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[gallawitchxx]

29 for the kisses, please!

- - - - -

send me a number & i'll write you a smoocheroo 😚

- - - - -

#29: ...as a promise

The digital clock on the wall is a goddamn tease.

How is it only three-thirty?

It’s not the worst job in the world, working the reception desk at an auto repair shop. It’s mostly just answering phones and handing out intake forms. Running credit cards upon drop-off and pick-up, and using what little knowledge he has about cars to field basic questions. Ian’s a little surprised that his parole officer had stuck him in a place that was clearly running some kind of illegal chop shop after hours, but whatever.

Southside is as Southside does.

But today has been fucking dragging. A shipping delay had pushed a ton of work back a week or two, so there was only one pick-up on the books, and it had already happened. At nine a.m., right at the beginning of his eight-hour shift. One can only clean a desk so many times before starting to feel a little buzzed off cleaning spray fumes, so for the past couple of hours, Ian’s been supremely bored, his mind bouncing from one topic to another, trying to keep him occupied, but away from the mechanical sounds coming from the belly of the shop.

The ones coming from the only mechanic on duty today—Mickey.

Jesus, Ian’s got it bad for the guy.

Between Mickey’s filthy fucking mouth, greased-up knuckle tattoos, and the way his ass looks in a pair of coveralls, Ian never really stood a chance. But then he had to go and be funny and smart and secretly sweet with the kids who come in with their parents, and in no time at all, Ian was halfway to being fully in love.

The way Mickey looks at him doesn’t help the situation either, nor does the coffee and Kind bar combo he drops at Ian’s desk every shift, which means Mickey heard and remembered an off-the-cuff comment Ian made one morning when discussing break room snacks with the shop owner.

But what’s really making things hard—literally—is what happened the last time he saw Mickey…

A few nights back, a freak downpour had collided with a blocked drainpipe and flooded the shop’s main floor. They’d had to shut the whole place down so that the mechanics could instead work on pumping rainwater back outside where it belonged. When the worst of it was over, Mickey promised to take care of the rest, shooing the other guys out the door and home to their families. Ian, who didn’t have anywhere to be, and was a bit distracted by the way Mickey’s wet tank top was clinging to his cut chest, offered to stay and help finish the job.

Help Mickey out with another job, too...

But that was days ago, and even though Ian’s knees still ache from where he’d knelt on damp concrete, they haven’t talked since. Not even when Mickey had dropped off his breakfast! Ian had been on the phone, the timing of which felt suspect.

By the time four-o-clock crawls around, Ian’s worked up the nerve to go say something. But then the chime on the door alerts him to someone coming in, and before he can even say hello, some asshole is screaming at him about promised timelines and demanding a refund.

Ian puts on his best customer service smile and tries to smooth things out, but it doesn’t work. More yelling ensues.

“Ey, there a problem up here?” Mickey’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Yeah, there is,” spits the douchebag. “My car was supposed to be ready a fucking week ago, and this idiot here can’t seem to make that happen.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Mickey says, taking a step forward. “Imma stop you right there.” He looks at Ian for the first time (since he came down his throat). “Gallagher, can you head to the back and grab me the project file? Should be somewhere on my station.”

Ian blinks. “But the files aren’t—“

“Now, Ian,” Mickey commands, his blue eyes blazing. “Go.”

“Sure thing,” he says, rising from his chair.

The rage-red moron has the nerve to fucking smirk at him, and fuck, Ian doesn’t fight anymore—swore to his court-ordered therapist he was done with that shit—but this asshole just might get him back in the ring. His hands itch as he passes, clenching and un-clenching as his jaw clicks.

Mickey avoids his gaze, which pisses him off even further.

Ian forces himself onto the shop floor, closing the door behind him.

A few minutes later, Mickey joins him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Ian scans him for signs of a struggle, but he looks good. Great, even, his cheeks pinked. “You?”

“Course. Forget that dick. Caved quick and left. It’s a fuckin’ shipping issue, ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

Ian nods, unsure what to do or how to proceed. After a beat, he mutters a weak thanks.

Fuck, it’s awkward.

Then,

“Didn’t know—”

“Listen, man, I—”

They both stop talking, laughing nervously, the tension breaking just enough for some of their natural chemistry to seep back into the situation. Ian’s hands now itch with a wholly new desire to touch and caress instead of maim.

“I coulda handled him, you know,” Ian mutters.

Mickey chuckles. “Don’t doubt that for a second. Thought you were gonna fuckin’ deck that dude.”

“I was—I would have…” Ian shrugs. “But if I went back to prison, we couldn’t finish what we started the other night.”

And well, that gets Mickey’s attention.

“Guess that makes me a hero or somethin’ then, huh?” His voice is like gravel as he steps into Ian’s space.

Ian stares at his mouth. “Or something.”

