T’was only doing my job.” Gold murmured, clearly embarrassed.

Plumette brought in the tea at that point. Changing the discussion to Gold’s obvious relief. Belle poured. “You take milk I believe?”

“If it’s no trouble I prefer the lemon.” He responded.

She set down the milk pitcher. “You always had milk at the Tearoom.”

“The Tearoom across from the station did not provide lemon.” Gold pointed out.

“True.” Adding a slice of lemon she handed him his cup. “Sandwiches? Cook got a touch over enthusiastic, so please have several.”

“Cook doesn’t have the opportunity to show off her skill to gentlemen callers very often.” Granny said pointedly as she took a salmon sandwich and a macaroon.

Belle frowned at the older woman, but did not comment. Instead encouraging Gold to eat by indulging in some light conversation.

Only when it was clear he had eaten his fill did she ask, “You had a matter you wanted to discuss?”

“Uhm, yes.” He looked uncomfortable. “If it’s not too forward of me, I was hoping you might provide an introduction. Now that I’m retired from the Yard I need to find other work.

“We won’t starve on my pension. But it’s no enough to pay for my boy’s schooling.” Gold glanced down into his tea cup. “He’s a bright boy. If I can get him a decent education he could go on to University. Give him the opportunities that he deserves.”

He looked up to meet her eyes. “To do that I need work. I know how to use a typewriter, take shorthand and can write a fair hand. My leg won’t interfere with secretarial work, but I need a way in the door. I know it’s presumptuous to ask it of you, but I hoped you might be willing to recommend me to someone in need of a secretary? If I can just show what I can do I’m sure I can give satisfaction.”

“Yes! Oh, that would be perfect!” Belle set down her cup and hurried over to her writing desk to find her notebook. “You’ll come work for me!”

“I’m no looking for charity, Miss French.” Inspector, now Mr., Gold sound wounded. “I can earn properly. I just need someone to give me a chance.”

“I wanted to start a consulting detective practice to assist women who aren’t comfortable taking their problems to male detectives for some time.” Belle enthused. “With your experience and contacts you’d be invaluable to my endeavor. Not charity in the least.”

Gold blinked. “You’re no serious?”

“Oh, she’s serious all right.” Granny signed. “Show him your plan, dear.”

Thrusting her notebook into his hands, Belle explained. “I’ve been thinking about the cases where I’ve assisted you. In nearly all of them the women involved had family or personal problems that were not really issues that the police would or could deal with. With more information, and some practical advice, they could have found solutions to their problems. I’ve been trying to devise a way to supply that. My problem is that, even with a chaperon, there are places I not permitted to go and information I can’t access. You, on the other hand, can readily go places and do things that I’m not allowed.”

As she spoke, Gold had started thumbing through her notes. His eyebrows when up, “Uhm, Miss French, while your intentions are… admirable, the sort of private investigative agency you have in mind… Well, these sorts of domestic ‘issues’ as you call them tend to be tawdry at best.”

“I have pointed that out.” Granny put in.

“I’m not some innocent debutante.” Belle said. “I old enough and have done enough charity work to know how unkind the world can be to women. And I have the means and ability to do something about it.”

“Not all problems have solutions, Miss.” Gold cautioned. “And even where there are solutions, you won’t always be able to uncover them.”

“You said yourself I made an excellent detective.” Belle reminded him.

“I think what I said was that you had an uncanny knack of stumbling head first into the thick a mare’s nest.” Gold responded. “T’was no meant as a compliment.

“Although I’ll grant you, you’re a better detective than any of those fools the Yard saddled me with over the years.” Gold admitted grudgingly.

Belle preened. Gold’s opinion of his colleagues was not high, but he also did not make compliments without meaning them.

He continued looking at her notes. “You planned this in detail.” He allowed.

“I have. And even if we never manage to get any clients, I do enough charity and social work that I need a private secretary.” Belle was sure that once she had Gold in her employ he would help her move forward with her plans. He would be too interested in solving the puzzles not to. “Which is precisely what you’re looking for.”

“Not to mention that you’d be far better able to protect her when she goes haring off on one of her ‘adventures’ than I am.” Granny put in dryly. “That alone would earn you your salary.”

Granny’s argument clearly made an impression on him. “If you’re certain I could be of service?”

“Yes!” She would have a helper in her endeavors. And a companion who treated her seriously. She clapped her hands. “We have a deal then?”

“We do.” Gold agreed offering his hand for her to shake,

[shadowdianne]

Halloween Special (Prompt 8)

Halloween prompt: Ruby and Dorthy throw an "ironic halloween party" where everyone in Storybrook comes as their fairytale selves but--- can only wear the "sexy" costumes available in this world. (((inspired by me seeing the skimpiest snow white costume ever and loosing my shit))))

Ok, so this one was asked by @littlesparkleshark Sorry for my general silence throughout last week. I don’t know if the news reached you all but I’ve been quite sick. Pneumonia, high fever, low blood pressure, inhability to eat… And today I was told that the pneumonia apparently brought with it some other problems I wasn’t told last week Xd So I’ve been recovering but it’s been a slow process. Sorry again for the silence but I truly hope you like this take on your prompt. The previous to the last one I’m afraid as this year wasn’t really prolific on the Halloween-themed prompts department xd

A03 Version

Masterpost

“It itches.”

The words, spoken in a jagged tone, almost a whine, made Regina laugh as she watched Emma glance at herself on the mirror in front of them, pout curving her lips as she tugged at the hem of the different layers of fake-leather the older woman had conjured for her.

“It doesn’t, and we both know it.” The Queen ended up murmuring, fixing the collar of the snug jacket the blonde wore, taking into the painted jeans she had also conjured, smartly hexing the paint to the texture could almost fool anyone who wouldn’t look too closely to Emma’s legs. “I put a small hex, so you should be able to regulate the temperature as you see fit. How do you feel?”

The blonde sighed but kept glancing at the mirror in front of her; from the boots -higher than usual- to the paint that worked out as her usual jeans -panties doing a fine work below the paint- to the way too open jacket.

