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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

Omertà👄17

Warnings: noncon sexual acts and rape.

This is dark!Bucky and dark! Loki and explicit (with sides of dark!Steve and dark!Thor). Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father was a bookie and taught you everything you know about numbers. After his death, you were taken on as a bookkeeper for Loki Laufeyson, resident crime boss in Manhattan. But can you keep your place in the background when a man from Brooklyn threatens to drag you to the forefront?

Note: uh, yeah, here’s an update!

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

masterlist

You were surprised and relieved that both men heeded your warning and left you alone. Even so, you slept with the club-like lamp close at hand and woke early as you went over the ideas brewing in your head. If you saw this casino through, you wouldn’t survive much longer. You doubted you’d even make it to the opening at this point.

You wore a tight black wrap dress that bared your thigh when you sat. You checked your reflection and preened before you grabbed your purse and headed for Loki’s room. You had to make this convincing. You had to work with Loki, not against him. Just for a time.

You knocked and tapped your heel on the hotel carpet. The door opened and Loki greeted you in a half-button shirt, untucked, and uncombed hair. His jaw twitched and he backed up a step as he let out a long breath.

“You’re early,” he nodded you inside. As you entered, he swung the door closed and finished buttoning his shirt. He strode around the room, tidied from the night before though still smelling of wine, and took his tie from the end table. He looped it as you lingered by the door.

“I think we should talk,” you said.

“We should?” he scoffed as he straightened his tie.

“About business,” you offered, “that’s why we’re here and we’ll get nothing done if we keep on like this.”

“All would be in order if you did not insist on being a stubborn bi--”

“Loki,” you curtailed his insult, “I mean it. Send me back to New York, just for a day.”

“I need you here.”

“I’ll stay until the morning but… Bucky told me some things about Diablo.”

“Diablo?” Loki squinted as he took a sleek black comb and looked into the mirror hung from the wall.

“You want me to show my loyalty to you, that’s what I’m doing.” You watched him comb his dark hair. “You own my bounty so what good is it to betray you? I owe you.”

He slapped the comb against his palm and turned to you. He set it aside and winced. He rolled his shoulder where you’d hit him and rubbed it.

“You’ve a far way to go to trust,” he warned.

“Look, you know how men like Bucky are. You think he doesn’t talk after… well, you know? He likes to boast. This whole casino business, that’s proof alone that Diablo is working behind your back. You might not trust me but you should trust him even less.”

“What are you proposing, pet?” he pulled on his jacket and yawned.

“Send me back to New York with Thor. I’ll need protection. You stay here. You can tell Bucky you sent me to keep me away from him or whatever makes your ego feel better.”

“Pet--” he began and you waved away his caution.

“Whatever,” you pressed, “you send me there and I will not return without answers. Diablo thinks he owns the city, that he owns me. He got on over on you with this seaside sty and I don’t think he should get away with that.”

“Why would you do any of this?”

“Because it’s my head as much as yours, because, as much as I hate to admit it, I’d rather be owned by you then Diablo.”

“And how will you get these answers?” Loki came near and looked down his nose at you.

“Hmm,” you smiled coyly, “all you men think my father left me alone with nothing. I know everyone he knew, I’m the sweet little girl who used to carry colouring books around to all the meetings. And as little as I knew her, I learned from my mother. Women have a way of snaking their way through the desert of bad men and we find sisterhood in our tolerance of their bad deeds. Diablo has girls coming and going, he tosses them away and do you think they appreciate him for that?”

Loki considered you and his lips threatened to curve. He ran his fingertips along his lapel and tilted his head.

“You are clever, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I make do,” you shrugged, “you keep me here and Bucky’s gonna keep playing this game. Don’t you think that’s a little too convenient for Diablo? He’s distracting both of you, he’s got you both of New York… why is that?”

Loki poked his tongue through his teeth and tsked. He turned away and swirled his finger through the air as he thought.

“I have been distracted, by you most of all,” he mulled, “I suppose it would be wise to figure out Diablo’s game and to get you away from that pitbull hounding my business.”

You were quiet, you had to let Loki think it was all in his hands. He went to the window and looked out, he let out a low snicker.

“See out the day, darling, and return to me tonight. I should like a proper goodbye before you go,” he checked his watch as he turned on his heel, “I will allow you a day in the city and you will return with the information you’ve promised me. I do not appreciate those who waste my time, you know that.”

“I do,” you confirmed, “and I’m done wasting my own.”

“Well then,” he crossed the room and his hand skirted up your side, “let us go on and face the day.”

You turned and reached for the door handle. He stopped your hand before you could twist it.

“I did not forget last night. It will not happen again or that little asterisk should disappear from my ledger, understood?”

You looked him in the face and held his eye. You nodded, “understood.”

“Very well,” he brushed his hand across your ass and gave a light slap, “go on.”

👄

You arrived at the casino before the other men. Loki saw you to your office and huffed about his brother’s usual lateness. Bucky and his men appeared shortly after and the builders continued their work in a storm of hammers and drills.

You sat with your ledger as Thor winked at you before following his brother from the office. He was anything but subtle but you could use his lechery to your advantage. You bent over the columns but did not see the numbers. Instead, you went over your plot.

Men, you realised a little too late, were easy. You just had to appeal to their most basic instincts. Feed their egos and you could feed yourself. You bit your lip as you shoved down your anxiety. There were many ways this could go wrong.

You were surprised to look up and find Bucky in your doorway. His arms were crossed as he watched you. He bit his thumb as he came closer and dropped his hands to hook his thumbs in his pocket.

“You’re going away tomorrow,” he said as he pulled up a chair and sat. “Your boss is a coward. Sending you away. I know he just can’t stand the idea of you and me, sweetheart.”

You looked at him and nodded. He leaned back and cracked his neck.

“That’s quite a swing you got. Hell of an arm.” He chuckled, “can’t say it didn’t hurt.”

You swallowed and set down your pencil. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Oh, you should’ve hit us harder,” he bent his arm against the chair and rubbed his index with his thumb. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You looked down and batted your lashes. Your thoughts whirred and you fought to still them.

“Ah, sweetheart, this is messy, isn’t it?”

“He’ll never let me go,” you said softly, “he won’t.”

Bucky was quiet. You heard his sole scrape the floor and the chair creaked. “But you want away from him?”

“Of course I do,” you looked up tearily, “but I know how he is. It’s why--” you sniffed, “well, you don’t care about all that. You only want one thing.”

He frowned and lowered his hand as he leaned forward. “Now sweetheart, you know I like you for more than that. I wouldn’t still be chasin’ you around if I didn’t.”

You scoffed and shook your head. “Don’t lie to me.”

He raised a brow and sighed. “I know I haven’t been… gentle but I didn’t lie when I said I’d give you better.”

“You can’t--”

“He’s sending you with his brother, right?”

You furrowed your brow and nodded. “He doesn’t trust me,” you said, “and he’s mad. He wants to punish me.”

Bucky poked his cheek with his tongue and thought. “You really knocked some sense into me, sweetheart, and I hate to see what he made you do last night. I’d never make you walk around like that in front of other men. You’d be mine, only mine.”

“You shouldn’t be saying all this.”

“He shouldn’t be sending you away.”

“Well,” you threw your hands up, “what can I do?”

“You do nothing,” he said, “all you gotta do is what I tell you.”

“I don’t--”

“I’ll take care of Loki and I got men who can deal with his dumb brother,” Bucky intoned, “you just gotta say the word.”

Your heart hammered. This wasn’t what you expected but it could still work. You searched Bucky’s face and leaned forward and lowered your voice. “Why?”

“I didn’t buy a casino to work with Loki, only to get close enough to him,” he growled, “this peace was never gonna last.”

“What--”

“You go with Thor as planned. Act like normal, like nothing’s changed. Get him to that antique shop and my men will take care of the rest. You’ll be safe, you got my word.”

“You want me to go against Loki?”

“I want you to jump ship before it sinks,” he said coolly, “I’d hate to see you drown, sweetheart.”

“Why would I do that? Trade him for you? How is that any different for me?”

Bucky inhaled deeply and smirked, “you haven’t given me a chance, sweetheart, but your other choice isn’t so good. This is still business, if I gotta put you down with him, I will.”

You folded your hands on the desk and scrunched your lips. You fought not to show your own grin that threatened to burst through. These men were so focused on each other and their war, they didn’t realise the big picture could be skewed by the finer details.

👄

Loki was waiting for you. You knocked on his door but it was unlocked. You entered and found him in a black robe with a glass of wine. He didn’t acknowledge you as you turned the lock or even as you neared him. He tossed back the last of the cabernet and set the glass aside.

His green eyes met yours at last and he stretched his arms over the back of the couch. He was slightly drunk, you could tell by the colour in his cheeks. His gaze fell down your figure and he beckoned you forth with two fingers.

“I hate to admit it but I think I will miss you,” he slid one hand along the front of his robe and unknotted the belt. He pulled it open and exposed his erection, “you will depart with my brother in the morning and he will see you to the city.”

