b-does-the-write-thing

[b-does-the-write-thing]

general incivility, chapter three

                              - a brienne x jamie pride & prejudice retelling -

chapter one l chapter two  l chapter three

Brienne woke,  still in the previous evening’s ill humor. She had forgotten to close the shade and thus was rudely awakened despite seemingly only just falling asleep. She lay there for a moment, knowing Septa Roelle would not begrudge her a lie-in after her evening at the assembly.  For a second, she was tempted to do just that. Lie there, stewing in the memories of Tyrion Lannister’s voice, bordering on admiration but landing in disbelief, and green eyes, dabbling in disbelief but ending, as they always did, in revulsion. 

Instead, Brienne rolled out of bed and laced on her boots. She donned an old threadbare gown before she quietly made her way down the stairs. Faint snores emanated from Septa Roelle’s room, even though the kitchen staff were already awake and seeing breakfast. The scully maid was too busy poking worriedly at the unrising loaf of bread in the oven, so Brienne grabbed an apple from the basket before anyone could see and slipped outside. Mr. Tarth may pay their wages, but Septa Roelle ran the staff with an iron grip, if any of them saw Brienne up this early, they’d have fetched the matron at once. 

Despite the lingering humidity, the early spring air was frigid this morning. It felt refreshing and by the time Brienne had made her way to her gate, she was wide awake and eager to start her day. Taking another large, satisfactory bite of her apple, Brienne meandered down the path to the Colonel’s yard. Having foregone a bonnet, she tipped her face to the cloudless sky to enjoy the warmth against her skin.

“Dinna expect to see you, this morn.”

Inhaling deeply, Brienne lowered her gaze to where the Colonel stood at his gate. “Morning,” she greeted before finishing the apple with another large crunch. Juice ran down her fingers, and she was tempted to lick her fingers clean, but she didn’t dare. Colonel Brandon was a lot of things, but he was also still a man. One more interested in other men, whether for the love of boxing or for another kind of pleasure, Brienne couldn’t say. Nor did she care. 

Forging the pleasures of the apple, Brienne lowered her hand to her side, discreetly wiping her fingers against her skirt. It was ruined anyway; being slightly sticky and smelling of apples was hardly the worst thing to befall it. “You’re finally fixing it?” she nodded to the gate, one creaky hinge slightly off-kilter and causing the entire panel to sag into the dirt of the path. 

“Thought I’d have the time.” The Colonel spat into the bushes as he leaned against the fence post he was repairing. “What with you having had the ball or what not.”

“The assembly,” Brienne corrected. 

“Word is the new master of Morne Manor is the runt of the litter. Any truth to that?” Brienne recalled the mismatched eyes crinkled up at her in solidarity, a queer sort of understanding between two outsiders. “He seems like a good man,” was all she said. 

The Colonel snorted. “Your a’ great deal too kind to people in general, lass. You never speak a cruel word of anyone, including those who deserve it.”

Brienne’s grip tightened around the apple core until juice squeezed between her knuckles to drop to the dirt beneath her boots. “Up for a bit of sport this morning?” Brienne proposed. 

“Most ladies would be talking my ear off about the new lord and his company,” the Colonel observed as he swung the gate open to permit her entry. 

Brienne tossed the apple core aside. “And what would I have to say about the new tenants? Lord Tyrion is shorter than most, this is true- but he possesses no shortage of wit. He danced nearly every dance and conversed with all that approached him.”

“Beggars cannae be choosers,” the Colonel grunted as he dropped into a ready position. 

Brienne followed suit. “He was a deal more pleasurable than his brother or their cousin.”

“Heir to the Rock dinnae have to be pleasurable. A dwarf bastard does.”

“He’s not-”

“Fists up!’ The Colonel had taken a swing at her, and she stumbled to the left to avoid the jab. 

“I wasn’t ready!” she protested in disbelief. 

“Stop your chattering then,” he advised, feinting back before issuing a clean uppercut. Brienne blocked it, and he danced away, giving her a precious moment to compose herself. “Always be ready. Distractions are just that, distractions.”

They fell into a familiar pattern. The Colonel was older, slower, but precise. He waited for her to drop her guard before dancing close. Brienne circled slowly, keeping her fists up. She was careful to keep her feet light, knees bent, elbows close as she watched her opponent. 

The next time he came at her, she was ready. She feinted to the left, and when he followed, she sidestepped neatly. He floated past her, already turning on his heel, but she pressed the advantage. She had him against the fence with three quick punches. He raised his elbows, took the hits, and returned them in equal force.

He was a tall man, maybe as tall as Jamie Lannister, but he had been brawnier in his youth, where the young lion was lean. Now, the Colonel’s brawn had withered away to a hollow chest, leathery sinews, and a weathered face. Still, they both had that same easy grace of a soldier in their movements and in the way they looked at her, sizing her up not as a woman but as an opponent.