“I’m not looking forward to see my mother tonight.” She replied in a murmur, turning and glancing at Regina as the brunette smirked and rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

“I think I heard her say something close to that herself this morning.” The Queen replied before flickering her magic above Emma’s head, purple sparks momentarily illuminating the younger woman’s eyes from above before they disappeared. “Hex done, you look amazing, dear.”

Despite the nervousness, Emma could feel herself blush at Regina’s words and, beyond the way her eyes kept on swiftly trying to avoid the spots where her flesh felt too exposed, she let her fingers stop from pinching the little bit of clothing she actually wore, stilling her hands and pressing them against her upper thighs.

“You think so?” She heard the fear there, not so subtly hidden on the way she rose her chin, defiantly, as Regina focused on her own make up, dress a mystery hidden beneath a cloth a few meters away from them, on top of their bed.

And she hated herself from it, from the doubts she had learnt to interiorize, lessons that had stripped her bare, turning her into someone that still managed to peek through the newly re-learnt ways of not falling into those same pits.

Regina glanced at her in answer to the question, brown eyes searching hers thanks to the mirror, the easy smile she had sported swiftly changing to something more somber, more serious.

“I do.” She replied easily, the words rolling out of her mouth just in time for the hour to change, the beginning of the night signaled by one single wave of magic rolling over them both. “Close your eyes, dear.”

The words were said with a smirk, small enough for Emma to simply see the small tug at the edges of Regina’s lips but it was powerful enough for her to lick her lips and do as told, feeling the gentle caress of Regina’s power reaching for her for a second, bells tolling signaling the beginning of Ruby’s party outside.

“I thought she hadn’t managed to convince the fairies to do that trick.” Emma murmured as she heard the swoosh of the fabric around her, magic prickling her face as it happened. She heard the faint murmur of Regina’s voice, not quite answering her.

“Dorothy spoke to Blue.” She heard, just as she began to fight the need to open her eyes just enough for her to get a peek. “I had quite the busy morning yesterday on the meeting because of it.”

“I’m just happy I managed to not go to that one.”

The answering hum made Emma smile loosely, thinking at Regina’s grown every time a meeting was scheduled; the various nobles trying to always get their way

“I’m still angry you didn’t bring my morning coffee because of that.”

Regina’s voice sounded closer, much much closer and Emma rose both brows as she felt Regina’s hands on her neck, a swift caress that made her open her eyes a second before Regina’s own petition reached her. Any kind of response to Regina’s words was, however, forgotten the second Emma got to see the costume the brunette wore.

From the purple and black bodice that hugged her torso, to the gold trim that hugged her waist, the resulting bow looking a tug away from falling open; the older woman looked positively breathtaking and Emma could hear herself gulping as she took on the tight skirt the other woman, the slit rising up to mid-thigh on one side; enough for Emma to feel the palms of her hands itching, skin far too warm.

“What do you think?”

The question was said with a smirk, ruby-red lips and mauve make-up completing the ensemble alongside with the frilly details that fell from the woman’s shoulders to her wrists in a gossamer-like cloth that couldn’t be any warmer than Emma’s pantless situation.

And yet, the woman looked about to eat her up. Which was only fitting, Emma reasoned, as she felt her head nod dumbly at the question itself.

“Amazing.” She managed to whisper. “You look… gorgeous.”

Regina laughed at that, pulling her closer until she could peck her lips, the faint taste of her magic making Emma’s own hum, just below her lips, coiling and buzzing.

“You look far more gorgeous than I do, dear. Now, can you zip me up? There are things I prefer not to leave to magic.” The last bit was said with a lopsided smile and just a hint of purple shinning behind heavy eyelids, a lazy turn being followed after that, exposing soft skin just beneath the skimpy clothes.

And well, as much as Regina said she was reformed there were times, minute times like this one, in where Emma was sure the woman was positively evil.

(They didn’t arrive on time)

PS: Emma’s costume is just something I imagined. The idea behind Regina’s costume can be found here.

[blackwidownat2814]

It All Began When Someone Left the Window Open...

Here’s Chapter 4 for you guys!  Sorry it was so late, life and writer’s block got in the way.  Many million of thanks to my BFF Courtney for being the BEST BETA ever.  *side note: Nothing bad, I just want to let y’all know that this just so happens to be a dialogue heavy chapter.

From the Beginning...

Chapter 4

Dinner For Three

“So, I’ve got several choices for you milady”, said Killian.  He placed the tins of cat food on the counter in front of Hermione. “Savory Salmon, Classic Chicken, Grilled Salmon & Shrimp, and Tender Beef. Which would you prefer?”  

Emma smiled and watched as he spread the tins out in front of her cat and stood back to see what she’d choose.  Hermione crept forward and sniffed each tin.  After what seemed like careful consideration, Hermione swatted the ‘Savory Salmon’ tin and looked up at Killian.

“Excellent choice love, let me just get this in a dish for you.”  He turned back to the cabinet to put away the unchosen foods and pulled out a food dish and placed it on the counter.

“You didn’t have to do that”, said Emma.  “I could’ve brought some of her stuff over and--”

“Nonsense, Swan”, Killian said, cutting her off.  He turned back to Hermione, patiently waiting from her spot on his counter.  “Now, here you go love.  Come on down off there and tuck in.”

Hermione jumped down and settled into her meal on the little mat Killian had under the window. Emma smiled in disbelief at her cat eating food from someone she didn’t know, in a dish that wasn’t hers.

“You must have something special about you Jones, because not only did she not maul you when you met, but she’s eating food you gave her and that’s not even her dish.  She’s the pickiest eater when it comes to anyone but me or Elsa.”  Emma noticed the tips of Killian’s ear turning red. He cleared his throat and smiled at her as he turned to pull the meatloaf from the warm oven.

“I’m glad she thinks so.  It’s been a very long time since someone has.”  Killian motioned for her to take a seat at the table.  “What would you like to drink Swan?  I've water, coffee, milk, orange juice?”

“Beer?”

“Uh, no.  I don’t have-I mean, I…don’t drink.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry.”  

“It’s quite alright Swan, you didn’t know.”

“Still… Anyways, I’m assuming you’ve got tea?”

“Is Earl Grey alright? I feel like it’s a little late for Irish Breakfast.”

“You’ve got a point, and yeah, Earl Grey is fine.”  Emma flashed a smile at him as he turned to grab his kettle from the cabinet. He filled it up with water and set it on the burner.