You wriggled out of your dress and let it pile at your feet. You unhooked your bra as he began to play with himself and shimmied out of your panties. You stepped in front of him and bent to brace his shoulders as you climbed up to straddle you.

“Do you think I’ll be back or is this goodbye?” you asked.

“What do you mean?” he rasped.

“You don’t think I’ll be caught?”

He narrowed his eyes and touched your hips. He pulled you down until his tip slid along your folds.

“Do you?” he challenged.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you confessed.

“You have my brother, his men and mine,” he pushed you further and slid inside of you with a gasp. “When we are rid of Diablo and his deception, we will deal with Barnes. You will be mine, pet, only mine.”

“Would you want me when he is gone?” you ran your nails down his chest and he shivered.

“You would be thankful to only be my accountant again,” he gripped your hips as he moved your body, “but I don’t think I could let you be just that.”

“You’re drunk, Loki,” you taunted, put off by his unusual candour.

“I’m horny,” he admitted, “and you feel good.”

You purred and kept rocking in his lap. Despite your loathing, your helplessness, you were soothed by his body. For once, it wasn’t rough, it wasn’t angry, it wasn’t punishing. With what could be disaster facing you, you wanted to bask in this last moment of peace. Fuck away the stress and the fear.

“You never fucked me like this, pet,” he reached to cup your tit, “you’re afraid?”

You lowered your head tellingly and sped up. You didn’t want to talk, you just wanted to get off. Even if you despised him, even if it was wrong. He groaned and hung his head back against the couch as he teased your nipples with his thumbs.

“Perhaps it is that I am merely preferable to that animal, Barnes. The lesser of two evils? I do not mind that.”

He clenched his teeth as he watched the way you glided up and down his length. Your thighs burned as you rode him eagerly, wishing he would just shut up. He snarled as you leaned into him and he took your nipple between his lips and nibbled.

You dug your nails into his shoulders and gasped for breath as you neared your climax. You closed your eyes and the hotel room slaked away. You weren’t there, you weren’t with him, you were only reaching for your bliss. You were so close; so close to being free, even if it wasn’t forever.

“Oh, darling,” he grunted and his hips bucked as you reached down to play with your clit.

He came inside of you as your walls clenched him and you guided yourself to your own orgasm with your fingers and the fullness. You stopped and sat back as you wiped away the sweat from your brow. You exhaled and he tilted his hips so that you tensed around him.

“I will have a surprise for you on your return,” he swore as his green irises flamed, “oh, I think you should like it very much.”

You watched him as he closed his eyes and caught his breath. You blinked as your head spun and you caught his implication. Just as Bucky planned to strike his foe, Loki plotted much the same. You hid your delight and latched onto the back of the couch as you began to move again. You should have realised earlier how easy these men were.

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teawizard-n-coffeewitch · 4 years ago

Text

The Staffordshire Spell

1. Spilled Coffee

The actress moves with grace as she proceeds to walk up the stairs and accept her Emmy. The audience clap and cheer as she smiles softly at them. The scene then unfolds to her walking down the red carpet, after the award ceremony and her red dress helping her stand out from all the other celebrities.

"Exquisite footage of Tina Goldstein-- the great movie star of our time -- an ideal -- the perfect star and woman -- her life full of glamour and sophistication and mystery." Newt mutters to himself as stops looking at the shop's teli (television) and continues on his way.

We follow him as he walks down Manor Drive Road, carrying a brown briefcase in one hand. It is spring.

"Of course, I've seen her films and always thought she was, well, fabulous -- but, you know, million miles from the world I live in. Which is here -- Staffordshire -- not a bad place to be..." Newt tells himself, exciting Manor Drive Road and entering Burton Market Hall.

"It's a full fruit market day." Newt thinks to himself, observing the countless of people swarming in both the inside market hall and outdoor market.

"There's the Outdoor Market on Market Place, Burton. Open on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Selling every fruit and vegetable known to man..." Newt points out, as he studies the cabbages when he walks beside the veggie stands.

Existing the market hall Newt notices a man in denims walking out of the tattoo studio. Newt shakes his head solemnly. "The tattoo parlour -- with a guy outside who got drunk and now can't remember why he chose 'I Love Ken'..." The man looks at his arm and has a confused face, and frowns, as if he were experiencing a headache.

Newt continues walking and passes the hair salon. "Ah, the racial hair-dressers where

everyone comes out looking like the Cookie Monster, whether they like it or not..." Newt teases and sure enough, a girl exits the salon with a huge threaded blue bouffant. Newt coughs back a laugh and walks quickly.

Before he knows it, it's Saturday and the Weekend Antique Market is in full swing. Newt smiles softly at the smiles of the tourists and locals, all shopping. "Then suddenly it's the weekend, and from break of day, hundreds of stalls appears out of nowhere, filling Burton upon Trent with a frantic crowd in the market... and thousands of people buy millions of antiques, some genuine..." Newt thinks, walking down the stands, studying the antiques.

His eyes settles on a stall selling beautiful stained glass windows of various sizes, some featuring biblical scenes and saints. "... and some not so genuine." Newt thinks, frowning a bit.

As Newt continues his walk, he passes by a familiar door. He smiles proudly. "And what's great is that lots of friends have ended up in this part of the United Kingdom -- that's Jacob, soldier turned baker from New York, who recently invested all the money he ever earned in a new bakery..."

Newt waves at Jacob as he's proudly setting out a board outside his bakery, the sign stating; Today's Special is Pumpkin Juice and macaroons! Jacob waves back at Newt with a huge smile.

"So this is where I spend my days and years -- in this small village in the middle of the U.K -- in a house with a Robin egg blue color door that I bought after best friend left me for a man who looked like Callum Turner back in London. That man being my older brother..." Newt thought to himself before he arrived outside his blue-doored house just off Peel's Cut.

"... and where I now lead a strange half-life with a lodger called..." Newt shuffles his keys back in his pocket as he yells, entering the house, "Credence!" Newt walks towards the large kettle in the house.

The house has far too many things in it. House plants, some dishes scattered, and a few clothes on the floor. Definitely two-bachelor flat.

Credence appears. An unusual looking fellow. He has his black hair in an unusual haircut, and an unusual Welsh accent: very white, as though his flesh has never seen the sun. He wears only shorts.

Credence smiles at Newt. "Even he. Hey, you couldn't help me with an incredibly important decision, could you?"

Newt smiles crouching down and puts on his gloves before he begins petting his temporary companion platypus, named Niffler. "This is important in comparison to, let's say, whether they should cancel third world debt?" he asks looking at Credence.

Credence nods, snapping his fingers happily. "That's right -- I'm at last going out on a date with the great Nagini and I just want to be sure I've picked the right t-shirt."

Newt closes the kettle and nods at Credence. "Alright then. What are the choices?"

Credence smirks proudly. "Well... wait for it..." He pulls on a t-shirt and shows Newt. "First there's this one..."

The t-shirt is white with a horrible looking plastic alien coming out of it, jaws open, blood everywhere. It says 'Avada Kedavra.'

Newt stays silent. Just eyeing the shirt. He smiled awkwardly as he stutters, "Yes -- might make it hard to strike a really romantic note.

Credence hums as he thinks. Nodding, he replies, "Point taken." He heads back up the stairs... and talks as he changes. "I suspect you'll prefer the next one." Newt smiles, intrigued at the next shirt Credence will show him.

He re-enters in a white t-shirt, with a large arrow, pointing down to his flies, saying, 'Get It Here.' Credence has a huge smile as he says smugly, "Cool, huh?"

Newt laughs softly before answering awkwardly, "Yes -- she might think you don't have true love on your mind."

Credence nods, taking Newt's advice. "You are right. Wouldn't want that..." he says and back up he goes up the stairs. "Okay -- just one more." Newt hears him speak loudly.

He comes down wearing the last shirt. The shirt has lots of hearts, saying, 'You're the most beautiful woman in the world.' Newt smiles approvingly.

"Well, yes, that's perfect. Well done." Newt says, holding a thumps up. Credence laughs happily. "Thanks. Great! Wish me luck!" Credence says.

Newt salutes him with two fingers, "Good luck."

Credence turns and walks upstairs proudly. As he does so, revealing that on the back of the t-shirt, also printed in big letters, is written 'Fancy a fuck?'

Newt chokes back a laugh before turning around, shaking his head. He puts on his long blue coat.

Newt then walks up towards a house plant and picks up his pet Phasmid. A green stick insect, whose name is Pickett. He grabs him on his hand and gets his brown brief case with his other hand. "Come along now." Newt tells Pickett as he opens the door and yells a farewell to Credence.

And so it was just another hopeless Saturday, as Newt sets off through the market to work, little suspecting that this was the day which would change his life forever. As Newt walks down the busy street a woman, with short dark hair and a dark long coat, dashes pass him. She covers half her face with her coat and Newt just gives her an odd look.