The Colonel lashed out, and Brienne, caught in her recollection of the handsome stranger, barely raised an elbow to block him. His punch landed on her chin. She staggered backward, and instinct took over. She pitched forward to offset her momentum, throwing out her left hand wildly to prevent the Colonel from pressing his advantage, but he was already lowering his arms.

“Ah,” he groaned, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. “You here or somewhere else this mornin’, lass? I havene got such an easy hit since you were sprouting ringlets.”

Brienne straightened, internally cursing herself for three times a fool. “Here,” she proclaimed before dropping into a fighter’s stance. Boxing was her respite, her haven. Here, everything else faded away to the dance. She was no longer too big, too tall, too strong- here, she was no lady, no one’s daughter,  just a boxer. 

A damn good one too.

Brienne released a flurry of jabs and punches, ducking once, twice, three times before landing an uppercut before spinning away. The Colonel did not follow, taking the time to set back up before she came towards him again. This time, she danced around him in a circle, just out of reach. Her skirt flapped about her ankles, but she paid it no mind. It was nothing to her. Here, she was not the Beauty, the maid of Tarth, or an unfortunate wench. Here, she was Brienne.

As the sparring practice continued back at Morne Manor, the trio of Lannisters were just arriving home. Jamie and Cersei stumbled off to sleep, but Tyrion, still slightly drunk on brandy and good times, made his way to the breakfast room.

The staff had already laid out the morning meal, noticeably less than most mornings but perfectly suited for his needs. There was toast and porridge, a rather large pot of coffee, which he ignored, and boiled eggs. He helped himself to a bit of everything, humming some country tune he had just learned that evening. His legs were cramping terribly, but overall, he was in such a fantastic mood he could barely be bothered to care.  He was free. Free to do whatever he liked, such as throw the plate to the floor, demand more brandy, or fall asleep in his porridge. Here, clear on the other side of Westeros, his father’s shadow was not quite as long. Tyrion had six thousand pounds to his name, an estate of his own, and was quite satisfied with the arrangement as it stood.  

Unbidden, he thought of Tysha and how well she would like it here, but the thought sucked all the joy out of the morning. Tyrion crashed back to earth, all too aware of what he was, what others must have thought of him. He grew somber as he stared out the window across his new garden, where the trees were starting to bud, and dew glistened on every blade of grass. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day, yet his mood darkened. 

Tysha was a sore spot, much like an abscessed tooth. He ought to leave it alone, but he found he could not. How did one forget their first love? Their only love?

A whore, Tyrion corrected with a shake of his head. “I ought to have known,” he said aloud as he looked down at his stubby fingers where they clutched the knife and fork. “Ah, but it was a sweet lie while it lasted.”

Humming the same tune from earlier, he hopped down and made his way towards his bed. He was growing aware of the alcohol leaving his system and the dregs of exhaustion growing too pronounced to ignore much longer. At the top of the stairs, he stopped to look about his manor.

Red and gold hung everywhere, all orchestrated by Jamie in some misguided guise to remind Tyrion he was a Lannister. Poor, dim Jamie had never understood their father did not think of Tyrion as anything more than a cruel jape, a millstone about his neck. 

“Well, father,” Tyrion drawled. “I would have been happy with a cottage in the woods with a whore for the rest of my days, but I suppose I’ll make a go of playing the lord’s son.”

He had not expected Jamie to come with him. He had barely spoken to his brother since Tysha but Jamie had been there at his departure and throughout the journey east. And just as he had always been, Tyrion was somehow comforted by his presence. 

After all, the two had been close as far back as Tyrion’s earliest memories. In spite of all their great oppositions, Tyrion loved his brother even though they could not be more different in temperament or life experience. Tyrion had learned at an early age to charm with wit and quip but Jamie had always been loved for his beauty and brawn and never developed any charm. He was blunt and bold, and people permitted it because he was heir to Westeros's richest estate.

And yet here he was, with Tyrion, attending dances and setting up manors, all things Jamie Lannister hated. 

On the way back from the assembly, Tyrion had pressed Jamie for his thoughts on the Stormland assembly, eager to hear what his brother had to say. “Very pleasant people, these Stormlanders,” Tyrion had declared. Sure, people had whispered and pointed but they had done that in the Westerlands as well.  “And the girls- as pretty as any girl in Lannisport,” he needled, watching Jaime’s face closely. 

Jamie just lifted an eyebrow and went back to watching the horizon roll past as Cersei dozed beside him. He had spent the evening in abject boredom, having found the company dull and vapid. The girls had not been any prettier than any he had seen before, the country fashion far out of style and the dances clumsy at best. The talk had been of weather and crops, same town gossip, and that of the militia coming to town by summer. He had been bored within the first hour of their arrival. 

Though, there had perhaps been one note of interest, that huge hulk of a woman, the one his brother had called the Beauty of Tarth.  He had been taken aback when he had first laid eyes on her. Her strange, homely face had been so open he could read every thought crossing her mind- but then he had seen her arms- capped in ridiculous sleeves and adorned in white gloves- the lace only served to accentuate the tendons in her arms, the curve of the muscle, the only curves she possessed judging by the way her gown fell in a shapeless sack. 