They were silent in the kitchen, and as Emma watched him grab plates and utensils, she thought back to what had happened the other day.

“I’m sorry about what I said to you the other day”, she blurted out.  Killian was surprised enough by her outburst and the utensils clattered onto the table.

“You don’t have t--” he began to protest.

“Yes I do, Killian.”

“How about we wait until after dinner?  I promise we’ll talk.”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Meow.”

Their moment was broken when Hermione decided to make her presence known and pawed at Killian’s leg. He bent down and scooped her up.

“Yes, love?”

“Meow.”

“You’ve already had your dinner.  No more for you unless mum says it’s okay.”  Killian and Hermione turned to look at Emma.

“Meow.”

“No ma’am.  You remember what the Drs. Nolan said about your diet: one tin at each meal time because you need to lose some weight.”

“Meow.” Hermione sounded dejected, but Emma knew she was trying to get her to break and allow more food.

“Uh-uh.  You aren’t going to make me fall for that.” Hermione gave a little huff and turned away from Emma and proceeded to jump out of Killian’s arms and wandered to his couch and curled up in the corner.

“Well then, how about I get dinner on the table?”  Killian went back to the stove and pulled the meatloaf out and set it on the table.  “How many slices would you care for Swan?”

Before Emma could answer, the kettle on the stove started whistling.  Killian was about to go and get it, but Emma stopped him.

“Please, let me.” She didn’t allow him protest and stood to retrieve the kettle.  “Where are your mugs?”

“Cabinet right above the stove.”  Killian went back to slicing up the meatloaf and set two pieces on Emma’s plate and two on his.  Emma finished pouring the hot water into the mugs and brought them back to the table.

“Here you go.”

“Tuck in to supper and I’ll get the rest of the tea things”, said Killian.

“Do you need any help or anything?” she asked.

“No, love, I’ve got this.  You enjoy. I’m trying a new recipe tonight and I’d like an unbiased opinion”, he replied.

“Ooh, well I’m glad to be of service.”  Killian went about placing the milk and sugar on the table and getting the loose-leaf Earl Grey into the tea infusers.  Emma watched him work as she took a bite from her meatloaf. “Good Lord Killian!  This is amazing!”

Killian smiled and looked down at his plate as she saw his red-tinged cheeks.

“You don’t have to say that because you’re my friend, you know.”

“I’m not. Believe you me, I’d tell you if it sucked.”

“I’m sure you would”, Killian replied as he took a bite.  He swallowed and continued, “In that case my dear Swan, thank you very much. I’m glad you like it.”

“What’s in this sauce?”

“It’s just brown sugar, catsup, and mustard.”

“It’s my favorite part”, she replied enthusiastically.

Dinner went on the same, with them chatting lightly about their day and about Hermione, who decided to beg for food once more after her nap.

They were finishing up their cups of tea when Emma decided to try being brave once again.

“I don’t know who my parents are.”  Killian stopped mixing his tea and looked up at her.

“Come again?”

“My parents, I’ve never met them...because…”  Emma looked down at her tea, holding it with both her hands.  Come on, buck up!  You can do this!  She startled slightly when she felt (rather than saw) Killian take her right hand in his.

“You don’t have to say anything Swan.”  She looked back up at him, appreciating the comforting look he was giving her.

“No, I do.  It’s time, you know?  I’ve kept it to myself long enough.  Besides, Elsa and Ruby are the only people in my life who really know me.”  Emma took a sip of tea and looked back at Killian.  “And I’d like for someone else to know me.”

“I appreciate your choosing me Swan.”

“You’re welcome.” Emma leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath.  “Like I said before, I don’t know my parents.  I was actually found on the side of a road 10 miles outside of Portland.”

“Those bastards”, Killian said quietly.

“A runaway found me. They told me his name was August. When I got older, I tried looking for him, but I still haven’t had any luck, even in my line of work. Anyways…the first three years of my life were pretty good, despite the way it started.  I was adopted as a baby, but then they got pregnant and sent me back.”

Killian reached across the table and took her hand in his, lightly running his thumb over her knuckles.

“I’m so sorry love.”

“I stayed at the orphanage after that”, Emma barreled on.  “When I was old enough, I was sent to different foster homes.  Some were good, the people genuinely cared for the kids under their care, and some were…well, you can imagine.”  Emma pulled the collar of her shirt away from the left side, showing Killian an almost five inch scar on her chest, high above her left breast.

“I can’t imagine how that must have affected you at such an age.”

“It taught me to be strong and stand up for myself.”  She paused, then took a deep breath.  “I ran away from the system when I was almost 17.  I got by working odd jobs and stealing food to survive when I didn’t have the money.  One day, I needed a way out of Maine and so I stole a car I found in an alley; it was a yellow Beetle.”

“A classic to be sure”, Killian said with a laugh.

“Do you want to know the rest?” she asked.

“Pardon my impudence love, only meant to try to alleviate the situation.  Do continue.”

“Anyways, I wasn’t the first to steal the car.  The guy who’d stolen it before me was actually asleep in the back seat.  His name was Neal and he was older than me, in his 20s.  22, I think. Point was, not something we should’ve started.  We were together for a while, stealing what we could to survive.

One day, after slipping into a motel room that hadn’t been cleaned yet, we decided it was time to settle, to find a home.  We found a map and chose a random location: Tallahassee.  Neal said he had one last thing he could do to get the money to go there. He convinced me to grab some expensive watches he stashed in a train station locker and then we’d fence them to get moving.”

Emma was quiet for a moment.  Somehow, Hermione sensed her human’s coming sadness and bounded over to curl up on her shoulder.  Emma ran her free hand through the soft fur and then continued.

“He gave me one, slipped it on my wrist and told me to meet him in the park while he took ‘em to the fence.  I got worried something happened when he didn’t show at the time he said he would. A cop showed though.”

“He didn’t…”

“I spent 11 months in jail.”

“I’d wring his neck if I could.”

“Get in line.”

They sat in silence, Killian caressing her hand with his thumb, the only sound coming from Hermione’s constant purrs.  After a few minutes, Killian took a deep breath.