Finally he arrives. In front of a small corner bookshop. This is work, by the way, Newt's little Zoology book shop...

A few years ago he was a Zoologist at the London Zoo but now he owns his own Zoology bookstore. The reason being was because after his best friend left him he was devastated. Being in London hurt so much he moved far away and kept close to himself. When the opportunity presented itself, a small bookstore just a few houses down his home was perfect.

Thus why a small unpretentious shop... named 'Magical Creature Books' was in the street. The book shop, well, sells creature books -- and, to be frank with you, doesn't always sell many of those. Newt enters and sets Pickett down on the shop's bonsai tree. He studies his small shop. It is slightly chaotic, bookshelves everywhere, with little secret bits round corners with even more books.

Bunty, Newt's sole employee, is waiting enthusiastically. She is very keen, an uncrushable optimist. Perhaps without cause. She's a pretty small young woman with frizzy blonde locks and a sweet smile. Like Newt, she has a passion for zoology as well.

A few seconds later, after Newt has hung his blue coat, he stands gloomily behind the main desk.

"Classic. Absolutely classic. Profit from major sales push -- minus 347?" Newt mutters, punching in numbers on the calculator. Bunty frowns sadly at her boss's sad state. "Shall I go get a butter-beer? Ease the pain." Bunty suggest with a small smile. Newt smiles back.

"Yes, better get me a half. All I can afford." Newt sadly jokes as Bunty shakes her head with a soft laugh. "I get your logic. Butter-beer coming up." She salutes and bolts out the door. As she does, a woman walks in. Newt only catches a glimpse of her.

He continues working before he looks up casually and finally he sees her. His reaction is hard to read as he awes the woman. It's the same woman who dashed past him earlier. She takes off her shades and places them on her head. After a pause... Newt breaths calmly.

"Can I help you?" Newt asks, a bit nervously.

The woman who just entered is none other than Tina Goldstein, the biggest movie star in the world-- here -- in his shop. The most subtle woman on earth in his opinion. Newt is speechless. This cannot be happening. How? Why? In his shop? When she speaks she is very self-assured and self - contained.

"No, thanks. I'll just look around." Tina replies softly, her eyes with a spark of hesitant. Newt nods, "Alright then." He watches as she wanders around and picks out a small book on the coffee table.

Newt doesn't know how or why he did it but as Tina proceeds to open the book and skim through it, he can't help but blurt out, "That book's really not good-"

Tina stops and raises an eyebrow at him. Newt flushes awkwardly as he stammers, "J-Just in case, you...you know, boring turned to buying. You'd be wasting your money." He curses at himself for acting like such a fool.

"Really?" asks Tina, slightly finding Newt's red face amusing.

"Yes." Newt flushes before embarrassing himself more by adding, "This one though is... very good." He picks up a book on the counter.

"I think the man who wrote it has actually studied Komodo dragons, which helps. There's also a very amusing incident with its hatchlings." Newt stutters out, scratching his back neck nervously.

Tina just stares at him before she replies, "Thanks. I'll think about it." Before he can apologize for acting like a fool Newt suddenly spies something odd on the small TV monitor beside him.

He gives Tina an apologetic look as he mumbles, "If you could just give me a second." Newt then walks out of his main desk. Tina's eyes follow him as he moves toward the back of the shop and approaches a man in slightly ill-fitting clothes. She studies at how he'll approach the situation.

"Excuse me." Newt begins, a bit nervous. The man raises an eyebrow at Newt. "Yes?" he asks, giving Newt an odd look. Newt winces, knowing this won't be easy. "Bad news." Newt begins.

"What?" the man asks in an annoyed tone. "We've got a security camera in this bit of the shop." Newt says. The man tries to keep it cool as he shoots back a, "So?"

Newt crosses his arms, trying to act a bit confident. "So, I saw you put that book down your trousers." The man just stares at him.

"What book?" he challenges. Newt sighs. "The one down your trousers." he adds embarrassed.

"I haven't got a book down my trousers." the man snaps to which Newt's ears turn red. "Right -- well, then we have something of an impasse. I tell you what -- I'll call the police -- and, what can I say? Er -- If I'm wrong about the whole book-down-the-trousers scenario, I sincerely apologize." Newt offers to which the man stays silent for a moment.

"Okay -- what if I did have a book down my trousers?" asks the man to which Newt replies, "Well, ideally, when I went back to the desk, you'd remove the Mythologies of Basilisk Snakes from your trousers, and either wipe it and put it back, or buy it. See you in a sec." Newt says before returning to his desk. In the monitor Newt glimpse, seeing the book coming out of the trousers and put back on the shelves.

The man drifts out towards the door. Tina who has observed all this, is looking at the book on the counter, the one Newt suggested.

"Sorry about that..." Newt apologies to Tina as she walks up to the cash register and places the book she was skimming through.

"No, that's fine. I was going to steal one myself but now I've changed my mind." she lightly teases before seeing how the book she was about to purchase had a signature. "Signed by the author, I see." she points out to which Newt replies with a soft laugh, "Yes, we couldn't stop him. If you can find an unsigned copy, it's worth an absolute fortune. That's Gilderoy Lockhart for you."

Tina gives him a small nervous smile. Suddenly the thief man is there, standing right beside Tina.

"Excuse me." he begins. Tina looks at him. "Yes?" she answers. "Can I have your autograph?" he asks, making Tina look a bit uncomfortable before nodding. He gives her a piece of paper and pen and she gets it.

"What's your name?" Tina asks him boldly. "Tom." the young man replies to which Tina nods. She signs his scruffy piece of paper and gives it to him. He tries to read it before asking, "What does it say?"

"Well, that's the signature -- and above, it says 'Dear Tom -- you belong in Azkaban.' " Tina says without missing a beat.

"Nice one. Would you like my phone number?" Tom asks to which Tina smiles and acts as if she's thinking deeply. "Tempting..." she begins breaking out of her thoughts, "but... no, thank you."

The man, Tom, then leaves, leaving Newt and Tina alone.

"I apologize about that." Newt begins, making Tina shake her head and hold her hand out to stop him from apologizing.

She hands Newt a twenty euros note and the book he said was rubbish. He talks as he handles the transaction. "Oh -- right -- on second thoughts maybe it wasn't that bad. Actually -- it's a sort of masterpiece really. None of those childish mythology stories you get in so many books these days." Newt word vomits out nervously as she looks at him with a slight smile.

He gives her the book she just purchased with a small smile. "Thanks." Tina says and walks out the shop quietly. And leaves. She's out of his life forever.

Newt leans on his desk, a little dazed. Seconds later Bunty comes back in, with two butter-beers at hand.

She gives Newt his. "Thanks. I don't think you'll believe who was just in here." Bunty's face breaks out with a shock expression as she asks, "Who? Was it someone famous?"

But Newt's innate natural English discretion takes over. He knows better than to expose Tina's whereabouts.

"No. No-one -- no-one." Newt replies causing Bunty to frown. They set about drinking their butter-beers.

"It be exciting if someone famous did come into the shop though, wouldn't it? Do you know -- this is pretty incredible actually -- I once saw Grindelwald. Or at least I think it was Grindelwald. It might have been that broke from 'Pirates of The Caribbean,' John."

"Johnny." Newt corrects Bunty as she snaps her fingers. "That's right -- Johnny." Bunty repeats the name with a smile.

"But Johnny Depp doesn't look anything like Grindelwald." says Newt as he finishes his butter-beer.

"No, well... he was quite a long way away." Bunty points out. "So it could have been neither of them?"

"I suppose so." Bunty says slowly. "Right. It's not a classic anecdotes, is it?" asks Newt. "Not classic, no." she says.

Bunty shakes his head. Newt takes her empty butter-beer cup and throws it in the garbage can, along his.

"Right -- want another one?" Newt asks her to which she nods. "Yes. No, wait -- let's go crazy -- I'll have an ice coffee."

Newt groans but obeys her order. And so be it, Newt sets off to the only place in the street that makes coffee; Jacob's bakery.

Entering the bakery Jacob pulls him into a hug and decides to catch up on their morning. Newt desperately desires to tell Jacob about Tina but in the end, decides to not. Jacob gives Newt two ice coffees and teases him about finally acting like an American. Newt rolls his eyes as he collects his coffee.

He swings out of Jacob's bakery, biding him a farewell and as he turns the corner of the road he accidentally bumps straight into someone.

That someone being Tina! The cold coffees, in its paper cups, fly out of Newt's grasps, soaking Tina.

"Oh Mercy Lewis!" Tina gasps as her white button shirt is soaked in black coffee. She tightens her hands on her brown bags.

"Oh I am so so sorry. I really do apologize!" Newt stutters as he tries helping Tina.

"Here, let me help." Newt offers as he grabs the paper napkins that came with the coffees and tries to clean the soaked coffee off -- getting far too near her breasts in the panic of it...

Tina jumps back as she snaps, "What are you doing?!" Newt jumps back, realizing his stupid mistake.