Jamie would have taken odds the horrible excuse for a dress hid a waist as thick as a tree trunk. And by the time he had remembered himself, she had been flushed as red as a Lannister flag, every inch of flushed skin covered in freckled skin that spoke of too many days in the sun. She had somehow managed to disappear into the crowd before he could get another look at her. Surprising considering her broad shoulders and the fact she had towered over even him. 

Brienne the Beauty. Whoever had given her name had been in his cups—there was truly nothing beautiful about that poor creature. Brienne the Brute, Brienne the Bear—he amused himself with the various nicknames, her name rolling around in his mind like wine in a cup—each new alliteration causing him to grin: Brienne the Barbarian, Brienne the Beast, Brienne, Brienne, Brienne.

As he fell into his bed, Jaime stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, whenever he closed his eyes, he could only see a pair of rather remarkable sapphire eyes. 

--

AN: I honestly can only blame @butterednuggets17, who commented and reminded me this existed. After that, it would not leave my head, so I wrote some more of it.

#b does the write thing #braime #jaime x brienne #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfic #apparently #I only write when I'm single so that's a fun self discovery #5 years later

[b-does-the-write-thing]

Holy heck- what a memory Raven.

If I still have any rumbelle followers, do any of you remember the fix where Belle is looking for a specific house and Mr Gold is the real estate person, and there are past lives and a horrible fire and it’s SO GOOD. It scratches an itch that nothing else has but I can’t find it!

[b-does-the-write-thing]

The Hustler (1961), dir. Robert Rossen

#the hustler

[b-does-the-write-thing]

LOST HORIZON 1937, dir Frank Capra

[b-does-the-write-thing]

simone ashley has been cast as kate sheffield sharma!!

ALL HAIL OUR QUEEN KATE!!

#bridgertonedit #katesheffieldedit #katesharmaedit #simoneashleyedit #kate sheffield #simone ashley #bridgerton #kate! #kate sharma

[b-does-the-write-thing]

I’m so pleased you liked it. I was beyond excited to see your name as my giftee and loved the prompt- lends itself to so may things! Thanks for the opportunity to write for you! 🥰

The Unforeseen, Unanticipated and Unexpected: A Tale in Three Parts

Dear @moonlight91  Your prompt was so amazing (I do like a challenge) that I wrote a million different stories before I finally settled on a bit of fairytale hilarity with a little bit of the fake dating trope thrown in just for fun. So, thank you for your patience these last two weeks, and a big thank you to @rumbellesecretsanta for allowing me to help out. 

Merry (belated) Christmas- I do hope you enjoy it!

Read it on AO3

At the seventh stroke of midnight on the seventh day of the seventh month, the Dark One found himself summoned with blood, ash, and bone to a deep, dark grove.

All this pomp and ceremony was unnecessary, but if he didn’t go about setting weirdly-specific conditions, he would be summoned left and right and would never get anything done. As the summoner rose from the make-shift altar, the moonlight bounced silver off the figure revealing the Dark One had been called forth by, by his least favorite thing in this world and the next, a knight.

Said knight was already peering down his nose, clearly unimpressed. Rumpelstiltskin knew the type. He could have shown up as a fire-breathing dragon, and this fool still would have been disappointed. “Do I have the honor- “ the knight’s tone made it clear it was anything but- “of addressing the Dark One?”

Rumpelstiltskin cracked a particular toothy grin. “Present!” he trilled, adding a flick of his wrist for a pop of flair. Knights loved pageantry; it always helped to give them a bit of a show. “And who might you be exactly?”

“I am Sir Gaston LeRoux, the First Sword of Avonlea, and I have need of your aid.”

Keep reading

[b-does-the-write-thing]

The Unforeseen, Unanticipated and Unexpected: A Tale in Three Parts

Dear @moonlight91  Your prompt was so amazing (I do like a challenge) that I wrote a million different stories before I finally settled on a bit of fairytale hilarity with a little bit of the fake dating trope thrown in just for fun. So, thank you for your patience these last two weeks, and a big thank you to @rumbellesecretsanta for allowing me to help out. 

Merry (belated) Christmas- I do hope you enjoy it!

Read it on AO3

At the seventh stroke of midnight on the seventh day of the seventh month, the Dark One found himself summoned with blood, ash, and bone to a deep, dark grove.

All this pomp and ceremony was unnecessary, but if he didn’t go about setting weirdly-specific conditions, he would be summoned left and right and would never get anything done. As the summoner rose from the make-shift altar, the moonlight bounced silver off the figure revealing the Dark One had been called forth by, by his least favorite thing in this world and the next, a knight.

Said knight was already peering down his nose, clearly unimpressed. Rumpelstiltskin knew the type. He could have shown up as a fire-breathing dragon, and this fool still would have been disappointed. “Do I have the honor- “ the knight’s tone made it clear it was anything but- “of addressing the Dark One?”

Rumpelstiltskin cracked a particular toothy grin. “Present!” he trilled, adding a flick of his wrist for a pop of flair. Knights loved pageantry; it always helped to give them a bit of a show. “And who might you be exactly?”