“Tell ya what…” Mickey stares back. “He comes back, we’ll kick his ass together. Can pin it on me if the pigs show up.”

“Promise?”

Mickey answers with his lips, his teeth, and his sinful fucking tongue.

By the time they leave for the night, their knees have matching bruises.

[thestraggletag]

The Caretaker, Chapter One

AKA: A Rumbelle Sugar Daddy AU... kinda.

Rating: Explicit.

Summary: Belle French had never thought helping came with strings attached, confident that in a community people naturally tended to help each other, until the day she needed help to keep the library open and no one seemed to care. No one but Mr Gold, whose penchant for dealing could always be counted on, even if the price for his generosity was known to be steep.

It felt like it had taken her ages, but she had finally done it. Or almost, in any case. She was one paycheck away from the full amount, and she was getting paid in a couple of days. In the nick of time too, considering the state of the library. It had been months since the heavy spring rains had exposed heavy filtrations in the library’s ceiling, located specially along the still-dilapidated clock tower- she had never quite gotten the council approval to have it back to working order- and her life had spiralled into some sort of ever-growing nightmare.

She had thought at first that it was only a matter of getting Regina to approve the use of emergency funds to patch up the ceiling, but that had quickly turned into some sort of pipe dream. The mayor, clearly, had some sort of strange vendetta against the library and would not budge or release even a bit of funds, not even enough for an estimate on the repair costs. When the first spot of damp had appeared in the corner of the fiction section- meaning the spot had originated inside her closet right above it- Belle had paid for the estimate herself, thinking that a more detailed and concrete plan of action regarding the needs of the library would convince Madam Mayor of the urgency before the spot could get any worse.

She had been convinced, alright, but it had not changed her stance on the subject. She had gone as far as to imply that Belle was responsible for the upkeep of the apartment above the library, and when that had failed she had pivoted to argue that the situation did not qualify for the use of the discretionary emergency budget and the best that could be done is include the repair cost in the discussion of the upcoming budget. But that wasn’t due for months, and as the damp spot grew and began to turn black with mould Belle realised she was not going to make it. The damp would surely ruin books, not to mention her own clothing, which she now kept in a corner of her living-room, as far away from the problem as possible. But above all the damp meant rotting walls and rotting foundations, things that could get a building condemned. And Regina, she knew now, would swoop in at the chance of closing up the library. If the damp forced her to temporarily close up she knew she would never reopen.

She had tried to organise some sort of campaign to force the issue, to trigger an emergency budget meeting, but had found almost no support. No one was interested in signing petitions or, even less, in getting involved in any small way, like calling the town council or even sending a letter, not even when Belle offered to write sample letters they could simply sign.

She was surprised, but tried not to take it personally, that people didn’t think keeping the library open was in their best interest. It was just that no one thought for a moment about all they used it for, its value to both the elementary school and the high school, the computer literacy classes for adults, the many local clubs that used the building as a meeting place, the movie collection people relied on in a town with no video rental and a distaste for paying for streaming services. People just hadn’t considered all they would lose if the damp didn’t get fixed, but it did not deter her. There was time to begin building an awareness of the library’s many valuable resources after the problem was solved.

She then resolved to simply save the money. She earned a very decent salary, and had savings as well, so a few months of scraping by would surely get her where she needed to be. That soon turned out to be more problematic when, two months into her scheme, Ruby came to her in tears, begging for money because Granny and her were short on the rent. Ruby’s car, her baby, had needed a bit of upkeep- and, personally, Belle thought it did not hurt that the new mechanic in town, Dorothy, was exactly Ruby’s type- and she had spent the money, thinking things would be tight but not dire. But then their oven had broken down, meaning Granny had found out she had used their emergency funds on her car and that they would have to use part of the rent money to fix the appliance. It was a series of unfortunate events, and Belle could not in good conscience leave the Lucas women on the lurch. Ruby and Granny had been the first people to make her feel welcome in town, after all.

She had considered getting a part time job after that, something temporary that she could do in her spare time, but there always seemed to be one activity or the other that ate up any free time she had. The local animal shelter was always seeking her out to volunteer- and it was difficult to say no to puppies and kittens-, not to mention meetings to organise school activities that involved the library and town events that needed anyone who could donate their time and attention.

A fundraiser was her next idea, something that would peak the people’s interest. It was hard to get anyone to care, or to truly grasp the urgency of the matter. In the end she had managed to organise a bake sale with Mary Margaret, who taught fourth grade at the local elementary school. Half of the proceeds would go towards a school trip to a nearby farm and the rest would go towards the library. It was not much, but it was something.