"Nothing, nothing... I swear! Look, uh..I live just over the street. Uh... you could get cleaned up." he offers awkwardly as she glares at him.

"No thank you. I need to get my car back." Tina replies, trying to wipe the coffee out of her shirt.

"I also have a phone." Newt mumbles. "I'm confident that in five minutes we can have you

spick and span and back on the street again... in the non-prostitute sense obviously."

In his diffident way, he is confident, despite her being genuinely annoyed. She sighs before she turns and looks at him.

"Okay. So what does 'just over the street' mean -- give it to me in yards." Tina orders, placing her hand on her forehead, as if she were experiencing a headache.

"Eighteen yards." Newt automatically replies, surprising himself. He points to his house's blue door. "That's my house there. The one with the Robin egg blue color door."

Tina's eyes follow his finger and she sees that he doesn't lie -- it is eighteen yards away. She looks down, debating if she should allow him to escort her or not.

She looks up at Newt and nods softly. He nods and together they walk towards Newt's house.

They pass by many people but no one seems to recognize Tina. She is once again, hiding her face with her black coat and shades.

They both enter Newt's house and stand in the corridor. She carries a few stylish bags. She gives Newt an uncertain look.

"Come on in. I'll just..." he begins and walks in further -- it's a mess. He kicks some old shoes

under the stairs, picks up Pickett's scattered food and hides a plate of Credence's breakfast in a cupboard. Tina enters the kitchen slowly.

"It's not that tidy, I fear." Newt apologizes, as he stands nervously.

Tina doesn't seem to mind and realizing why she's in his house in the first place, he guides her up the stairs, after taking the bag of books from her and settling them down the stairs. On top of a small coffee table.

"The bathroom is right at the top of the stairs and there's a phone on the desk up there." Newt tells Tina as he tries gesturing with his hand where the bathroom is. Tina nods and she heads upstairs.

The second Newt hears the bathroom door close he enters the kitchen and goes mad. He's tidying up frantically; from throwing dishes in the sink, to wiping the long wooden table clean, and sweeping. Then he hears Tina's movement on the stairs. Newt stops and sees as she walks down, wearing a new set of white jeans and a blue silk shirt beneath her black coat. Newt is utterly dazzled by the sight of her.

"Would you like a cup of tea before you go?" Newt asks, trying to cut the awkward silence.

"No thanks." Tina replies.

"Pumpkin Juice?"

"No."

"What about coffee -- oh- er-probably not." Newt says as he moves to his very empty fridge -- and offers its only contents. "Something else cold -- soda, water, some disgusting sugary drink pretending to have something to do with fruits of the forest?" he offers as Tina stares at him.

"Really, no." she insists.

"Would you like something to nibble -- apricots, soaked in honey -- quite why, no one knows -- because it stops them tasting of apricots, and make them taste like honey, and if you wanted honey, you'd just buy honey, instead of apricots, but nevertheless -- um -- they're yours if you want them." Newt stutters holding the glass jar of apricots soaked in honey.

"No." Tina answers, as she observes Newt make a fool out of himself.

There is a moment of silence before Newt, stupidly but boldly asks, "Do you always say 'no' to everything?"

There is a pause. Frankly because Tina did not expect Newt to ask her a question so... striking. She looks at him deep and cocks her head to a side before replying softly, "No."

There is silence again but it's not awkward. It's a moment of peace before Tina breaks it, saying, "I better be going. Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome and, may I also say... heavenly." Newt says as he closes the fridge door, leading Tina back to the corridor, "It has taken a lot to get this out loud. He is not a smooth - talking man." Newt takes a deep breath before says daring, "Take my one chance to say it. After you've read that terrible book, you're certainly not going to be coming back to the shop."

Tina looks at him and smiles. She's cool and well amused at his opinion for that book she bought.

"Thank you."

Newt looks down nervously, "Yes. Well. My pleasure."

He guides her towards the house's blue door. "Nice to meet you. Surreal but nice." Newt reveals causing Tina to silently laugh. In a slightly awkward moment, he shows her out the door. She gives him a nod before stepping out. He closes the door and shakes his head in wonder. Then slaps his forehead as he mutters, " 'Surreal but nice.' What was I thinking?"

He shakes his head again in horror and wanders back along the corridor in silence. There's a knock on the door. He moves back, speaking up, "Coming."

He opens the door and is surprised. It's her.

#newtina #newt scamander #tina goldstein #fantastic beats and where to find them #fbawtft #salamander eyes

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darnittumbleweed · 4 years ago

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HC: you and MGG at a thrift shop together

Being so enthusiastic and excited about it

You both live for this shit.

Matthew describes it as being like a treasure hunt. You never know what wonderful items you can find.

Matthew always knows where the best antique stores and thrift shops are. Seriously he can find them anywhere: Vegas, New York, LA...if you dropped him in the middle of some random town he’d find that thrift store. It’s like his sixth sense. If he had a super power it would be thrift store location sensing abilities.

Your second date was at a thrift store. You still have the tacky clip-on earrings he bought you. They’re toucans!!!

He tries to make you try on the weirdest hats he can find. Raccoon tail caps and big floppy church lady hats. So many couple selfies for Instagram.

Both trying to make a game out of who can find the strangest thing: creepy dolls, random stranger’s family photos (seriously why do people donate that?) Weird ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like mushrooms, a clock shaped like Garfield, medical instruments....seriously who donates this stuff???

He is freakishly good at finding cute dresses for you. Your vintage clothing collection has grown since Matthew and you met.

He always knows how to find you the cutest jewelry too. So many Lucite bracelets and other fifties costume jewelry that you adore and wear often because he picked it for you.

He totally buys his ties there when he wants a new funky tie for a red carpet event. He also buys his dad sweaters there.

Halloween and Christmas are the best time to hit the thrift stores. Crazy homemade halloween costumes they got you. Weird creepy santa dolls say no more fam.

You do both donate to thrift stores whenever possible (because they aren’t just places to find a good deal. They do help those in need)

You could both spend hours there going through the aisles finding new interesting items.

He bought you an ouija board from there and a little teddy bear that you’re both convinced might be haunted.

The thrift shops are your happy places. when you both feel stressed by life you take a trip there and escape for a little bit.

#mgg #headcannons

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boucherouiterug1 · 3 years ago

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Many private consumers and interior designers choose Moroccan area rug because of their modernist designs, which are quite colorful and dynamic, and their powerful sense of geometric structure. Although these rugs have a relatively short history, they are notable for their block-like geometry composition and bolder coloration. There are some interior design elements in this world that make decisions seem carefree and effortless, however. One example is the amazing Moroccan Beni Ourain rug ‍and moroccan pouf. Beni Ourain rugs are sheep wool floor coverings that aren't dyed. They're handcrafted rugs that have been favorites in North Africa for thousands of years now. The benefits of these rugs are hard to quantify. They have tribal origins and because of that look and feel authentic and natural. They're also amazingly comfortable. If you're designing a home and want a rug that epitomizes the beauty of life in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, no option can accommodate you better than a classic Beni Ourain rug. In order for a Berber rug to be authentic, it must have been made by the Beni Ourain tribe in Morocco. These rugs are still available after thousands of years of tradition, and they are still made with the same knot construction that made them so popular in the first place.

I am Noureddine and I love rugs - It is in my genes! I am Moroccan-born but have been sharing time between Brooklyn, New York ( live in New York ), and Morocco since 2000. All my life I have been around Moroccan rugs and learning from my 78-year-old father who is one of the best rug and kilim collectors and a certified expert. We have traveled together all over Morocco - to the mountains, Sahara, and sea, to Berber villages and small homes, and also to many rug auctions.

I learned about carpets from my father at a very early age. He was (and still is) a Berber carpet dealer and has had a successful rug business in Marrakesh for many years. Traveling with him as a child and observing him deal with people and carpets, I learned how to buy and sell rugs, how to clean and mend them. Also, I learned a lot about different Berber tribes and their styles and techniques of carpet weaving, but primarily, my father taught me how to deal with the artists, how to treat them respectfully and honestly in order to win their hearts and trust and establish good trade relationships. Later in my life, I started my own business and traveled abroad as a rug dealer myself. I carried with me all the knowledge that my father had given me. I sold rugs at craft shows and flea markets worldwide, including the US. At present, I continue the business selling high-quality Moroccan rugs via the internet as well.

Besides being modernist, the Moroccan rug are simplistic and relatively cheap compared to other vintage or antique rugs. Since the weavers had to move from one place to another, the vintage rugs from Morocco were designed in smaller sizes to make it easy to mount the loom. The dynamic nature of the Moroccan rugs makes them adaptable to changing interior design trends. They can suit the tastes and preferences of different homeowners and designers in many parts of the world. The wide choices of styles and colors have helped the rugs remain popular for the past century. Consumers will get rugs that suit their areas, whether they come from the hot Sahara Desert or the snowcapped Atlas Mountains. The rugs may be used in almost any room by people from different classes.