“Three years ago--”

“Stop.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t need to know right now.  I don’t want you to tell me anything until you’re 100% sure that you’re ready to.  I like you Killian, you’re a nice and decent guy, and those are few and far between these days.  I…I want to get to know you and be friends.”

“I want the same Emma. Gods, do I want the same.  It’s been so long since I’ve been close to anyone or had friends other than Belle or Will.  So much has happened and I need someone else to share it with.  To gain a fresh perspective, as it were.”

“In that case Killian Jones, I propose we become friends.”

“I couldn’t agree more love.”

“Meow.”

“And it seems dear Hermione feels the same.”

“I’m glad!” said Emma. “When I adopted her, Dr. Nolan told me she’d been at the shelter a few years.  No one had wanted her.  He went to get her out so I could pet her and she scratched him so bad!  When he finally handed her to me, she only hissed a bit, but then calmed down.  I took her home that afternoon.”

“She reminds you of yourself.”

“So much. Forgotten and unloved in the beginning, hostile towards new people…she is me.” Emma smiled at her cat and ran her hand through the fur, setting off the purring.  “Hermione has never met a person she didn’t scratch or hiss at or bite the second she meets them.  You have been the first and only person who didn’t receive that treatment.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is.  When I told Ruby and Elsa, they gave their sympathies, and then I told them what happened, they couldn’t believe me.” Killian finally let go of Emma’s hand so that he could pet Hermione.  She walked away from her human and curled up in the crook of Killian’s left arm, settling herself in.

“Well, I’m honored. Miss Hermione must know something we both don’t.”

“I trust her, one of the few individuals in my life that I do trust.  She trusts you now…”, Emma said, “…so I’m going to trust her.”

[literalmeaning]

SQ Week Day 3 - Medical AU

Ratting: T

Summary: When your lunch break needed another topic for conversation , this is not what Emma had in mind.

Note: Thank you so much for Gats for beta-ing this one

“Okay, fuck-marry-kill: Gold, Nolan, Mills.”

Emma almost died of obstruction of her airway.

“Where is this even coming from?” Belle, the ever sensible of the group, asked the questioner with an arched eyebrow, though not at all scandalized by her friend’s antics.

“Come on, it’s fun. I mean, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” Ruby, complete with her mischievous grin and eyebrows wiggling, prompted her friends.

“Well, if I need to kill one of them, I’ll pick Gold,” Killian said while picking his sandwich with contemplation on his face.

“Are you seriously indulging her in this high school game?” Belle turned to him while giving him an unimpressed look.

Killian only shrugged. “It’s harmless,” he gave her the knowing smirk, “besides, Ruby is right, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“And we do really need another topic besides talking about this case and that operation,” Ruby added finishing her salad. Another point prompting them to play her unpredictable and ridiculous game.

“Instead, now we’ll be talking about our sex life and our mentor?” Belle gave her the stinky eye.

Ruby’s smirk couldn’t get any bigger. “I didn’t specifically say about the sex life of our mentor Bells, I did give you who to marry and kill too.”

Belle’s cheeks brightened at that.

“I don’t think this is appropriate,” Emma chimed in over her chicken sandwich, trying in vain to divert the conversation.

“Nothing will be inappropriate if it never happens. We all know that it will be a mess and disaster to have any kind of relationship with your boss.”

Didn’t Emma know it. She bit a big portion of her sandwich to hide her scowling. Once the board sniffed something between an intern and a surgeon, it would be looked as favoritism which would lead to getting kicked out of the program.

A risk no resident was willing to take when they had to give blood and tears to get into this program.

“As for fuck and marry, I think I prefer to deal with Dr. Bitchiness once than for a life time,” Killian said continuing his selection.

Emma frowned at that.

“Good point, I mean her last piggyback cardio surgery was hot as hell, but I don’t want to deal with the queen all the time.”

Emma double frowned at that.

“Are we rating this by cases now? Because if it is, then I’ll be happy with a lifetime watching Gold’s neurosurgeries.”

“Of course you will.”

“What? His method is beautiful okay? You can’t tell me otherwise.”

“Sure, Bells. So, kill and fuck?” Killian prompted Belle, delighted that she finally relented and played the game, unintentionally it was.

Belle pondered this for a moment. “Doctor Mills was pretty hard on us…”

Killian snickered. “Love, she sent you to the pit alone over stitches tearing when closing up. You wouldn’t forget how it was coincidently on the day of bikes festival right?”

“Not to mention how she made Kilian cart patients around,” Ruby piped in.

“Just admit it, the queen likes to make us suffer.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Emma frowned again, because though what they said was true, Dr. Mills’ though love and snippy directions really were actually quite effective. At least they will be too afraid to repeat the same mistake.

“Well who’s your pick?” Ruby turned to Emma.

Dang! And she thought keeping silent would make them forget that she existed.

“I don’t know,” Emma shrugged lamely.

“Lie. We all know how your eyes stuck on a particular ass Ems,” Ruby smirked knowingly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emma tried her hardest to look confused. And failed.

“Come on Swan, we know how you’re mooning over the Queen,” Killian said provoking Emma more.

“I am not.”

“Actually, you are, Em. You’re kind of obsessed with her,” Belle said matter-of-factly.

Well, nobody said discreet was Emma’s virtue, but this is just down right pathetic.

“Well, her techniques are just amazing okay? Sorry if I want to learn from the best,” she said; her prepared excuse. Though judging by the look her friends gave her it’s not working.

There was a lull in the conversation (which lasted too short to Emma’s liking) before Ruby broke it.

“So, have you ever fantasized about banging her highness?”

For the second time in under an hour, Emma almost choked to death. What a record.

“Rubes?!”

Ruby grinned. “You have.”

A fucking statement. Like she was sure that Emma had definitely done it.

“I bet you imagined doing it in a patient bed, playing doctor,” Ruby said wiggling her eyebrows.

“Nice,” Killian said with a far off look, clearly imagining the scenario.

Okay, that’s it. She drew the line.

“You know what, I’m gonna go and check my patients instead of talking about this,” Emma said getting up with her trash.

Ruby’s laugh drove her to roll her eyes.