That had turned out to be a bust, however. Though originally Mary Margaret had promised a couple of the students’ parents and herself would help her bake, but that got downsized to just Mary Margaret and herself and, a couple of days before the event, Belle turned out to be the only baker still standing, Mary Margaret profusely apologising for forgetting that the weekend they had assigned for the baking her husband had planned a little getaway that could not possibly be rearranged. It meant that, come that weekend, Belle had only herself and a few ingredients guiltily donated by the parents who had stepped down to make everything for the sale. Thankfully Granny let her use the diner’s kitchen, along with their supplies, as a thank you for the money she had lent them. It still meant she had spent over 24 hours baking continuously, but she would not have to dip into her own money to buy supplies at least.

Mary Margaret was back in time for the sale itself, and at first Belle had been glad of it. But then, near the end of the event, Mother Superior had arrived to tearfully commiserate with anyone who would listen to her about an unfortunate- and nebulous- situation that meant the convent did not have enough money for the rent and Mr Gold was surely eager to turn them out the moment the month was up. From what Belle gathered later the “unfortunate situation” was months and months of unpaid rent, which had eventually led the pawnbroker to threaten eviction, as it was his legal right.

Mary Margaret, apparently overcome with generosity upon hearing Mother Superior, announced then and there that the proceeds of the bake sale would go to the convent. The children, she said, would understand, and they would have their field day trip later. She did not mention the library till Belle approached her directly. 

“Oh, you don’t mind Belle, do you? We’ll figure something out for the library later.”

She didn’t, provided further help to the library would come, but it never did, and Mary Margaret soon became perpetually too busy to speak with her. So she gritted her teeth and tightened her belt more, urgency bolstering her resolve as she did away with anything that wasn’t a need, including food outside the essentials and, sadly, heating. Thankfully the chimney on her living-room worked, so she got into the habit of taking walks along the forest when she had some free time to collect fallen branches and the like for use as firewood. Sleeping by the side of the fire was definitely less romantic than she had imagined, but it was doable.

But all that was behind her. After her new paycheck she’d be able to expand her eating habits beyond crackers, tea and stretched-thin soup and turn up her dusty thermostat. Go back to sleeping in her bed, and even treat herself to a bottle of medium-priced Cabernet Sauvignon. The possibilities were endless. And, most importantly, she could finally stop waking up each morning with that pit of anxiety that made it difficult to breathe. She would be able to relax, to move forward.

She was so happy she did not care much when she got a call at 2 AM in the morning. Her father didn’t call often but when he did he always forgot that there was a 14 hour difference between Storybrooke and Melbourne. She had given up on reminding him, especially because it was so unusual that he took the initiative to contact her. It felt nice that he decided to call.

Or it would’ve been, if her dad didn’t sound so angry and panicked, making it almost impossible to follow him. It took a lot of patience and a little shouting to get him to somewhat calm down, at least enough to explain himself. And when he did her stomach sank to the floor, discovering a new level of dread she had not previously known existed. He told her about his flower shop doing poorly for the last couple of years, and how he had been trying to cope but had not been keeping up with his payments well, which meant he had gotten behind on the mortgage and now the bank was threatening to take the house. The house where Belle had grown up, where her mother had spent her last days. The house he had chosen to use as collateral to expand his business later on. A house that he considered precious, but apparently not enough to keep it safe.

“It’s all I have left of your mother, buttercup, I can’t lose it.”

She was all that he had left of her mother, and yet he seldom called, and when he did he did not show any interest in her life. There was always usually a request or other attached to his calls, but never something this big.

“I… I have some savings.”

She tried to will the words back into her mouth, but the palpable relief in her father’s tone kept her from backpedalling. And, after all, the notion of never setting foot in her childhood home did not sit well with her.

“I’ll transfer the money first thing tomorrow. Yes, I promise. No, it’s no trouble. Don’t worry about it papa.”

“I knew I could count on you, buttercup.”

The rest of the week she floated around, as if her consciousness was only loosely attached to her body. She was constantly thinking about the damp spot, picturing it in her mind growing bigger and bigger till it swallowed up the library entirely and she with it. She obsessed over the expanding mould, her eyes starting towards its colonised corner with increasing dread. She reconsidered all of her options, thought about anything she might have missed, but she came up blank.

The one thing she did become painfully aware of, even as the rest of the week passed her in a blur of worry, was how little people seemed to notice about her anxiety. To her it felt like she walked around with all her anxiety written across her face, in the shadows beneath her eyes that no amount of concealer could fully cover, in the sallow look of her skin, a product of little sleep and little food, and in the way she was constantly frowning, distress making her twitchy and tense. But no one mentioned anything. Not Mary Margaret when she came to discuss if the library could coordinate summer reading lists for the kids so as to allocate a portion of the budget for purchases towards extra copies of the books in question, not Ruby when Belle stopped by the diner so the waitress could tell her all about he new crush, even after she was forced to fish around her purse for the money to pay for the tea she’d ordered and kept rejecting invites to go out to the Rabbit Hole, muttering about the expense, nor David when she agreed to fill in for the volunteer who helped put away the sacks of food for the dogs, the effort making her more dizzy than it ever had.