Beni Ourain rugs are more than just examples of North African culture and magnificence, however. They're also great assets for people who want practical and convenient home lifestyles. Although their geometric lines and forms are a sight for sore eyes, they bring a lot more than just aesthetic appeal to the table. These Berber rugs can give people the convenience of numerous diverse applications. If you're the type of person who likes regularly switching things up in your home, you'll have a great time with one of these rugs. They make comfortable and attractive floor rugs. That much is clear. They also make great wall hangings and hallway runners. If you're looking for stunning artwork for your residence, it may be a superb idea to use your Beni Ourain rug as an eye-catching wall hanging. People won't be able to turn away from it.

My first priority goal is to bring 100% satisfaction to my customers by providing them with high-quality authentic Moroccan rugs. I must make sure that my products satisfy all quality criteria, such as the absence of defects, smells, and stains; safe and prompt shipping, etc. One of my most important and basic values and principles includes the establishment of an honest and trustworthy relationship between me and my customers on one hand, and with the artists/craftsmen on the other.

Unfortunately, traditional arts and crafts are slowly disappearing worldwide including Morocco due to globalization and other economic and political issues. With this in mind, I would like to invest as much as possible of my resources into extending my warehouses and purchasing rare and antique Berber rug, as I see them becoming a real treasure in the future and my retirement plan at the same time. I would also like to pass my knowledge and experience on to my son.

Your rug angle, N E

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ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

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THE HOUSE, (part 1 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

THE HOUSE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

Written 1990

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

///////////////////////

I am John Peaslee, and I am writing this in the hope that it shall somehow be found and a cycle of greed and evil can be broken. Beware of Flocking Bay Realty Company and the old Wickes place!! But I am ahead of myself. Let me tell what has happened to me and you can judge for yourself.

It began innocently enough. My father died and I inherited a modest fortune. Taking a permanent leave of absence from my dull job, I left New York forever. I went north, up the Atlantic coast. Stopping for a day or a week as the whim took me, I came at last to the small town of Flocking Bay, Maine.

The bay, with its iron gray water and breakers like lead, flanked by headlands topped by hardwoods that became brooding pine forests on the inland ridges, captivated me. I determined to settle in that small New England town. Leaving my rented lodging near the water-front, I went to the Flocking Bay Bank of Maine. There, my funds were transferred and I inquired after a good Realtor.

I was directed to the Flocking Bay Realty Company and spent an unprofitable morning looking at small houses in the middle of town.

“I’ve showed you three good houses for a bachelor or a small family,” the Realtor said. “You don’t like any of ‘em. Tell you what I think. You want somethin’ a bit older, more atmosphere to it. Right, son?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Jason,” I replied, “that’s just what’s wrong with those houses. Good for somebody that just wants a place to live. Not for me. I want a place where I can feel the age of this town in my bones.”

“Hum, none in the current listings, I’m afraid … I can only think of two that might suit …” he muttered softly. More briskly, he stated, “Son, there’s the oldest house in Flocking Bay, the Hilstrom house. It was built in 1658. Actually it was the first house ever built in Flocking Bay. Been continuously occupied by the Hilstroms since it was built. Only hitch is you can’t buy it… yet.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Old Hilstrom was at least 95 when he wandered off six years ago. Hasn’t been seen since. It’s still a year before he gets declared dead so̓’s the place can be sold to settle the estate.

“The other prospect is also an oldie. Built in eighteen an’ fifty two, it’s got gas lights, indoor plumbing, and all the conveniences of when it was built.”

“Gas lights?” I interrupted.

“No kidding, they really let you feel the age of the house. It’s the old Wickes place. It’s not in the regular listings. It’s up to settle an estate. You can get it for a song, if your voice is in the $50,000.00 range.”

“Sounds great if it’s in good shape,” I ventured.

Mr. Jason escorted me to his car. “I’ll let you see for yourself,” was his reply. Only a short drive out of the town proper, an easy walk, waited the Wickes place.

It was all that Mr. Jason had declared it to be. The stone and wrought iron fence was in excellent repair. The yard was immaculate, with roses, pansies, and violets in orderly beds. There was not a crack or weed to be seen in the brick drive that looped through the porte cochere at the front of the house. This last was two sprawling stories of the finest Carpenter Gothic architecture that it had ever been my pleasure to see. The roof was perfect, with not a loose shingle to be seen. Not so much as a cracked window disturbed its perfection.

“How did an estate property come to be so well kept?” I inquired.

“It gets seen to,” was the cryptic reply.

“And the windows?” I pressed.

“What about ‘em?” he parried.

“They’re all there. Aren’t there any rock-throwing children hereabouts?” I wanted to know.

“There’s kids. They mostly stay away, it’s a landmark,” he replied, abruptly changing the topic. “Notice them scale shingles? You don’t find ‘em that good any more. Shall we go in?” The elaborately carved front door opened onto an entry hall with wainscoted walls. The entry gave onto a transverse hall that ran the length of the first floor. To the left of the entry was a formal parlor. Its walls were of flocked paper, disturbed by well-executed but vaguely unsettling paintings that closer inspection revealed to be signed “Wickes.” All the furniture was early Victorian: end tables, settees, and chairs were elaborately carved, the upholstery perfect. The carpet on the floor was a genuine Persian antique.

The room across the entry hall was a sitting room. It, too, was impeccably appointed. The study was done with inlaid desk, escritoire, Mogul carpeting and oak paneling.

And the library! Books rose from knee level to ceiling on all four walls. There were sliding ladders to give access to those above reach.

I will not dwell on the mahogany paneled dining room or the bright copper-filled kitchen, except to say that they looked freshly cleaned. I assumed but did not ask, that some one from the town came in regularly to clean and care for the place. Even the upstairs bedrooms, bath and large ‘workroom’ showed not a spider web or speck of dust.

I had to have the Wickes place. The low price indicated that the estate was eager to sell. Back at Jason’s office, some sharp bargaining began. In the end we settled on a price of only $45,000.00, to be paid in a lump sum at closing. Since my money was already in a local call bank, there was no obstacle. I could scarcely believe this excellent piece of fortune.

In only a few days, my small car was parked in the porte cochere. Each trip in and out of the vestibule to unload my things told me that I was truly home… My clothing, cameras, a bit of camping gear, and a few other odds and ends of personal possessions were all that I had. I passed one of the most restful nights of my life in the massive four-poster in the master bedroom.

It occurred to me that I wanted to find out more about my unusual abode. As the next day was bright and sunny, I set out for a brisk walk into town.

I started at the Flocking Bay Courthouse. There, a clerk was very helpful in searching out tax and transfer records on my property. At first, she seemed a bit startled at which property I was looking up. A few dollars saw to the copying fees for the records that I wanted. She suggested that I might also try the town library.

Fortified with a pleasant lunch from a small café, I walked into the gloom of the library to continue my research. As soon as I identified the object of my quest, Mrs. Alderman, the librarian, pegged me as ‘one of them spook writers.’ Nothing short of force would have changed her mind. It did save me from a lot of rooting about on sagging dusty shelves. She had gathered most, if not all, of the information on that ‘creepy ol’ Wickes place’ into a single bulging file. I saw at once that there were several days worth of studying to do. The library had no copier and Mrs. Alderman refused to allow file materials to leave the library. I did not wholly blame her. The file was the result of much work and most of the things in it could not be replaced. There were letters, newspaper clippings, land records (including my own recent purchase!), an assay, a strange gold coin, court documents, a botanical report, and more. Some of the materials went back to 1851.

Begging some file folders from Mrs. Alderman, I began the task of sorting the file by subject and date. Long before I was done, I had to stop. The library was closing.

I walked home in the deepening twilight. A gentle breeze helped me on my way. The sky became pocked with stars. My mind was in a whirl from briefly seen headlines.

WICKES’ GOLD GOOD AS GOLD … FAMILY VANISHES … BOY GOES MAD …

And more, None seeming to fit any rational pattern. Once home, I spread the papers from the courthouse out on the beautifully inlaid desk in the study. In the soft glow of the gaslight I began to study. Just as a pattern was beginning to emerge, I heard something.

It sounded like a rat or perhaps several of them on the floor above. Seizing the flashlight that I kept in the kitchen, I went to look. As I went up the stairs, I became convinced that the rats were in the attic. It took a few moments to remember where the attic door was.

A comforting circle of light from the flash preceded me up the attic stair. No rats. Also no spider webs or dust.

It ceases to be good housekeeping when an attic has no cobwebs or dust. It is unnatural.

The rats seemed to be beneath me on the second floor. I followed the sound. By the time that I got there, the sounds had gone down to the first floor. Returning to the first floor, I could hear the rats sporting about in a basement that I did not know of.

A quick look around the first floor showed no doors that might lead to a basement. Giving up on the search for the spectral brigade of rats, I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a light dinner. Looking at the dates of sale, I saw the pattern that had eluded me before. Hiram Wickes had built the house in 1852. It was first sold in 1873, next in 1880, then at exact seven-year intervals until 1985. The last date marked my purchase.