“I am Sir Gaston LeRoux, the First Sword of Avonlea, and I have need of your aid.”

“And what help could a great warrior such as yourself possibly need with little old me? Can’t be ogre problems. I got rid of those things centuries ago.” Rumpelstiltskin tipped his head back and forth in consideration, mulling it over. “Perhaps you are in need of a magic sword, that sort of thing?”

“I have no need for magic weapons,” the knight managed through a clenched jaw.

Rumpelstiltskin picked a moonflower from a low hanging branch. It must have just bloomed, for the scent was ripe and sweet as he plucked first one petal off and then another, and another- “Then, tis a woman.”

He knew he was right. True, this Sir Gaston was more handsome than the usual lovelorn sort and well aware of his good fortune judging by his perfectly styled locks, but men of the sword were often hopeless when it came to affairs of the heart.

The knight bowed his head in acquiescence. “Thou speakest true. I am betrothed to the Lady of Avonlea, but my heart belongs to another.”

Rumpelstiltskin tsked. How boring. He ever only got involved in this sort of nonsense on the off chance he stumbled upon a case of True Love. And there was no chance this vain peacock knew the first thing about love. “Then, why not just break it off?”

The knight cleared his throat. “It is no easy feat. I have tried, but….the reason I have come to you is...in truth, I suspect my betrothed is, herself, a sorceress. She has bewitched all those around her to do her bidding. Her father has stepped aside to let her rule in his stead. Why even I was briefly under her sway. I fear, not for myself, but what she would do to my love if she ever uncovered my heart is no longer a slave to her spell.”

For the first time in the conversation, Rumpelstiltskin’s interest was piqued. A sorceress was rare. Sure, the occasional noble lady did pick up a spell or two here and there, but more typically, they just had a magical heirloom of sorts at their disposal. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a colossal waste of his time after all. “I do like a challenge,” Rumpelstiltskin acknowledged, already mentally listing possible lost artifacts he might acquire. “What’s in it for me?”

The knight grew even more somber, impressing, considering he had yet to show any actual emotion. “I have heard of the monstrous price you require. So be it.” He inhaled deeply, then as if it pained him to even speak the words, he said,” For the Dark One’s assistance, you shall have my firstborn.”

Oh, great. This again.

Rumpelstiltskin had rather thought he had put an end to this rumor sometime last century. Honestly, he had no idea where people kept getting the fantastical notion that he wanted their children. It had just been the one time, and he hadn’t even been serious then. Besides, any halfway decent looking man was sure to have a litter of bastards in every kingdom. “I hardly want your byblows,” he scoffed. “You shall have my help. But first, I require three truths from your lips, and afterward, a favor.”

The knight hesitated. “You...you’re sure you don’t just want my firstborn child?”

Oh, for the love of - It had been a slow decade and growing more monotonous by the minute. There was no excitement anymore. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t even recall the last time he had been called upon to partake in some great struggle between the forces of good and evil. It was just the same thing day in and day out. What he wouldn’t give for a good war right about now...

Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers, and a rather long, intricate scroll appeared, the terms of the deal neatly inscribed upon it. “Three truths and a favor. Do we have a deal?”

These were words that could change a life forever, especially when said by the Dark One himself. Only the truly desperate or truly deluded ever agreed to them, and the man before him did not appear desperate.

As anyone could have predicted, the fool agreed to the terms of his demise without so much as reading the fine print. There, in the heart of some nameless swamp, the knight committed to his ruin. He finished signing his name with a flourish, only for it to shift and change in a shimmer of light and magic.

“Gaston LeGume,” Rumpelstiltskin read aloud. He bared his fangs in a mockery of a smile. “My, my. A baseborn son of a landless farmer has styled himself the First Sword of Avonlea.”

As expected, his companion’s mood darkened in an instant, a hand descending to the hilt of his blade. “I warn you, sir- do not mock me!”

Rumpelstiltskin almost wished the knight would draw his sword. It had been ages since he had turned anyone into a frog. But business was business, and he was confident he could not only profit here but have a little fun with this destined-to-be bullfrog. So, he simply wiggled his fingers, adding in a giggle for good measure.

(That always threw these types off.)

“Touchy, touchy,” he admonished. “What do I care about your birth? You owe me three truths, and the first one has now been collected. Count yourself fortunate. Now, for the second truth, who is this paragon of beauty that has awoken you from the sorceress's spell?”

Gaston hemmed, and he hawed, but the magic got the truth from his lips in the end: Princess Allissa Óir, the only heir to the throne, riches, and lands of the great kingdom of Ormiston. Gaston waxed on a bit about her beauty, grace and the usual nonsense men said about women they barely knew before Rumpelstiltskin cut him off to ask the question that truly mattered. The third and final truth: “And this paradigm of a woman- does she love you as well?”

The knight clutched passionately at his breast again to drive the point home. “Most ardently. Her father has even blessed the union.”