She felt… unseen. Like people stared right past her whenever they didn’t need something out of her, or after they had gotten it. But it was unfair, she told herself. Everyone had their own lives to live, their problems to take care of. It was wrong to be mad that people were not coddling her or rushing to her aid, especially when she was so bad at vocalising her distress. She couldn’t expect people to be mind readers. She was an adult, capable of solving her own problems.

And there was, after all, a universal solution to any problem in Storybrooke. A generic ‘break in case of emergency’ failsafe that she hadn’t allowed herself to even consider for the longest time.

Mr Gold.

Anyone who spent any length of time in Storybrooke knew of Mr Gold, the town’s own boogie man and magician, a man with the ability to do anything… for a price. Belle had been warned about him almost as soon as she had moved into the apartment above the library, first by Ruby and her Granny and later, little by little, by everyone else. People had built Mr Gold in her mind to be a veritable beast, some sort of greedy misanthrope who kicked puppies and stole lollipops from babies. A sombre figure dressed entirely in black, speaking in a soft voice with an uncomprehending accent and striking deals like he was the devil himself.

Their first meeting, in that sense, had been a bit of a letdown. Mr Gold was indeed dressed in black, she supposed, and he had an accent, but the black was paired with elegant pops of colour in the burgundy of his shirt and pocket square and his accent was pleasantly Scottish, a burr that Belle found more than a bit charming. And the man himself, past his prickly exterior, was not what people said either. Cultured and funny, with the sort of sharp sense of humour that some might find off putting or even mocking but that she tended to favour.

And he had always been polite to her. A bit biting in his initial dealings, but gentlemanly nevertheless. One of the few people who consistently visited the library, once a month at least and often twice, either taking out research material for his antiques business or works of fiction for recreational purposes, with an interesting penchant for legal thrillers- perhaps to be expected- and also folklore, a combination that said something about him that Belle was still trying to decipher and reconcile with the rest of him.

When he visited the library he made a point of talking to her. Nothing much, a five or ten minute conversation, related to books, that was sometimes the highlight of her day. He was a delightful conversationalist, allowing her to stretch mental muscles that she seldom exercised anywhere else in town. Still, Belle was aware that in reality she knew little of Mr Gold. Despite having a library card she didn’t even know his name, his file reading simply “AU Gold”, which let her know, if nothing else, that he had either very witty parents or unusually cruel ones. Mr Gold remained mostly a stranger to her, a mystery to uncover, but what little she had glimpsed of the man beyond the mask he wore conflicted with the image the town painted of him.

She hadn’t wanted to go to him for help because, in a way, it would completely change the dynamic of their relationship, as shallow and perfunctory as it was. She did not fear making a deal. Mr Gold never took more than agreed upon, and most of the complaints people had with his agreements seemed to stem from not having read or understood the terms. She wasn’t about to make that mistake. 

There was no other bridge to cross, however, no other stone to turn. Mr Gold was her one and only hope. With that in mind she closed the library the slightest bit early on Wednesday night, freshened up a bit to look less like the mess she felt, grabbed the folder with all the documentation she thought she might need and made her way across the street, where the sign for Mr Gold’s shop was still lit from below.

Mr Gold was alone, as she had expected. No one in town went into the shop for anything other than a deal. Belle did not imagine the business did a lot, or any, selling, but the Scotsman still opened it up at 8AM and stayed even beyond closing time at 6PM, leaving usually an hour or two later. Clearly he did something at the shop, beyond staring at the hoard of things he’d amassed and looking at his property portfolio.

Whatever he did wasn’t evident when she walked in. Mr Gold was near his antique cash register, polishing something with careful movements. It was delightfully toasty inside the shop, something Belle had come to greatly appreciate recently, so he was without his jacket, something she had never seen. Her eyes zeroed in on what looked at first like armbands but she quickly recognised as sleeve garters, something she had never seen someone wear outside a period drama. They were clearly aimed at lifting the cuffs of Mr Gold’s shirt slightly away from his wrists to keep the garment clean as he worked on one antique or the other. 

“Good evening, Miss French. What a lovely surprise.”

It didn’t sound like a surprise at all, and looking at him there was no trace of it on his face. Mr Gold looked like he had been expecting her all along.

“Good evening, Mr Gold.” Her mind blanked as to how to conduct the conversation, whether to make small talk or be straightforward. She didn’t know what he would prefer. “It’s lovely in here. I can’t believe I haven’t been inside before.”