I was the seventeenth owner of Wickes’ house. There was only one thing that I could think of that could account for such a regular cycle of sales. The file at the town library would show whether my notion was foolish. But that was for morning. I retired in the master bedroom’s four-poster. I slept fitfully.

In the morning, I walked into town once more. Light puffy clouds were gamboling in the sky like puppies. At a gnarled old oak in the park, I turned left. Dubbing the ancient oak the “Hanging Tree” in my mind, I strode under its branches, straight across the grass to the library.

Mrs. Alderman was pleased with the sorting that I was doing. She set the file before me once more. “You’re the best of them spook writers so far,” she told me. “You’re not just after a haunted house or mysterious disappearances. You’re settin’ the whole story into order. Make a great book, the way you’re goin’ at it.”

“I do hope so, Mrs. Alderman,” I replied.

“I hope that you’ll remember us with a copy of your book,” she fished hopefully.

“If I get published, you certainly will,” I hedged, feeling a bit guilty at the deception, as there was no book in the works. How could I explain what I was doing when I was not sure myself? That morning I finished sorting and started to take notes to try to keep the mass of information straight.

Since Hiram Wickes had built the house, I started with him. Little enough was known for sure. He had been apparently fluent in at least eight languages, and carried on an active correspondence around the globe. He was independently wealthy, although the source of his funds remained a mystery.

He was once jailed briefly, for counterfeiting. He was cleared when it was pointed out that it was perfectly legal to use foreign coin, provided that it was used by weight and not passed as a U.S. coin. An assay proved his coin to be 24 carat gold, exactly 2/5 of an ounce, troy. Hiram always paid for everything with his strange coins, at three to the ounce. He would never accept change. (One of the coins and the assay were in the file.)

In the year 1852, Hiram finished the most modern and up-to-date house in Flocking Bay. Even maids and other servants hired from town could not keep up with the sheer clutter and disorganization he caused. Hiram was not popular with servants. They came and went until 1866. There was no further mention of servants after that date.

Hiram’s disappearance in that year was a nine day’s wonder. His mail had been impounded for possible clues but nothing turned up. No heirs claimed the estate. In 1873 he was declared dead and the house was sold for back taxes.

A quick check of the court records part of the file turned up, not one, but fifty nine(!) court ordered death certificates, and seventeen land sales since 1851. The records revealed a seven year income merry-go-round for whoever would take advantage of it. Flocking Bay Realty Company had handled every sale since 1908. They had always sold the house to folks from out of town …

It was closing time before I had finished putting this picture together. As I crossed the park the wind was buffeting me from the left and clouds roiled overhead. Just at my ‘hanging tree,’ my foot caught on something in the grass. When I had recovered my balance, I saw that I had tripped on a bronze plaque on a low stone.

It said:

“This tree is dedicated to the memory of Hiram Wickes. If ever he returns, may he be hanged therefrom!

Dedicated by Harold Oates.

- 1880 -”

I turned right, up the street, and made for home. I was pursued by clouds like hounds baying wind at my back and slathering rain drops at my heels. I barely beat the storm home. Watching the lightning from the bay window of the dining room, I ate a cold supper in silence. I saw the lights fail in the town and was glad of the gaslights in the house.

Shortly after sunset, I heard the rats again. They were in the basement that did not exist. I resolved to find the basement, if there was one. I figured that it had to have a hidden door or trapdoor. I moved the furniture and carpets of the first floor. Nothing.

Next==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

#THE HOUSE #Part 1 of 3 #Flocking Bay #Written by De Writer

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richardafkari · 3 months ago

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Elevate Your Space with Vintage Charm : Buy Antique Carpets in NYC

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#Buy Antique Carpets in New York #Antique Rugs in New York #Antique Carpets in New York #Shop Antique Area Rugs New York #Buy Antique Persian Rug in New York #Buy Chinese antique furniture in New York #Antique Rugs #Antique Carpets #Antique Rugs NY #Antique Carpets NY #Antique Rugs in NYC #Antique carpets in NYC

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carpetsforsalenearme · 5 years ago

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Discover the Best Gallery Shop in New York

The Indian drug industry has steadily grown ever since the 16th century when Persian rug Weavers came into India bringing along with them their art and craft, and merchandise of Persian rugs into the Indian market. For more information about these carpets, check it out.

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mariequitecontrarie · 6 years ago

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Sleeping Arrangements

Summary: When Belle and baby Gideon come home from the hospital with Rumplestiltskin, he sets Belle and himself up in different bedrooms. Neither wants to sleep apart, but neither wants to say so. A/N: Follow-up to If Tomorrow Never Comes aka what would have happened if Belle and Rumple gave birth to Gideon together and all went home together. Awkward, estranged marriage bed-sharing, guys. Written for the October @a-monthly-rumbelling: “This can’t keep happening,” but I’m late. Thanks to @maplesyrupao3 for looking over this! Rating: T

On AO3

“You have everything you need in here?” Rumplestiltskin asked, pushing past the lump in his throat.

Belle stopped her careful appraisal of the guest bedroom, a generous smile curving her lips as she turned around. He hovered in the doorway, helpless to do anything but lean against the molding and stare. If he dared to let go of the doorframe, he would fall on his face at her feet.

Gods, she was beautiful. He’d admired her as his maid, loved her as his girlfriend, and adored her as his wife. Now that she was the mother of his son, his feelings for her had only deepened. Life seemed more real somehow, and infinitely more precious. It wasn’t just the two of them anymore.

Three-day-old Gideon was tucked into the crook of her left arm, cradled with the tender precision of a brand-new mother: firm because she was afraid of dropping him; ginger because she was afraid of breaking him. Nothing rivaled the nervousness and joy of holding your own child, but as much as he relished caring for Gideon, seeing Belle and their son together was its own miracle.

“Everything I need?” She giggled, then spun around the room slowly once more, careful not to jar their son. “Are you kidding? It’s like staying at a five-star hotel.” She shifted the baby onto her shoulder and peered at the bed fitted with his best silk sheets and the freshly washed and pressed duvet. “Rumple, are those chocolates on the pillow?”

He colored, wondering if he’d gone overboard in his desperation to make her feel welcome, and deflected the question with a sheepish smile. “Hopefully the food here is better than what they served in the maternity ward.”

At lunchtime this afternoon, while he had rocked Gideon as Belle rested, a hospital orderly had delivered a tray bearing a suspicious-looking hunk of meat covered in gray sauce accompanied by limp broccoli. He’d wrinkled his nose at the meal and gone to the nurses’ station, demanding they process Belle’s discharge papers posthaste. There would be no more nondescript, lukewarm blue plate specials on his watch.

“Dinner was fantastic.” She patted her full stomach with a contented sigh. “But you’ve been at the hospital with us day and night. When did you have the time to make seafood stew?”

Thanks to Dove, his personal assistant, the rich, hearty scents of shellfish, vegetables, and saffron had perfumed the house when they’d stumbled into the house carrying Gideon and a case of diapers as wide as the front door. “I had some help,” he admitted. “Dove is actually quite a cook.”

“I never would have guessed,” she murmured, smiling even through her exhaustion.

It was still early evening, but dark shadows stood out beneath her eyes, pronounced against her ivory skin. Between Gideon’s round-the-clock needs, the wails of other babies being born, and the revolving door of hospital staff poking and prodding her at all hours, Belle hadn’t slept much in the hospital.

He gave the room one last critical assessment and nodded in satisfaction. Bottled water and a sparkling, crystal glass sat on the nightstand, all of Belle’s clothes were folded and placed in bureau drawers or hanging in the closet, and in the kitchen, her favorite foods lined the pantry and refrigerator shelves. The overnight bag from the hospital had already been emptied and stashed in the closet.

His chest felt hollow, and he took a slow, deep breath, an attempt to fill that empty, inside-out space. He was grateful beyond words to have Belle home, but seeing her in the guest bedroom--a space she had decorated herself in shades of royal blue and gold during the early, tender days of their marriage--was bittersweet.

On the evening they’d spoken their wedding vows at the well, life had been bright and new, filled with possibility. Yet the shadow of Baelfire’s death and his gruesome months in captivity stood between them like an impenetrable iron wall. He couldn’t stop blaming himself for his endless parade of transgressions, and Belle couldn’t stop ignoring their problems and trying to make the best of things.

Their rushed engagement amid lies about the dagger had been no way to enter a marriage. One hasty reconciliation, whirlwind trip to the Underworld, wild goose chase in New York City, abbreviated pregnancy, and new baby later, they’d agreed to put the past behind them. It was time to make a fresh start for the sake of their son.

At best, he had hoped for a relaxed visitation schedule and the occasional overnight with Gideon. Belle’s desire to make a home here again was a dream come true. But he wasn’t fooling himself. Everything Belle was sacrificing by moving here was for Gideon, not for him.