No wonder this fellow had gone to such desperate lengths as to summon the Dark One. With just his good looks and silver tongue, the son of some carrot farmer had transformed himself to the next king of the most powerful kingdom of the age. There was just one thing in his way, his betrothed, the Lady Belle Levasseur of Avonlea.

The Dark One knew Avonlea; it was a minor holding on the edges of Ormiston. Which explained why the false knight could not just disappear into the night and emerge as a king. The two lands were neighbors, and if the Lady Levasseur was indeed capable of magic, the new King and Queen of Orimson would pay dearly for their marriage.

Yes, yes, an almost interesting case. A king in his pocket would do nicely. After all, Rumpelstiltskin had been purposefully vague on what “a favor” entailed. First, he had to deal with the one responsibility that fell to him: removing Lady Levasseur from the equation.

It was best to get it over. So, Rumpelstiltskin made his way straight to the small fort that the inhabitants of Avonlea called a castle. It was an odd, misshapen thing with a sloped roof tower by the gatehouse that looked like someone had been drunk when designing it and even drunker when building it. The rest of the hold appeared stable enough, though there was not one taller than an adolescent ogre amongst the five turreted towers.

There was a light in the gatehouse, but the lone watcher was none the wiser of the wolf lurking in the shadows. To ensure it stayed this way, Rumpelstiltskin swept his hand up and over his head, and oblivion helpfully draped itself about his shoulders, rendering him as visible as a spiderweb in the dark.

Inside was no better in terms of architecture. Every wall, both exterior and interior, was composed of an assortment of gray cobblestones, held overhead by low hanging wooden beams that even someone of his low stature would risk walking straight into. Though he was loath to call this hovel anything more, the inhabitants of the castle had done their best to make the place look respectable. Rich tapestries hung in strategic spots, and the candelabras upon the wall were pure gold, equipped with beeswax candles that had been neatly wicked.

In a residence of this size, it was easy enough to spot the Lord’s Tower. It stood in the center of the courtyard; a royal insignia stamped helpfully upon the wooden doors. A simple snap of his fingers and the doors were gone.

It was easy enough to make doors disappear, but he had not quite determined how to handle the disappearance of the lady herself. For to ensure his end of the bargain was met, she would have to be removed. Perhaps he could turn her into a swan; that had been rather popular last century. Or a sleeping curse was always an option. The lady could stay young forever, and perhaps after a hundred years or so, some prince would wake her with true love’s kiss. Oh, there were endless options. All of them were as easy as the right words and a snap of his fingers-

He just had to find the lady first.

Because despite the hour, she was not in her chambers.

Her bed had been slept in or at least laid upon. The windows had been drawn and shuttered, and the fire had dimmed to embers. He stood in the doorway for a moment, considering the scene, when he noticed a small drop of wax right inside the door. He shifted and then spotted another drop, a larger one out in the hallway. Both were hardened but not scuffed. Not fresh, but made this night.

To his left, there was a staircase descending back down from which he had come. To his right, a long hallway. Had the lady gone to visit a lover? How droll. Perhaps he could simply expose them, allowing Gaston to annul the betrothal and marry his princess without penalty. It was hardly titillating, but Rumpelstiltskin had long ago learned to keep his options open…

The hallway dead-ended into another door, no doubt the Lord’s Chambers, judging by the heavy snoring emanating from it. To his left, there was another staircase, but this one ascended. And there was a faint drop of wax on the third stair.

He followed it to the top of the turret, only to find one last door. This one was ajar, and from within, a light was burning. The tip of a turret was always a popular spellcasting spot, but there was nothing he could sense in the way of magic. Nor was there any sound of passion, no whispered words or bubbling potions- just silence—a conundrum.

He paused, considering for a moment. This task was proving to be a bit of something different. If pressed, he would almost admit he was enjoying himself. He made a careful note to keep the door from so much as making a squeak lest it announce his entrance.

But of all the things he might have imagined, he could not have predicted he’d find himself in a makeshift library of sorts. The rounded room had books piled along the walls, large and small, with spines of every color, carefully stacked in orderly rows. There was no fire to keep the night’s chill at bay or brighten the darkness, nor was there any tapestries or rugs to make the room inviting.

Besides the hundreds of books, there was just a single desk with a candle nearly burnt to the last. There was a lone cloaked figure at the desk, but they had fallen asleep, their head upon the desk’s surface, dead to the world. There were no cauldrons, no familiars, not even a vial of something foul. The only clue to the figure’s identity was a mass of auburn curls spilling out across the desk from beneath the hood.

He made his way closer. The floorboards silent; knowing better than to so much as creak underneath his weight. Outside, an owl hooted as if sensing a fellow predator. The call was followed by the sound of wings as it swept down from the roof upon its helpless prey down below-

And just as the Dark One reached out his own talons to squeeze around the neck of the sleeper, she stirred. He prepared for a gasp or even a scream- but he was not, however, prepared to find a dagger pressed into the underside of his jerkin.