She meant it, of course, and judging by how his eyes softened he believed her too. The inside of the pawnshop was dimly lit, which she didn’t think was good for selling trinkets but added to the ambiance in a positive way. The room felt at first glance cluttered and messy, but looking further revealed a cosiness and a certain order to things. Jewellery together along the curios further from the door, antique toys clustered in a corner, silverware in a far cabinet and the like. The initial chaotic impression seemed almost like an invitation to explore, though Belle could not imagine anyone in Storybrooke doing so. Not when the cave of wonders had a dragon.

“You’re too kind. And what brings you here this evening?”

The opening was kindly given, and Belle was grateful for it. She forced herself to relax and take a deep breath, knowing the words she was going to say next could never be unspoken.

“I’m here to make a deal.”

Trying not to rush or to become emotional the librarian presented the bare bones of the situation: the rains, the leaky roof, the damp. How she had gone to Regina for funding and been rejected, her other attempts at raising money and, finally, her decision to do it on her own.

“I was aware of the basics of the situation, yes. But I thought you would have scraped together all the money you needed by now.” He was nonchalant as he spoke, part of his attention still on the antique he was polishing. Belle thought it looked like a Royal Doulton fox. 

“God knows you’ve been starving yourself long enough to have managed it.”

The comment startled her, and she had to fight the natural impulse to touch her face. She had taken pains to reapply her concealer and add a little bit of blush before she had come, to hide her rather unfortunate complexion. Mr Gold, noticing her bewilderment, ghosted a finger near her cheekbones. She blinked, embarrassed to feel her eyes well up with tears. What a nonsensical reaction.

“Your features have sharpened rather noticeably these past few months. A simple observation.”

An observation no one else had made, but she didn’t tell him that. She had the feeling she didn’t need to. Instead she told him, in the vaguest terms possible, about her father’s late night phone call a few days ago, and his predicament. Surprisingly Mr Gold seemed to react angrily at that, muttering something about parents being the ones to look out for their children and not the other way around. Belle felt the need to defend her father, but could not deny that their dynamic had tended towards her taking care of him rather than the opposite, ever since her mother had died and Moe French had been left adrift. She had done it willingly, gladly, but she did not think that would change Mr Gold’s poor opinion of her father at all.

Finally, haltingly, she told him that she could not come up with any other solution. That she feared that if the problem wasn’t fixed they would close down the library, and make it permanent. That the mayor was rather counting on it, for some reason she could not quite understand.

“You’re right about that. Madame Mayor was never too keen on the library, not since she’s gotten bigger ambitions for the town. I, on the other hand, am partial to keeping it open.” He smiled, a gesture that did not reach his eyes, and she got the idea she was meant to see how shallow it was. “It’s good for property values.”

She supposed she was meant to take offence but all Belle could feel at the moment was validated. She wasn’t imagining things, she wasn’t being paranoid or delusional. Regina Mills was actually out to get her, or at least the library, and she had been right to assume she was running against time to find a way to fix the problem herself before she allowed the mayor the opportunity to strike.

He asked for the budget estimates then, reading over the documentation she had brought with the expert eye of someone used to dealing with property issues, finally commenting that it seemed thorough and fairly-priced. Marco always did an excellent job too, which he could guarantee first-hand. And she was also right that, without the repairs being performed quickly, the building would not pass an inspection, and the cost for the fix would increase the longer it took.

“And how much of the money for the repairs do you actually have?”

She took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth.

“None of it. That’s why I’m here. I want to make a deal for the money.”

Belle watched him as he pulled another trinket to polish from beneath the counter, this time an antique pocket watch. His movements were slow, unhurried, his entire posture oozing nonchalance. While some might have thought it degrading or insulting Belle was rather glad for this, it put her at ease somehow.

“It seems rather silly to become indebted to me to repair a public building that the people of this town don’t seem to appreciate. A building that should be maintained with public funds. A little too self-sacrificial for my taste.”

A moue of disdain crossed his face, and the librarian had the notion she was meant to see it. Mr Gold was a consummate performer when he negotiated a deal, always knowing what part to play to get things to go his way.

“People here depend on the library, they just don’t realise how important it is for the town. It’s my responsibility to keep it open. Besides-” she paused, trying to get a hold of herself, feeling like she was getting too emotional-”I’m doing this for me too. I like the library. And the town. I don’t wish to move.”

As much as she felt a bit let down by her friends and other residents, Belle really did like Storybrooke. She had fought hard the last few years to make it her home. She didn’t wish to leave Ruby, or Granny, or the children from the elementary school who visited often for school projects or for reading time. Or even Leroy, who came to the library sporadically to use the computer and sometimes just for some peace and quiet while he nursed a hangover.

Or even Mr Gold, whose conversations were so fun, though perhaps the deal would change things between them. Looking at him she could almost tell he had softened somehow, though she could not be sure. The man had an amazing poker face, managing to look both completely uninterested in what she was saying but also like he had not missed a word of it.

“Can you help me?”