*****

Emma was on a break after several hours of doing her rounds. Thank god not the kind of break where she had to interact with her friends because it seemed they turned today to ‘annoy Emma’ day. If the knowing smirk and wiggling eyebrows and not so subtly eye pointing they gave her whenever Dr. Mills passed them were any indication.

With a sigh Emma pushed open the door to an on-call room and walked to the nearest bed.

“Tough day?” a voice said from the bed.

Emma rolled her eyes remembering her lunch break again. “More like let’s make a stupid game and imagine fucking certain people kind of day.”

The occupant of the bed opened her eyes to look at Emma with an amused look.

“Did I somehow end up being a topic of the conversation?”

“Let’s just say only I am allowed to imagine fucking you,” Emma said lying down on the bed with her back to the bed occupant’s front.

Hands wrapped around her waist to pull her closer. Whether it was because of the limited space of their current bed or the need to be closer Emma wouldn’t know.

Not that she’s gonna complain.

“Do I want to know what lead to that statement?”

“No,” Emma said grumbling. She just wanted to punch that captain guy liner when he started to imagine fucking her woman.

Regina only chuckled at her reaction and kissed her ear.

“Well, they can imagine but only you got to touch the real thing dear,” she said burying her face on the golden curls.

“You’re damn right.”

*****

[emospritelet]

Hi, Outisders 28 and 29?,

A fic based entirely on prompts from this post.

28: “I didn’t lose it, I just misplaced it”  Someone else has also prompted 29, so that’ll probably be next chapter :)

AO3 link 

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9][Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] [Part 17] [Part 18]

Belle slept surprisingly well, despite the excitement of having finally been thoroughly kissed to within an inch of her life.  She had lain alone in the darkness, a hand on her belly, remembering how he had felt, how he had tasted.  Her desire had only increased with their encounter, and she had briefly toyed with the idea of joining him in the room next door, crawling into bed with him and kissing him again.  She hadn’t, though.  Quite apart from the fact that she had agreed with him that they wouldn’t be sleeping together until they could get some condoms, she hadn’t heard his footsteps in the room next to hers.

The next morning she woke when it was still dark, and padded through to the lounge area, wrapped in his shirt.  The fire had burned out, but it was still warm in the room, and Gold was sitting at the small table, scrolling through an unfamiliar black phone with a frown lowering his brows.  The rich scent of coffee filled the air, and she slid into the seat opposite him as he looked up with a brief smile.

“Hey,” he said.  “Did you sleep well?”

“I did.”  She put her head to the side, trying to catch his eye as he poured her a cup of coffee.  “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little.”  He pushed the cup towards her, and she took it, hands cupping the mug for warmth.  “I suggest we leave soon.  We should be able to get there today, but I’d prefer to miss the worst of the traffic.”

“Okay.”  She sipped at her coffee, and nodded to the phone.  “That’s not yours.”

“No.”  He set it on the table, face down.  “It belonged to one of our dear departed psychopaths.  I thought I’d see what they’d been up to.”

“Anything useful?”

“A few messages, some instructions, and a great deal of violent and disturbing pornography.”  He squeezed the bridge of his nose, blinking.  “The phone’s of limited value, but it’s always good to know what the other side’s been up to.  Your father demanded that they get in touch and give him an update approximately six hours ago.  He knows they were in Storybrooke.”

Belle felt a sudden thump in her chest, her heart rate quickening in alarm.

“Has he sent anyone else?”

“Not yet.  I suspect he will if he doesn’t hear from them.”  He took a slurp of his own coffee.  “I was thinking of sending a message, to buy us a little time.”

“Wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“Hmm.”  He picked up the phone again and tapped away for a moment.  “Would it be likely they’d get drunk?”

“I don’t know.  They probably wouldn’t admit to it if they did, not unless they’d finished the job.”  Her eyes widened.  “Why don’t you tell him that?  Tell him they’ve finished the job?”

“No good, he wants pictures to prove it.”  He tapped some more.  “I’m only looking to buy time, anyway.  You know there’s going to have to be a confrontation at some point.”

“I guess.”  

She buried her nose in her mug again, and he pressed ‘send’, standing up and draining his cup.

“When you’re ready,” he said.

The sun was rising as they left the cabin, and Belle was quiet as he drove them back into Storybrooke.  He went home first, and she watched as he added a suit bag next to the backpack in the trunk that held her clothes.  There was a leather holdall too, which had not been there when he had first taken her to the cabin, and she peeked inside, drawing back as she saw the dark gleam of weapons.  Gold locked the front door, making his way down the steps and tucking something beneath his jacket.  Another gun, she surmised.

“Do you have a permit to carry?” she asked, and he smiled, gold tooth gleaming.

“Of course.  What do you take me for, some sort of criminal?”

He winked at her, putting on his sunglasses and opening up the car door, and not for the first time she wondered at his past.  Perhaps he would tell her about it.

Gold suggested they eat a good breakfast, and so they parked up outside Granny’s.  He held the door for her as they entered the diner, and received the usual narrow-eyed glare from its owner.  Mrs Lucas smiled at Belle, though, and took their order with a brisk nod.  One of the waitresses brought them coffee with a bright smile; Belle had discovered that the dark-haired, pretty young woman was Mrs Lucas’s granddaughter, and although she always looked askance at Gold, she was nice to Belle.  Perhaps they might have been friends, in another life.  She stared into her coffee, wondering how this would all end.  Whether she would ever see Storybrooke again once they left.  She hoped so.  In the brief time she had spent here, she had felt something resembling peace.

“We’ll get some water and snacks for the road,” said Gold, keeping his voice low and only for her in the cheerful noise of the diner.  “I suggest we get a hotel for the night.”

“Oh?” she said eagerly.  “Where will we stay?”

She leaned on the table, grinning at him, and his lips twitched in amusement.

“I have somewhere in mind,” he said.  “I think you’ll like it.”

“King size bed?” she asked, blushing a little, and the side of his mouth stretched in a slow grin, his eyes gleaming.

“So you don’t want me to book separate rooms, then?”

“I’ve had enough of separate rooms,” she said decidedly.  “Last night was a taste, like - like an hors d’oeuvre.  I want at least another four courses.”

“Perhaps I should have ordered a bigger breakfast,” he said, with a wry expression, and she shrugged.

“When did you lose your sense of adventure, hmm?”