“Another move, and your entrails will be on the floor.” The dagger pressed deeper as his “prey” slowly stood. She was a head shorter than him, but the light of the almost extinguished candle was too meager for him to make out her features. He could only see the fine-boned hand currently wielding what looked like to be a letter opener.

As annoying as it was to find himself in such a predicament, he had to admit it was rather masterfully done. If he were any mere ruffian, he would be entirely at her mercy. But the Dark One was not in danger of something so trivial as a dagger in the dark. He snapped his fingers, and in a heartbeat, her weapon turned into a single red rose.

It’s thorns bit into her white-knuckled fingers, drawing first blood. She hissed in surprise, dropping the flower to bring wounded fingers up to her mouth. “Magic,” she mumbled around her hand, sounding rather impressed. She lowered her hand with a sigh. “He must have paid a pretty penny. It’s almost flattering, truth be told.”

Rumpelstiltskin chose to ignore the insinuation he could be bought with something as trivial as money. As if he needed gold.

He whispered a simple charm and a twist of his finger; the candle burned back to full life. “You know for what purpose I have come?” he demanded. The lady nodded, and in doing so, her hood shifted and finally slid down to her shoulders.

Rumpelstiltskin was rather lucky he had not dropped the cloaking spell yet, as he found himself at an utter loss for words. This was the woman Gaston was spurning? He understood the man had been ambitious, but good lord, was he blind? In his long lifetime, Rumpelstiltskin had seen the great beauties of lore, the ones who the bards still sung of- none of them had ever struck him as half as lovely as the woman before him. Her features were delicate, classical, and yet there was a strength in the set of her jaw and intelligence in her manner that set her apart from the usual vapid emptiness that so often accompanied the truly beautiful.

She laid the rose upon the desk, subtly casting her eyes in his general direction. “Of course. You’re not the first to come. I wasn’t naive enough to think he’d stop trying.” If she was afraid, her eyes didn’t betray her. She looked more put-out than anything. “You’re the first with magic, though,” she added, in what sounded oddly like a compliment.

He held the cloaking spell in place. He wanted answers, and if the Dark One were to materialize before her, he was not sure Lady Belle would continue cooly discussing her brushes with death. Well, she might. This did not seem like a woman prone to hysterics, but he wasn’t taking that chance quite yet.

(He really loathed hysterics.)

“Why wait for death? Why not use the magic you possess-”

She began to laugh. “Wait- magic? Magic I possess- Is that what he’s telling people now?” To his complete befuddlement, she collapsed back into the chair, wiping away tears of laughter. “Me! Magic!” She fought to regain some iota of self-control but was failing miserably. “Oh, that’s a good one. As if I wouldn’t turn him into a toad first thing-”

“He’d make an impressive bull-frog.”

She made a genuinely horrendous noise like two gears grinding, and he realized she was laughing. “He would, wouldn't he?” she managed through laughter. “I can just see him sitting on the side of the lake, all puffed up.” She helpfully mimicked this by puffing out her chest and filling her cheeks full of air.

He had somehow completely lost control of this encounter. There was nothing to do for it. He discarded the cloaking spell, and her laughter died in her throat. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening. He was gratified. Most ladies tended to faint, scream or try and attack him, so this was at least a nice change of pace, if nothing else. “Oh. You’re-”

He sneered. “That’s right. So, if you are quite done laughing- you should know I have struck an agreement with your betrothed. But-” and here he raised a finger, “figuring as I’m in a good mood at the moment, I shall gift you a boon. You may choose your fate.”

His anger rarely ran hot. This self-control had served him well, allowing him to contrive and dole out some truly horrendous forms of revenge in his long life. Gaston would become king. He would rule, safe in the knowledge that he had gotten away with it, that he, a lowborn knight, had hoodwinked the most powerful creature that had ever existed. Only then, would the Dark One drop the Lady Belle back into play, reveal Gaston’s true nature, take all that he had gained, and leave him in the dirt. Possibly as a bull-frog. He’d have to see how he felt in a decade or so. There was nothing quite like a fate delayed. Ask Oedipus.

“You have three options. The first is that of the air. You shall live as a swan for a decade and a day, free to roam the world as you see fit. The second is of the earth. I shall turn you into a statue, and leave you here to watch over your people for a decade and a day, and on the second day, the sun shall rise upon you as a human once more-”

Just as he was about to explain the fire option, which was an excellent spell that involved the sun’s rising and setting- she, to his utter and complete astonishment, raised her hand. “If I might-”

Oh, for Nimue’s sake-

“Is all of this necessary? I have no interest in marrying Gaston. His precious princess is welcome to him.”

He sucked his teeth. This woman was making it impossible to get anything done around here. “Then, why, pray tell, is he trying to kill you?”

She made a sweeping gesture as if encompassing everything around them. “For Avonlea! Why do you think- Ugh!” She pinched her brow, and he could hear her counting to ten under her breath.