It wasn’t a matter of whether he could, but whether he wanted to. Still, Belle thought phrasing it in such a way would work against her. For what it felt like forever silence stretched across them, flooding every inch of the room. The librarian forced herself to breathe evenly and wait, let Mr Gold make the first move. And then he did, taking out a notebook and a pencil and detailing sums as he explained to her that the town had discretionary funds for situations like hers, different from the emergency money under Regina’s direct control, and he happened to be one of three town council members in charge of their administration. He could easily get Midas on board to approve the release of the funds for the repairs if he agreed to donate the rest of the money. Midas always liked avoiding bigger expenses in the future and he went with whatever made financial sense. That would leave Albert Spencer, Regina’s lapdog, outvoted. It would all be quick, and work could start therefore as early as next week, if she so wished.

He said all so nonchalant, as if he wasn’t pulling what felt to Belle like a miracle. It was the first time in a long time that she felt the problem could be solved, that there was a solution in reach. The only thing that remained unknown was the price, but she could not imagine anything Mr Gold could ask that she wouldn’t part with gladly.

“What do you want in exchange?” She paused, wondering whether she should offer a few suggestions, let him know what she had that could potentially be worth it. “I-I could pay you back. We could set up a payment plan, with interest rates and-”

“I don’t want your money, Miss French. I have no need for it.”

Dread curled in her stomach, either because she was afraid she had nothing else to offer him or because he was prepared to ask for something else, something that would give her pause.

“So what do you want?”

He paused, leaning slightly over the counter and finally looking at her in the eyes.

“I want your time, Miss French. Any you can spare, whenever you’re not working. For whatever I may need you for. At the shop, during a trip, in my house.”

“Like… like a caretaker? Or a maid? Or a secretary?”

“Something like that. I want your time, for you to be available to me whenever I have need of you, as long as it’s reasonable, of course.”

She knew what Ruby would say. She would paint the situation as sordid, with Mr Gold implying all manner of nefarious deeds that he would have her do. Belle didn’t know whether that would be entirely wrong either. She barely knew Mr Gold, after all, outside their sporadic and brief chats at the library, and his reputation was dark enough to give credence to the less charitable interpretation of his meaning. Still, Belle could not quite convince herself of the worst. And it wasn’t like it mattered. She had no other choice. This was her last chance.

“The library… it would be repaired entirely? No shortcuts or work half-done? Would it be brought entirely up to code?”

“You have my word.”

“Then you have mine.”

[thecityenterprise112]

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What Happened Last Night Pt.3 - Jack Russell x Reader

Summary: Lycanthropy, much like periods, turn out to be a multi-day monthly annoyance.

Warnings: Some injury, being grumpy, retail jobs (the horror!), and only a little bit of Jack. :( Sorry. You both need space after you called him a monster. You did, not me, don’t blame me.

Word Count: ~1.7k

A/N: lol hi. its been months and idk if anyone cares about this anymore other than the sweet souls who pushed me to publish another chapter. I would like to write more. I’m fairly certain this is going to be less than ten parts total, and that seems like something I can finish.

In other news im fucking obsessed with Red Dead Redemption II so lowkey might write something for that once this is over.

Oh also I changed my url from @ / ABitGryffindorky to @galactigoos. I wanted to make my AO3 and tumblr match, make them different than my other socials so fanfic doesn’t come up when a job searches me, and JKRowling is a terf bitch. Oh and I had a stalker so thats really what prompted the change lol.

Cross-posted on AO3, as always.

Part 1, Part 2

Perhaps you hadn’t really thought through this whole running away thing. It only took about two minutes for your broken ankle to really catch up to you. Pain radiated through your ankle, spiking with every step, no matter how light it was.

But you wouldn’t go back. Not to him. So you soldiered on, picking up a large stick to serve as a cane along the way. By sheer luck, you successfully wandered back to your house.

Your poor house. The one-story little shack had its back door ripped off the hinges. A few of your dining chairs had given their lives in service of your moon-induced freakout last night. Your bedroom door had slammed against the wall so forcefully the knob was stuck in the drywall.

Leaving most of the carnage for a better day, you placed the back door into its rightful place so no animals would get in. Well, no other animal besides yourself. The thought brought a humorless laugh forward. The absurdity of the situation, the sheer isolation you now faced, piled onto you, forcing you to the floor in a fit of delirious laughter.

You kept laughing. Past when your lungs tired, past when your laugh became more of a shaking wheeze, past the tears that had accompanied your anguish. You couldn’t stop. You laughed until your tired, broken body could no longer handle the strain, and you succumbed to the gentle relief of unconsciousness.

…

At least this time when you woke up naked in the forest, you weren’t caught in any traps. You were alone and relatively unharmed aside from a long gash ripping up your torso.

You groaned as you hauled yourself to your feet. When you stood, your ankle made its presence known. But it was not the scream for attention you faced yesterday, but more of a soft yell. It felt much, much better, but still carried enough pain to force you to limp.