“Oh, I didn’t lose it,” he said, his eyes glinting at her.  “I just misplaced it.  It seemed to reappear when you came hurtling into my life, dragging extreme violence in your wake.”

“Good thing you decided to get coffee that day,” she said primly, and his grin became wolfish.

“Isn’t it?  Look at all the fun I’ve had since.”

She bit her lip, amused.

“Okay, so we get a hotel,” she said.  “One room, one bed, clear?”

“Crystal.”  He picked up his coffee cup, raising an eyebrow.  “What about your friend?  Do we go over in the morning?”

“He lives in the Village,” said Belle.  “And honestly he’s more likely to be awake tonight.  Hackers tend to keep different hours.”

“Is that how you met?”

He took a sip of coffee, fingers tapping against the side of the cup, and she nodded.

“In an online forum.  Dark web stuff, you know?  Managed to sneak in there, which impressed him.  We’ve been friends for a couple of years now.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jefferson,” she said.  “But in the community he goes by…”

“The Mad Hatter,” he finished, and her eyes widened.

“You know him?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes.  “Yes, I’ve used his services on a number of occasions.  Inclined to be excitable, but he’s efficient.  If a little dramatic.”

She giggled.  “Yeah, that’s him.  Great, that makes things easier.  He can be a little paranoid about new people.”

“Hm.”  He took another drink.  “He owes me a favour, as well.”

“Here we are.”  Ruby Lucas set plates of eggs and bacon in front of them.  “Can I get you anything else?”

“Could you make us a couple of sandwiches to go, please?” asked Belle.  “We’re heading out of town for a few days.”

“Road trip, huh?”  Ruby grinned.  “You got it!  Extra pickles, right, Mr Gold?  I won’t even charge you for them.”

“Thank you dear,” said Gold dryly.

The Dark Star Pharmacy was surprisingly busy for so early in the morning, and Belle waited in line behind a woman talking non stop into her phone, and a man complaining about his feet to the harassed-looking pharmacist, Mr Clark.  Gold was waiting by the door, hands folded over his cane, watching the other customers as they came and went.  He had offered to buy the condoms, but she had wanted to do it herself, as if to prove to him that taking this next step for them was something she wanted as much as he.  They needed road trip snacks as well, so she picked up some chocolate, a packet of cookies, and a big bag of chips, and set them on the counter as Mr Clark finished dealing with the woman in front.  Belle turned to grab a large bottle of water, bumping into a dark-haired woman with deep red lips and an expensive pant suit.  From a brief conversation with Gold she was aware that the woman was Ms Mills, the Mayor.

“Sorry,” she said vaguely, and the woman curled her lip, taking a step back as though Belle was contagious.

“Get two bottles, please Belle,” called Gold, so she grabbed another, noticing that Ms Mills was casting a disapproving look at Gold.

“Anything else I can get you?” asked Mr Clark.

“That should do it,” she said.  “Oh, but I need a box of condoms.  Biggest you got.”

Mr Clark, to his credit, didn’t bat an eyelid, but she could see Gold raise his eyes to the ceiling, and Ms Mills fixed him with a disgusted look before she turned back.  Belle grinned at her.

“We’re going on a road-trip,” she said, in a conspiratorial tone.  “I’m hoping to get really lucky.”

She paid for her purchases, hefting the paper bag Mr Clark handed her, and sauntered over to Gold, swinging her hips.

“Enjoy that, did you?” he murmured, and his eyes were twinkling as he opened the door.

“She was looking at me like I’d thrown up on her shoes,” she whispered.

“You do realise that the rumours will be all around Storybrooke by the end of the day?” he said dryly, and she shrugged, ducking out in front of him.

“You told me they thought I was sleeping with you anyway,” she said.  “At least now they can stop wondering.”

The drive to New York took them almost nine hours, with stops for food and coffee and to stretch their legs.  Gold had booked them a hotel for the night, and the journey into the centre of New York was painfully slow in the heavy traffic.  Belle grew restless, twisting around in the Cadillac’s leather seat and peering out of the windows, and eventually Gold pulled up outside a large and elegant building that had deep green carpeting on the steps, and a doorman liveried in green and gold, who opened the car door for Belle.

“Welcome to The Avonlea,” he said.  “May we take your bags?”

Gold had opened up the trunk, and another liveried man had hurried up to reach for the leather holdall.  Gold picked it up instead.

“I’ll take that,” he said, showing his teeth.  “If you could bring the rest, please?”

He gave his keys to the valet, and Belle trotted to his side to make their way up the steps to the reception desk.  The hotel lobby was furnished in polished wood and brass, with comfortable leather chairs and couches to the side and in a small lounge off to the right.  Checking in was a matter of minutes, and then they strolled to the elevator.  Gold had booked a suite, and Belle grinned as she trotted from the lounge to the bedroom to the huge tiled bathroom.  She ran her hands over the crisp white sheets on the bed, wondering how soon they would share it.  The windows looked out over Sixth Avenue, and she peered out along the street, watching people and cars passing far below them.  She looked around as Gold entered and put the suit bag and her backpack on the bed.  The leather holdall with his weapons went on the ottoman at the end.

“Freshen up, if you like,” he said.  “I have a few things to attend to.  Are you hungry?  I could order room service.”

“Maybe later,” she said, and he nodded.  There was a distracted air about him, and she watched as he wandered back into the lounge and closed the door.  She looked at the bathroom.  A shower sounded just the thing.  She wondered if he’d join her.

[abakersquest]

CHAPTER ONE - FRESH FROM THE OVEN

Animana was a small island nation that was now comprised of a single city on a hilltop. Its signature features included: a preponderance of grassy hills, a great forest, a large and imposing stone wall, and an enormous seaside crater where its sister city, Marsu, once stood. When the Grand War, as it came to be called, claimed Marsu and most of its residents, those who were lucky enough to survive fled to the capital. Eventually, the regency commissioned the construction of a second great wall to house the displaced people. In the twenty years hence, this new ward of Animana would gain the colloquial title of 'The Outers', while the world behind the inner wall became known as 'Castle Town'.