As with all major decisions he made, he’d given careful consideration to offering her the second-best bedroom in the house. Rather than stammer and stumble his way through excuses and empty the room they had once shared, he’d opted to outfit the largest guest suite with the most luxurious appointments money could buy in the shortest amount of time possible. Dove had arranged for a hand-painted bureau with a secret compartment, an antique Aubusson carpet in plush blues and soft creams, cozy bookshelves, and a king-size bed to be delivered and ready for Belle when she arrived.

He would have gladly turned over the master suite if not for his paranoia. Sleeping arrangements. They had a way of turning the most benign circumstances into an awkward mess, and this situation was highly unusual. The idea of living under the same roof with Belle and not sharing a bed was already driving him mad. He didn’t expect to make love to her, not when he’d just watched her deliver their son, but he ached to hold her close.

He didn’t sleep much. An unfortunate side-effect of being the Dark One was an exhaustive supply of nervous energy. When he and Belle had been together, crawling into bed and resting in her arms had calmed the storm inside him. She’d given his nights a purpose and made him feel almost human.

But no matter how much he missed lying next to her, sharing his bed was the last thing Belle would want.

Growing restless, Gideon squirmed, whinnying like a foal. Gold opened his arms and Belle handed him their son with a grateful sigh. They might not be compatible as husband and wife anymore, but they were fast becoming adept at co-parenting, seeming to know by instinct when the other person needed help or relief.

The accidental bump of her shoulder against his made his insides puddle, and he focused on the tiny vertical lines above their son’s nose. Rumplestiltskin didn’t know if he would ever grow accustomed to Belle’s touch. Since the day their lives collided in her father’s castle, it took nothing more than the brush of fingertips, a tender look, or a hot cup of tea from this woman to render him a fumbling, babbling disaster.

Fears of Morpheus’s prophecy that he would destroy the two people in the world who meant the most festered like an open sore. What if it was all true? What if he did the wrong thing again? What if he’d broken things so badly they could no longer be fixed? His family wasn’t a chipped cup he could piece together with glue and promises.

No, he wouldn’t succumb to his own negative self-talk. Belle had taken the first step in asking to come home with him. It was up to him to take the next. He took another deep breath and plodded ahead.

“Belle, before we settle in for the night, would you like to see the nursery?”

Three weeks later

Her stomach growling with hunger, Belle splashed her face with cool water. While she patted her puffy, red face with a soft towel, she glanced at Gideon, gurgling in his bouncy seat on the bathroom floor.

He was too little to play with the toys dangling above his just head yet, but he could enjoy the soothing sounds and lights of the toy rainforest and the plastic monkey’s goofy smile. All that really mattered now was the seat held his attention long enough for her to wash her face and make herself presentable.

Gideon looked up at her with wide, trusting eyes, the irises already several shades darker than when he’d been born almost one month ago. Mother’s instinct told her their son would inherit the amber-flecked brown eyes of his father, and she was both glad and afraid. Rumple had intelligent, beautiful eyes capable of penetrating the flesh and piercing a person’s soul. When he looked at her, Belle always had the sense there was nothing he couldn’t see. Every part of her being was laid bare for him. A shiver of awareness coursed through her, and she covered her face with the damp towel again before Gideon could sense what a foolish mess his mother was.

Stop being an idiot, Belle, she scolded herself. He’s a baby.

She scooped Gideon up and trudged down the stairs toward the kitchen dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, a smile plastered to her face. The aromas of bacon, toast, and coffee were trailing up the staircase, and a fresh wave of tears stung her eyes. Rumple was so thoughtful. She paused at the bottom of the stairs to wipe her red-rimmed eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Bloody stupid tears!

Last night, she’d cried until she fell asleep for the fifth night in as many days, pressing her face into the pillow to muffle the sobs. She didn’t want to wake Gideon and worry Rumple. If he suspected something was wrong, he would be across the hall in a flash, and he wouldn’t rest until she blubbered out all her worries and went back to sleep. There were plenty of problems to blame the tears on—a reduced milk supply thanks to her accelerated pregnancy, hormone spikes, the exhaustion of waking up every two hours to feed and change an infant.

But none of those things truly bothered her. What kept her awake and crying into the designer sheets were the sleeping arrangements. More than anything, she wanted to share a bed with her husband again. There was such comfort in his presence, strong, warm, and reassuring in the bed beside her. She missed his kisses and the steadiness of his arms around her, his breath on her face, faintly minty from toothpaste and magic, his dark eyes glittering with amusement while they shared stories about their day until Belle was too drowsy to talk anymore. While they were married he never went to sleep before her, always waiting until she had drifted off to take his own rest or to sneak downstairs to work or spin.

What right did she have to complain, though? He’d outfitted the guest suite like she was royalty and waited on her like she had broken both her arms. And Gideon’s nursery! Decorated in grey and gold and with the same crib Snow and David had chosen for Emma back in the Enchanted Forest, it was a room fit for a prince. It pained her to tell Rumple she preferred to keep their son next to the bed in a bassinet until he was old enough to sleep through the night without needing to nurse or take a bottle.

Nonplussed, Rumple had immediately gone online and ordered the most luxurious bedside baby cradle he could find.

His determination to do everything was worrying her. Since she’d come home, he’d spent day and night working himself into a shadow. He prepared hearty, delicious meals and hovered until she cleared her plate, brought Gideon to her when she was able to nurse, and gave him a bottle when she couldn’t. Always willing to rock or walk Gideon, he would leave her to read or nap. She wasn’t angling to be alone, though. She wanted her husband. “The Dark One doesn’t need sleep,” he would say, clicking his tongue whenever she protested or tried to share the workload.

She was feeling pampered, spoiled, and pissed off.

But Rumple was another story. Never had she seen him so content. Even from here in the front hallway, she could hear him in the kitchen, rattling pans and humming an off-key tune while he flipped eggs in a skillet. Every request and every need—whether it came from her or Gideon—brought a delighted smile to his face. Their too-brief time with Neal had shown her Rumple was an excellent father, but caring for a baby was balm for his battered spirit. Maybe it was silly but in a way, Gideon’s arrival made her feel like Neal was with them again.

So what if her heart fluttered whenever her husband entered the room or the sound of him reciting poetry to the baby made her breath quicken? His interest in her didn’t stretch beyond her position as the mother of his child. He wanted Gideon in his life, and she was lucky enough to be along for the ride.

No, she refused to let Rumple see her selfishness. All telling the truth would lead to was heartache. And they had suffered more than enough pain for ten lifetimes.

Her eyes dry and her smile in place, she marched into the kitchen with their son in tow.

One week later

Belle awoke from a sound sleep to the sound of pitiful wails. Groggy, she blinked, trying to figure out who was crying and why. Before she gained enough awareness to turn toward the cradle sitting eighteen inches from the bed, a shape was filling the doorway, backlit by the nightlight in the hallway.

“Belle,” Rumple whispered, his slippered feet shuffling across her bedroom carpet. “Are you alright, sweetheart? What do you need?”

She jolted up in bed and rubbed her eyes, knocking her pillows to the floor. He had to stop waking up during the night and crossing the hall this way. It was madness. “This can’t keep happening,” she blurted, groping for the switch on the bedside lamp.

Between the foot of her bed and the cradle, Rumple froze, suspended in time while Gideon’s cries rose in volume and urgency. A muscle ticked in his jaw and he blanched, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Of course. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” His voice was wooden, remote; like it belonged to a stranger.

“Wait, Rumple-”

Her stomach plummeted into her knees. She hadn’t meant the words they way they sounded, but before she could explain, he was out of her room and halfway across the hall. She scrambled out of bed to chase after him, reaching out to snag the tie on the back of his dressing gown as he crossed into the master suite. She yanked him into the hallway, his back colliding with her chest. He teetered on the balls of his feet and she slipped her arms around his waist and held on.

She was breathing like she’d run a marathon, her heart squeezing inside her chest until she thought it would crumble into dust. Gods, she had tried! She had tried to make it seem like sleeping in the guest room without him while he stayed across the hall didn't bother her and she'd gotten good at pretending she was fine. But she wasn't.

Nothing about this arrangement was even remotely fine.

Last week, she had brushed an imaginary fuzzy out of his cropped hair for the sheer pleasure of feeling its softness between her fingers. Since he’d cut off his shaggy brown locks, she had no more excuses to push wayward strands behind his ears. Yesterday, there had been an eyelash on her cheek, and she’d held her breath in anticipation while he cupped her jaw and swept it away, the spicy scent of the lasagna he baked for dinner still lingering on his fingers.

Inventing excuses to be near him or relying on accidental touches was more than she could bear. She would rather live somewhere else than be under the same roof with him and be treated like his maiden aunt or long-lost sister or even worse, the pathetic charity case he had once loved.

He stiffened in her grasp, and she tightened her arms around his waist, determined to hold onto him no matter what. His torso was leaner than her hands remembered, wiry from worry.