Was this going to happen every fucking night?

… 

After calling into work and once again resetting your back door (thankfully your only damage this time), you decided you needed a plan. If this was going to keep happening, you could not keep running into the woods stark naked. You were out of sick days at work and were already well past your skill level in home repairs. 

So you spent the day modifying the leaky, cold cellar beneath your house. It couldn’t be called a basement. The cottage you had inherited was old. Like so old, the best way to deal with flooding was to build a cobblestone wall under your house with a space for water to run through. The cellar had now been reinforced with concrete, but the drain structure remained the same. The space was unused by you, given the room was designed to flood. So you didn’t have to clear anything out; what you did have to do was secure it. 

The cellar was entered through a door in your kitchen. Down a short flight of stairs, there was another door, this one metal, to keep out a draft. You dug through junk drawers and your shed to find every lock you could, and set to work securing them all to the door from the stairs. You even hauled your mattress to be propped up against the door for some added weight. After triple checking the locks, you grabbed a bottle of NyQuil and went outside.

There, you were able to remove the mesh that normally protected your cellar from debris, and squeezed yourself through the drain opening. Thank god the old motherfuckers that built this shack left a big enough hole. 

By now, it was the middle of the afternoon. You did everything you could to stay awake, despite the exhaustion of the previous two days threatening to pull you under. You talked to yourself, you sang, you worked out. Anything.

And when it started to get darker, you paced anxiously. You removed your clothes (no point in destroying another outfit) and prayed that the werewolf would not be able to fit through the gap to the outside world. At the last second you could bear to wait, you chugged the NyQuil. Hopefully, a tired werewolf was a less destructive one. And hopefully you didn’t just overdose on NyQuil.

…

You’ve never been so happy to wake up on a cold slab of concrete. Apparently, a tired werewolf was unable to claw through your defenses. There were scratches along the cellar walls and the doorknob had been bitten into a shape resembling a crumbled wad of paper, but you were still in your house. You redressed and crawled out of your night’s sanctuary.

You had sustained a rather ugly cut across your face, going over the bridge of your nose, narrowly missing your eyes. You pictured the wolf trying to rub the sleep from its tired, drugged eyes, which was… slightly endearing? As you were otherwise unharmed, you went about your normal morning routine, with about ten times your regularly required caffeine.

It wasn’t until you were stumbling off your bike in the parking lot of the tavern that you realized your ankle didn’t hurt. You were limping still, but there was no pain. And addressing the rest of your body quickly, you noticed that most of your wounds had healed. The gash on your stomach was still tender, but even your ear had repaired itself, leaving just an angry scar and a knick on the outside edge of your cartilage where you must’ve taken a chunk clean off. All things considered, you weren’t doing too bad.

Your boss ignored your haggard state, not that you had expected him to give a shit. Mr. Glendon was always too caught up in tending to the lush garden beside the pub to notice much about his employees. As long as you did your job well enough that he didn’t have to do his, he was happy.

In a zombified state you went through the motions of customer service, serving coffee, pancakes, and toast with a smile. Internally, you were cursing this stupid fucking establishment for being open from 6AM-2AM and requiring you to drag yourself to a goddamn pub for a breakfast shift. You were so tired you hadn’t read the name on the DoorDash order you packaged. You could not as easily ignore the man who walked in to pick it up.

When the bell above the door rang, you smiled and automatically started a welcoming comment, but froze mid-sentence when your eyes met Jack’s. He froze too, halfway through the door, glancing behind him like he was ready to forget the mediocre waffles sitting behind the counter. 

“Come on,” you grumbled, gesturing him inside.

“Lo siento. I was just grabbing us breakfast before we leave town. You won’t have to see me again. I had no clue you work-”

“Waffles, Jack,” you said, cutting him off and shoving the bag at him.

“Right, waffles,” he replied, grabbing the bag and getting out his wallet, and shoving five dollars into the tip jar before you could stop him. “Okay. I’m sorry. Goodbye, y/n.”

He spun to leave. You wanted to let him. He was dangerous and had likely gotten you into this mess. But at the same time, he was the only one who could help you through it. So you had to stop him. He was almost out the door when you called his name. Well, more accurately you whispered it, as part of you was hoping he wouldn’t hear you and you wouldn’t have to keep him in your life. His werewolf senses threw a wrench in your plan, and he spun on his heel and came back to you. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you. His eyebrows were knit with worry, and he tilted his head slightly like the stupid fucking dog he was.

“How much longer? I can’t keep,” you looked around and lowered your voice, “transforming every night.”

Jack let out a breath he was holding, apparently relieved you weren’t about to continue your name-calling of your previous encounter.