Now, despite being surrounded by a great stone wall and four tall towers where the City Guard can see for miles in every direction, The Outers were still considered by those living behind the inner wall to be less reputable and quite unsafe. But, as is the case with almost any place you go, good can be found if you just know how to look. In this particular case, good can be found at 8989 North River’s End Street, both home and workplace to Wally B. Walter.

A wallaby by birth and a baker by trade, Wally was a sturdy and green-eyed fellow who stood roughly 3 feet in height and took to dressing in a manner that would look serviceable yet tidy, while also withstanding the rigors of a kitchen. He had owned “Walter’s Bakery” for almost five years now, and lived in the refurbished storage space above the shop floor.

It must also be said that Wally was one of the most reasonable and mild of individuals you could ever meet. So, it’s no wonder that his initial response to a shimmering broadsword crashing through his roof, destroying his brand new gas stove, complete with Madame Shill’s order for dinner party scones, was simply, “oh.”

Quickly remembering everything he’d learned about operating gas fueled ovens, and partially ignoring the dire reality before him, Wally quickly turned off the gas line feeding into the now ruined metal stove. Then, with next to nothing else to fall back on, he simply stood and stared at the absolutely ridiculous sight before him. His mind bubbling like boiling soup as it struggled for any manner of reasonable explanation.

“Well,” he said aloud to an imagined witness of the scene. “I s’pose it could’ve come off The North Tower, I do live a quick jaunt from there after all… Guess it’s lucky it didn’t crash through the inn next door. Now that’s a thing to wake up to, eh? Big sword through the foot of your bed? Great story to tell at parties, that’s for sure, ‘almost had me toes off, yeah?’” Wally laughed softly before his shoulders began to descend in time with his mood. “So... That’s the cost of floor repair, the roof, new stove, refund for Madame Shill and…” Wally winced in anticipation as he looked around the kitchen slowly, peered up through the large hole above him, and very, very slowly counted to ten. “… Good, it didn’t get worse.”

Straightening his well-used apron and adjusting the collar of his shirt, Wally set to work on cleaning the mess around him. The otherwise tidy and well-appointed kitchen was the right size for him to always move about comfortably, but since he was of such a short stature, ‘comfortable’ for him was ‘shoe cubby’ for most others. In almost no time, he swept the various bits of rubble into an unoccupied corner and set about mopping the black and white tiles back to his preferred mirror sheen, sighing softly at the cracked ones nearest the oven. Wiping down the granite counter tops followed, then the washing of any sullied cookware, and finally adjusting the small photograph of his family on the far wall that had thankfully only been slightly tilted by the day’s sudden impact. Soon, with the area around said event returned to some state of order, Wally could finally address the large imposing error he’d done his best to keep to the corner of his thinking.

The sword was, to Wally’s eyes, odd. Aside of course from it sticking out of the brand new cast iron stove in the middle of his cozy kitchen, the metal was unfamiliar in the way it shone. It wasn’t steel, iron, copper, or anything else that could’ve been associated with various pieces of metal kitchenware and likewise. Its enormous star shaped cross-guard bore a large ruby-like gem in its center, and the whole thing may as well have been one piece of metal somehow forged into looking like separate parts. As he slowed his breathing to better concentrate on how best to free the inevitably weighty thing, Wally’s ears perked up and noticed something they hadn’t before. He moved around the impact site slowly, tilting his head back and forth to make absolutely sure until finally, he was quite certain the sword was humming.

Against all reason and logic, Wally slowly reached out a hand and touched the part of the blade still exposed to open air. While not quite certain of what he’d expected, what he’d felt was well beyond anything he could possibly have considered. It wasn’t cold, nor was it as hot as any metal that fell into a working stove should’ve been. It was warm. As he rested his palm against the blade he mused aloud, “It’s not warm like metal… It’s like… Holding someone’s hand…” He stared at the almost golden hilt of the thing, slowly becoming transfixed on the deep red jewel thereupon. In a sort of deepening daze, Wally’s hand rose toward the broadsword’s grip, the tips of his fingers just grazing it as the sound of a bell in the next room snapped him back into reality.

Wringing his hands in his apron on instinct, Wally made himself look as presentable as possible as he stepped out of the kitchen toward the shop front with a ready excuse loaded like cannon shot.

“Terribly sorry, I’m afraid I’ll have to close early today. There was a bit of an accident in the kitchen. I might not be open again for at least a month.” His face shone with the proper shop owner’s smile and his voice rang with the friendly tone suiting a fellow in the service industry, both of which were delivered expertly. Of course, practicing that sort of thing in the mirror ‘til your face was numb was bound to pay dividends.

“Accident, you say?” replied Wally’s would-be customer. “Oh I don’t believe in those. No sir, not one bit.”

Wally finally set eyes on the small figure just entering his shop. She was a squirrel, barely as tall as him, garbed in purple ceremonial attire with golden charms adorning her head. She bore a pleasant smile, a long staff with a bright blue crystal ball on the end of it, and a broad furry tail trailing behind her.

He was sure in that moment his heart would drop right out of his chest and smash another hole through his already beleaguered floor, as before him stood none other than Cinera the Seer; mystic advisor to Animana’s King and Queen. He stood as if she’d turned him to stone on the spot and gibbered whatever syllables his mind could remember at the time.

Cinera giggled slightly. “Now, now, no need to be nervous. Just another customer, right?”

“H-… Hardly…” Wally barely replied.

“Careful,” she playfully chided. “A girl’s liable to be flattered by that kind of nervous remark.”

Wally swallowed quite audibly; he knew he did because he saw Cinera react to the sound. He tried to nervously laugh it off but found his throat was far too dry and what came out was more of a painful wheeze worthy of an old set of bellows. Closing his eyes to face his inner frustration, he tugged his own ears down in a bid to find some center of balance before finally quietly saying, “I didn’t steal it, I promise.”

Cinera tilted her head coyly. “Steal what exactly?”

Wally pointed at what he was slow to remember was a wall with various cake boxes. “Ah! No! I mean it’s… It landed in my kitchen and I honestly was just done putting in some scones to bake and then BANG right through my roof it was just so sudden I turned to start cleaning up and then there it was plain as day what do you do about that sort of thing really because I’ve never heard of swords just falling out of the sky before I’m sure no one has and-” The next few sounds were best described as explanatory wheezing before Wally forced himself to breathe, look back to Cinera, and see that her serene expression had remained entirely unchanged.