Their son continued to cry, his lungs rivaling the Storybrooke High School’s marching band. Her milk started letting down, wetting the front of her nightgown and probably soaking into the back of Rumple’s nightshirt, but nursing Gideon would have to wait. She needed to clear the air.

Maybe she had turned into a bloated, unreliable milk machine, but she was human and Rumple was a handsome man. She wasn’t the only one who found him attractive, either, she thought miserably. There had been others, most recently the Evil Queen, a woman who differed from her in every way imaginable. That harpy had chased him like a bitch in heat and Zelena couldn’t wait to tell her about it.

But she was here now, and Rumple was still wearing his wedding ring. He was her husband and she was going to fight for him.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she clarified, murmuring against his shoulder. “I meant you getting up during the night and coming across the hall to get Gideon.”

He slipped out of her arms and turned to face her in the dim hallway. The only light came from a small lamp at the end of the corridor, but it was enough to see the wariness in his eyes. “I understood you the first time, Belle.”

“No.” She tilted her head, trying to read his face in the dark. “I don’t think you understand me at all.” She twisted her fingers together. This agonized, consuming jealousy was utterly wretched. “Is it because of her? The Evil Queen. Do-do you miss her?”

“Gods, no!” His face was haggard, regret etched into the lines around his mouth. “I told you in the hospital there was nothing. She was nothing. It was a business arrangement, and I let her believe what she wanted. And after what she did to us...to you…” His voice hardened. “She’s lucky she’s not dead.”

Belle shuddered. She didn’t want anyone to die because of her, but she’d be happy not to see that despicable woman ever again for the rest of her days. And she certainly didn’t want Regina’s evil twin running her blood-red fingernails all over her husband.

“Listen.” She touched her finger to his lips finding them soft and dry. She shivered, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between them and kiss him senseless.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s the sound of nothing.” She cocked her head and savored the blissful silence. “Gideon stopped crying all on his own.”

Rumple shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe with a wry smile and stepped back. “Perhaps he didn’t need me after all.”

Belle recognized that look--he was trying to shut her out. Well, she wasn’t going to allow it this time. She moved closer to him, stepping into his space and smoothing her hands down his shoulders. “Not for the moment, no. But he does need you. And so do I. Not what you can do for me—not how well you cook or entertain Gideon or order Dove to redecorate. Just you. Your presence. The sound of your voice. Your arms around me.”

Admitting she missed him, saying the words out loud, made her feel free. It was okay to admit she needed him. She craved his touches, his kisses, the way he used to look at her like she made a difference in his world. All her life, people had admired her beauty, but Rumple was the only person who ever made her feel beautiful.

“What about you, Rumple?” she asked. “What do you need?”

The next thing he knew, she was leading him by the hand back into her bedroom. Confused, he stumbled along behind her like a drowsy child. “Where are we going? I don’t understand.”

She had the audacity to grin at him, her teeth flashing in the low light. “We’ve established that,” she whispered.

She pulled back the covers on the smooth side of the bed-- his side, he realized. She was still sleeping on the right side of the bed as though they were sharing it. Whenever they’d been apart, it had become his habit to lie down on her half of the bed, imagining he could still detect her scent in the sheets. Sometimes he would even hold a pillow against his chest and pretend it was Belle. It was foolishness, but it helped him make it through the long, lonely hours of the night alone.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, soft but insistent, and she pressed him down on the bed. “Belle, what are you doing?” His voice sounded loud in the still, cool room. From the cradle, Gideon whiffled in his sleep.

“Shhh,” she said, pushing him onto his back and combing his hair off his face with his fingers. Her touch felt amazing and he closed his eyes with a blissful sigh, mesmerized by the warmth of her fingers against his skin. She crawled into bed next to him and pulled the blankets over them both. “Stay here with me? I know you say you don’t need the rest, but you’ve been working so hard doing everything for Gideon and me.”

“Alright,” he conceded, but he lay on his back with his eyes open, as rigid as a statue. She switched off the bedside lamp and he stared into the blackness, trying to catch his breath. The mattress was soft, the sheets warm from her body and luxurious, but he felt as though he was strapped to a gurney.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked. He felt the mattress move as she scooted closer.

Comfortable? He couldn’t even remember the meaning of the word. All he was aware of was Belle. Her scent, her warmth. Gods, he was half-dizzy with her closeness. “Ah, are you?” he countered.

“Yes.”

Something about her tone made him shiver. She slid one of her legs over his, her clammy feet tickling the hair on his calves. He bit back a groan. “Do you need another blanket?” he asked after a moment.

“No, thank you.”

She snuggled even closer until her breasts were pressed against his side. He could feel the dampness of her nightgown where her milk had wet the fabric and a tug of arousal pulled at his groin.

“An extra pillow? I could fetch one from the closet.” He sounded out of breath. Was it getting warmer in here? His heartbeat sped up and his lungs struggled to take in oxygen. “Maybe we should switch on the ceiling fan?”

Her laughter was muffled. “You just offered a blanket. I’m good. Let’s just relax and try to rest. Unless you want the fan on?” She wrapped her arms around one of his with a contented sigh, holding onto his forearm like a child might clutch a doll or a stuffed bear.

“Not if you don’t.” He was at a loss. Surely there was something he could do for her.

They lay in silence for a few minutes and he tried to relax, but each tick of the clock on the nightstand sounded like a hammer and the pillow behind his head felt like a boulder. “I’m supposed to take care of you,” he said desperately. “It’s my job.”

“Rumple, you’ve been wonderful. No one could take better care of Gideon and me than you have. But not everything is about me or our son. I asked you before and you didn’t answer. What do you need?”

The tears came then, hot and urgent. He didn’t know the source of this maelstrom of emotion, only that he was in perfect control one moment and sobbing like a babe the next.

“Rumple. My Rumple.” Belle guided him into her arms, urging him to rest his head against her chest. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders while he cried, great wracking sobs that shook his body and stole his breath.

“I need my wife.” He clutched at her waist, the words stuttering out in a jagged, tear-choked whisper. “I need my wife.”

“You have me, darling, you have me. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.” She cradled him in her arms, stroking his back and rocking him like she did Gideon and he shamelessly allowed it. He wept for the loss of Bae, his fears and failures, his poor treatment of Belle, who was still by his side no matter what he’d done.

All the while he clung to her and cried, she whispered reassurances, anchoring him in the shelter of her embrace. Soaking the top of her nightgown, he gobbled up her crooning words and healing touch until his heart resembled melted wax, his strength drained away with the tears that had left his body. Exhausted, he slumped against her breasts, calming himself with the steady beat of her heart under his ear.

Never in his life had he cried this way, not even after that enormous, green pit in the ground had swallowed Baelfire, taking him to another land, while he had clung to his precious knife and clawed for purchase in the dirt, too terrified of the unknown to follow his boy. Those tears had been building inside him for centuries, into a hard, cold mass of hurt, turning his heart into a wretched, brittle thing. At last, he had allowed himself to be broken.

“Belle.” He reached for her face and when he stroked her cheeks, he found them damp with her own tears. He didn’t know if she was crying with him or because of him, but he pressed his lips against hers in an urgent, seeking kiss, groaning as the salt of their tears mingled with the sweetness of her mouth. He poured all the love he felt for her into his kiss and she opened for him, accepting what he offered and returning it full measure.

“I didn’t bring you here just for Gideon,” he confessed hoarsely when he released her mouth, his breath ragged. “I wanted you here because I love you.”

She pressed her kiss-swollen lips together in a tremulous smile. “I didn’t ask to come here just for Gideon, either. I love you, too. Oh, Rumple, I’ve missed you so much. I’ve hated being us being apart.”

“You have?” His surprise was genuine. “But I’ve been here with you every day. I haven’t used magic, I’ve been spending fewer hours at the shop...”

“And I appreciate all of it.” She lay down again, drawing his head down to her chest once more and began to stroke his hair. “But you’ve been keeping your distance from me. You think what I want is a caretaker, but you’re wrong. I want us to raise Gideon together—as a family. And no more separate bedrooms, okay? I need someone who’s going to appreciate my snoring and you can’t do that from across the hall.”

He snorted. “You do snore. Rather loudly.”

“What did you say?” She swatted him lightly with a pillow.

“I said as you wish.” Grinning, he lifted his head and rubbed his nose against hers, and they both laughed. He couldn’t remember when he had ever felt this light and happy. “Are you going to hog the covers, too, Mrs. Gold?”

“Always.” Her smug tone made him laugh again. “What about you?” She poked him in the ribs, softening the attack with another kiss. “Are you going to lie awake watching me sleep?”

“Every night,” he whispered, settling back against her breasts and wrapping his arms around her waist.

His eyes were already closing as she began to stroke his head again. And with her hands in his hair and the cadence of her heartbeat in his ears, Rumplestiltskin found sleep.

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#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumplestiltskin x belle #gold family #awkward married bedsharing #rumbelle angst #mqc writes #a monthly rumbelling

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