“You’re done for this month, cariño. Three days a month. It’s manageable,” he said with a reassuring smile. He looked tired, even more so than you did. You wondered what he had been doing while you were having a meltdown and playing Doomsday Preppers: Werewolf Edition. 

You nodded, relieved in the knowledge that you would have a reprieve now.

Jack cleared his throat. “I know you do not want me around, but perhaps I could put you in contact with some others like us? It’s tough to figure out all on your own.”

“You want me to tell more people? Absolutely not!”

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, I wanted to offer. Best of luck, y/n. I won’t bother you again. If you need anything,”  he said, ripping the receipt from his bag and snatching a pen from a cup on the hostess station, “Here’s my number.”

You stared at the scrap of paper offered to you, and hesitated before taking it.

“I’m not trying to impose on your life. I just want you to have help if you need it. No strings attached,” Jack said, filling the silence. You took the paper and shoved it into your back pocket. Jack gave you a tight smile and a nod, and left.

You weren’t given much time to ponder the interaction as the demands of your job quickly stole your focus away from Jack.

…

After work, after your commute home, and after your door fell out of its frame when you tried to enter your own home (you had forgotten it was no longer on its hinges), you were staring dumbly at your mattress-less bed frame. It took you a full minute to remember that your mattress was shoved against your basement door. You huffed, making your way to your couch, as there was no way you were going to bother with lugging your mattress up a flight of stairs after an 8 hour shift.

This was unsustainable. Your house was in shambles, your body scarred, and you were alone and ill equipped to handle any of this. You texted Jack before you could think better of it.

.

.

.

*Cue werewolf training montage*

Also cue Jack jumping up in down at excitement at getting a text.

“See, Ted? I knew she would text! I’m glad we stayed an extra night :D”

Feedback, criticism, comments, reblogs, and likes are all always appreciated. Please tell me what you think! I apparently forget about fics unless you guys hound (pun intended) me about them.

Tags: @starfirette, @nicolewithanee, @fangurldayandnight, @zakizigekwe, @for-bebbanburg, @missdragon-1, @howlingco, @arvalee-knight, @emiemiemiii, @spicydonut25, @sparkythefallen1, @girlymusiclover09, @pxl8ed, @littlenosoul, @lemmons1998, @may4ri, @i-am-iron-man-3000, @maxppt

If anyone wants to be added or removed from the taglist lmk!

[brandwhorestarscream]

I want it all because I'm greedy :D let's go in whatever order you prefer? I just love reading this stuff

Let's start with Soundwave and Wavelength, because I have the most concrete idea for them

This Soundwave lost his carrier when he was a young teenager. His sire, Sound System (he's a good guy I promise, but millenia of isolation and depression made him very mentally unstable) had him kidnapped. He was trapped living in Iacon when Wavelength died, and he never learned what happened to him. He didn't even get to properly mourn. It's the thing that cemented his deep-seated grudge against the elite.

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Soundwave's honestly kind of impressed, but hates to see Wavelength like this. His carrier was always very softspoken and treated him with endless love, raising him the best he could despite his disability. They truly loved each other, and now he's got another chance. He sets out to extract him from the ship and put him back together, one nanite at a time. After all, if anyone could do it, it's probably Soundwave, and now Wavelength has no reason to resist. He can "see" Soundwave through the ship's systems, like I mentioned. His systems let him know about the temporal disturbances, how they've jumped dimensions. This is Soundwave, what his sparkling could have become if he'd been allowed to live

It's a painstakingly slow process, and it takes years. As Soundwave works, he talks to his carrier: the war is over, and his vow of silence is null. He's gotten so used to it though, that he still doesn't speak to anyone outside of Wavelength. In his world, when he was young, he used to talk to his carrier all the time, 24/7, to help him echolocate and find his way around, and also just because he really liked talking to him.

The first time Wavelength manages to say something back to him, it's a magical moment. The ship is alive all around them, cables moving about to help where they can, panels opening and closing and screens pulling up dozens of schematics and equations. One of the longer, sturdier cables that's implanted directly into his carrier's neural net snakes across one of the consoles and wraps around his wrist, and his carrier's jaw creaks as he goes, "souNd~WaVE!"

His face is still blank, frozen in that eternal scream of pain, but he says it again. "So-ouNdWAve!"

The cable on his wrist wraps tighter around him and the screens all explode with the same glyphs, listed thousands of times, blinking rapidly

Love you

Love you

Love you

Love you

Love you

Soundwave still wears his visor, so no one can see the tears, but they're there. It's been so many millions of years since he heard Wavelength's voice, since anyone had said those words to him, and he never dreamed of ever having another chance.

He continues his diligent work, and slowly Wavelength comes back. He slowly puts his mind back together, and his broken consciousness is slowly repaired, until he's able to start speaking and having small conversations again, and eventually, one day... he's fully released, and they get to walk out of the ship together 💖

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