“May I?” She said with a gesture toward the kitchen door.

Wally nodded and held the swinging door open for her.

The large crystal on the end of her staff chimed ever so subtly and began to shine as she entered the kitchen and approached the sword in the oven.

Seemingly in response, the red gem in the Sword’s cross-guard also began to shine.

Cinera spoke softly, barely a whisper to Wally’s ears, but what he heard was no language he’d ever encountered.

“Do you know what this is?” Cinera spoke with a tone of reverence worthy of a temple’s reliquary.

“B-… Besides it being a sword? No ma’am.”

“This, dear fellow, is the Stellar Flare.”

A sharp chill ran up and down Wally’s spine, his ears pointed straight to the heavens and his tail went so rigid it nearly made the sound of a struck wooden plank. His tongue dodged every possible word his brain sent down to it before finally deciding to shout, “IN MY KITCHEN?!”

Cinera looked back to him, restraining a laugh at the sight of the young wallaby desperately clasping his hands over his mouth before more words could explode outward.

Wally, through his embarrassment, managed to look upon the Stellar Flare. The Sun had finally reached the right place in the sky that the true beauty of this legendary artifact could finally be seen. It shone every bit like the stories claimed it did, like bottled starlight.

As history is want to repeat itself to almost comedic effect, once again Wally was shaken from his semi-hypnotic state by another customer. However this time, the caller was at the back door, knocking quite gently. Wally froze on the spot. With the revelation that in his very own kitchen stood one of the most precious and powerful objects in the world, a massive wave of fear overtook him that behind that door could be the most dangerous of individuals.

“Well?” said Cinera, interrupting his paranoia. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

With what he considered appropriate trepidation, Wally moved to the door and just barely opened it to see a small hooded figure waiting on the doorstep.

“Oh! It’s just you Nini.” Wally said, relieved.

“Mister Wally, is everything alright? There’s big guards in front. You’re not in trouble are you?”

Wally smiled warmly and opened the door a little wider. Cinera could finally see the visitor was a young Sauroian girl, maybe no older than six, bundled all in a black hooded cloak that hid most of her features, save the telltale pattern of speckled scales on her cheeks. Wally patted the girl kindly on the head and spoke in a calm tone at last, “No, no. Just a bit of an accident in the kitchen, that’s all. Now…” He turned and reached up to a nearby shelf, taking down a simple brown box, tied with twine. “Here’s your mother’s order, tell her not to worry, I included a little extra, free of charge.”

Even with the darkness of the hood in play, Cinera could see the beaming smile of the little girl as she took the box. “Are you sure Mister Wally? Is that okay?”

Wally gave her a reassuring nod. “Of course it is, now get going so it taste as fresh as it can when you get home.”

“Right!” She turned on her heels and ran down the back alley toward the street, stopping there to wave goodbye to Wally before heading off.

With a happy sigh, Wally closed the door and turned around, coming almost face to face with Cinera.

“Hold this please.” She said as she placed the crystal ball of her staff onto Wally’s head.

“Hold what-” before he could finish, the staff made an audible click and the full weight of its crystal ball was resting between his ears. Quickly he reached up both hands to balance it, only to have Cinera tug them back down.

“No need for those, Sir.”

“But it’ll fall!”

“Will it?”

Wally babbled for a moment before he looked up, noticing that the bright blue ball had become filled with a strange ethereal flame. In time, he also noticed that it weighed almost nothing, and seemed to balance itself on his head no matter how he moved.

“Madam Seer…” He spoke softly. “What does that fire mean, exactly?”

“Simple.” She moved the top of her staff back to the bright blue jewel which snapped back onto its proper place effortlessly. “It means you’re the new owner of the Stellar Flare.”

As was befitting one of the mildest tempered individuals in the city of Animana, Wally could only say, “Oh.”

<[Prologue]–[Index]–[Chapter 02]>

[ifishouldvanish]

What's your favorite headcanon for Rumbelle, if you have one? Do you have other fandoms you take part in/write for? BH!Ruby: How about that Dorothy Gale? Maybe you should see if she's going to be at another Antiques filming near you ;) BH!Belle: If you need another excuse to call Gold, I have, like, tons of antiques you can borrow.

What’s your favorite headcanon for Rumbelle, if you have one?

I think the two headcanons most dear to me are:

Rumple loves to cook, while Belle is a disaster in the kitchen. He loves to bring her breakfast in bed. On date nights, he prefers staying in and preparing her favorite dish to going out. On father’s day, Belle and Gideon will try to make him breakfast in bed, but he wakes up when he smells something burning. Belle will apologize for the mess and start cleaning up, but he’ll insist she sit down and let him make breakfast because she spent enough time cleaning up after him in the dark castle. If she gets the chance, she’ll surprise him by baking something (which she is less horrible at), and when she asks him how it is, his response will always always always be, “it’s the best _______ I’ve ever had”

Gold is the little spoon, but he doesn’t want to admit it. Every night he’ll try to be the big spoon, but he won’t be able to sleep. Eventually Belle will tell him to roll over and just get comfortable. Once she wraps her arms around him, he falls asleep instantly.

Do you have other fandoms you take part in/write for?

OUAT/Rumbelle is the only fandom I’ve written for. I used to do a lot of gifs and graphics for the Teen Wolf and all my various rock band fandoms. But idk, with Rumbelle, I’ve felt more inspired to write than to do graphics. *shrug*

BH!Ruby: How about that Dorothy Gale? Maybe you should see if she’s going to be at another Antiques filming near you ;)

How about that Dorothy Gale– What a total babe! Belle said she’s not touring with the show this year, but that she’s actually one of the local experts for the northeast. But I mean, why wait? I haven’t told Belle yet, but I’m totally asking her out by the time this thing is over. I just need a way in…

BH!Belle: If you need another excuse to call Gold, I have, like, tons of antiques you can borrow. 

Oh, I don’t know… I’m sure someone as brilliant as Dr Gold is busy enough without me bombarding him with more stuff. I know there’s a lot of work involved in appraisals, and I’d hate to expect more of him after he’s already been generous enough with his time to do the roadshow as often as he has…