He hadn’t needed to ask. He was well aware of how these things worked. With Belle out of the way, Gaston would claim there had been a marriage. The elderly Lord of Avonlea would soon pass either from a broken heart or a knife in the back, and then Gaston would be Lord and Ruler of Avonlea, a fitting husband for a neighboring princess. Their union would unite the two lands...and Ormiston would continue to grow and prosper.

There was no earthly way that the knight had thought of this himself, which meant the King of Ormiston had gotten someone else to do his dirty work. Rumpelstiltskin ground his teeth. He had been played for a fool.

But a deal was a deal. He’d make sure they’d all pay in kind, but the fact of the matter was...this Belle would have to first pay the price.

“You can no longer remain here as the lady of this land.”

“Fine,” she huffed, standing abruptly. “I have to go away for- what was it? A decade and a day? Fine, so be it. I’ll go with you then. Surely, you need….I don’t know some sort of assistance. You have a castle, don’t you?” He opened his mouth, but she did not need an answer to continue the conversation. “Wait- no. Hold on, answer me one question. The deal- was Avonlea a part of it?” He mutely shook his head. “Oh, good. Here’s what we’ll do-”

And then, she laid out in very clear detail her master plan.

It was beautiful in its simplicity, calculating and cunning in its execution, and nearly diabolical in terms of vengeance. By the time the sun rose upon the Lady of Avonlea and the Dark One, a new alliance, had been forged. One that would change the landscape of the world forever.

It went as thus. On the evening of the eighth day, at the eighth hour at the eighth minute, the Dark Lord came (back) to Avonlea. His arrival was not expected at the pre-nuptial feast of Sir Gaston LeRoux and Lady Belle Levasseur, so his appearance was met with (alas) hysterics.

“I hear there is to be a wedding,” Rumpelstiltskin crackled. He rubbed his hands together briskly, clapping them at the end in glee for good measure. “I love weddings.”

Gaston was quite taken aback, but he rallied to put on a good show. He drew his blade, proclaiming loudly and for all to hear that he would protect his lady love. As for the bride, she simply sat in her seat, finishing a custard while an older man with a halo of white hair tugged at her sleeve, urging her to flee.

“Begone, foul beast!” Gaston roared, but he was slowly backing away from the dais, leaving the lord and lady of the castle unprotected. Not that anyone noticed. The entire hall had fled or was cowering under trench tables lining the room. “I shall strike you down before I let you so much as gaze upon my fair lady.”

“Pretty words for a pretty boy,” Rumpelstiltskin cooed up at him. He took another step, baring his teeth in a smile. “I came to allow you to mend your mistake, Lord Maurice.”

“My-my-” The old man was stuttering, white with fear, but he had not let go of his daughter’s arm.

“I had rather thought my wedding invitation must have gotten lost,” Rumpelstiltskin supplied helpfully, starting to pick at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “But then I started to think perhaps I wasn’t invited-”

“You were not!” The knight demonstrated a few fancy parries, and then with a little fancy footwork, he danced his way to the opposite side of the Dark One, blocking the remainder of viewers from the rulers of Avonlea. “Begone from this place at once!” Gaston crowed and had the audacity to wink. The fool, he was still playing checkers; they had moved onto chess.

Rumpelstiltskin waved his arm in a lazy arc, and the knight-who-would-be-king was stopped dead in his tracks, frozen with his sword raised overhead in a rather wickedly uncomfortable position. “Now, then, where were we? Ah, yes. I’m sure it was not your intention to purposefully slight me, was it, Lord Maurice?”

The older man’s jowls were quivering, mouth opening and closing with no sounds coming out. Belle took the opportunity to rise, placing herself pointedly between her father and her conspirator. “There was no slight meant, sir,” she assured him. In the light of the candelabras overhead, her golden dress glowed warm and bright. “What can we do to atone for this grievous oversight?”

A few of the party-goers were starting to creep out from beneath the tables and from behind pillars, their self-preservation losing out to their curiosity as he knew it would. Happened every time.

“You know, I’d rather like a wedding of my own, come to think of it.” He turned to the gathered, huddled masses. “Good people of Avonlea, I shall spare your lands from pestilence and pandemonium on one condition.”

“Good heavens, but name it, sir!” Lord Maurice exclaimed. “Anything and everything I have in my power to give is yours!”

Rumpelstiltskin whipped around, a huge grin spreading across his face. She had worried things might not go according to plan, but he had told her it would be easy. People were so predictable. Well, most of them. The ones not named Belle, at least.

“A bride!”

The entire congregation moaned in horror, and Lord Maurice collapsed in his chair.

“But-but-but-”

They had worked it out carefully; each knew their lines as well as each other’s - but Rumpelstiltskin always did love a bit of improvisation. “Let’s see,” Rumpelstiltskin sang, already descending the dais towards a group of young women huddled in a corner. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

The girls, predictably, descended into sobs. They clutched at each other, but he turned away sharply, peering under a table at two serving wenches. “And who do we have here?”

One screamed and started to push the other at him.

“Enough, sir.” Belle had descended after him. “ As I am the only bride here, and it was my wedding which so slighted your honor, ” with a court curtsy, she prostrated herself before him, “I am the only one suitable.”

When Belle had suggested this ploy, Rumpelstiltskin had nearly swallowed his tongue. She made it clear she had no interest in marriage, and while she would like nothing more than to roam the world to explore new and far-flung places, her place was here in Avonlea, and if she could, she was honor-bound to remain. As a married woman, wife to the most powerful creature in the world, she could do just that.

After nearly an hour of debating, threatening and whining had not changed her mind; he had finally relented. Rumpelstiltskin would be free to come and go in the decades the lady lived, and Belle would be free to do as she liked as Lady of Avonlea.

The terms of his deal with Gaston would be met, with his betrothal to Belle broken beyond repair. Of course, without Avonlea to bring to the table, Rumpelstiltskin rather doubted a crown was in Gaston’s future, but as Belle had so cleverly seen- Avonlea had not been part of the bargain.

That was why you always read the fine print.

“Done!” Rumpelstiltskin proclaimed, and taking her hand, he helped raise her to her feet. Around them, the crowd began to whisper and moan, a few of the ladies having fainted. Belle met his gaze, bright blue eyes twinkling in mischief. Rumpelstiltskin realized he hadn’t known what color her eyes were, but he was reasonably positive he would never forget again. “We shall be married here, and now, that is unless anyone objects?”

“Belle!” her father moaned. “My dear girl-”

“It’s fine, Papa,” she assured him, but she never took her eyes off Rumpelstiltskin. “I know what I’m doing.”

There was utter conviction in her voice. Rumpelstiltskin had to suppress a shiver as he was still holding her hands. Some little voice in the back of his head was starting to wonder if he was way over his head in this after all, but he ignored it.

There was a clatter of steel on stone as the spell containing Gaston dissolved. The knight pitched backwards, down the stairs, and onto his back. There were gasps, and the crowd began to murmur, even louder this time as their favorite son, and would have been lord raised himself to his feet.

His beautiful face was twisted in rage. “WE HAD A DEAL!” he bellowed, already charging at them. He swung his broadsword, fully intent on cutting them both down where they stood. Rumpelstiltskin instinctively drew Belle to his side, sheltering her from the swing even though a crook of his finger was all it took for the Dark One needed to send the sword spinning into the air.

Even weaponless, Gaston was not cowed. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” he railed, far too lost in his rage. His perfectly styled hair fell into his face as he thrust a finger at them. “We had a deal, Dark One. She was to die, and Avonlea was to be mine! I was going to be the king, you-”

Now, the words died in his throat as the murmurs of the crowd swelled into a furious chorus. It appeared the First Sword of Avonlea might have been well-loved but not more than their lady.

“Scoundrel!” an older woman called out, ignoring her husband’s attempt to pull her back behind the safety of a suit of armor. “Blackguard!”

Belle took charge. Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized he had still been holding her tightly to his side until, with a squeeze of his hands, she stepped out of his arms and towards the man who wanted her dead. “Sir LeRoux, you are to leave this hall and this land at once. Return to your master of Ormiston and tell him Avonlea has a new lord. But first, I believe it is only fitting that you bear witness to our union, seeing as you had a rather large hand to play in its arrangement.”

“You b-”

Gaston did not get to finish those words. His hands, already reaching out for Belle’s neck, went to his own throat as invisible hands cut off the oxygen. There was no humor in Rumpelstiltskin’s voice now, all acting had gone out the window. “That is my bride you are speaking to, sir. Have a care what you say, or I will feed your tongue to the dogs.”

As Gaston struggled to breathe, Belle turned to a portly gentleman who was tightly wedged between his seat and the table. “Good Uncle Bartholomew, will you read the bans?”

The man looked from Belle’s calm and collected face to Gaston’s purple one, to the Dark One. Then, he turned to where Lord Maurice sat, still collapsed in his chair upon the dais. “My lord?”

“Belle, my dear, surely we can-”

“Papa,” her voice was steel. “I’ve made my decision.” She half-turned to Rumpelstiltskin. “All of you have borne witness to Sir LeRoux’s words. On the eve of our wedding, he has plotted my death to take over Avonlea as his own. If the price for my life and the prosperity of our lands is to wed the Dark One, who has saved me though he may not have known it at the time- then so be it. It is a price I will happily pay for you and all of Avonlea.”

“Here, here,” came a voice, and another echoed this and then another. The people closest to them were still eying Rumpelstiltskin warily, but with Gaston now on his knees, no one was daring to make too big a fuss.

In the end, the bans were read. It was an odd wedding. The bride’s father cried the entire time, the guests were somber and morose, and the man who should have been the groom was prone on the floor, barely able to breathe, much less object when that part of the bans was read aloud.

As for the bride and groom...Well, Rumpelstiltskin had been married once upon a time, and while this was in name only, the usual flutter of anticipation was in his belly, and he couldn’t quite help the lopsided grin on his face. He would tell anyone who dared ask it was all an act, but in truth, he couldn’t help smiling at his bride, who was positively beaming at him like a cat who caught the canary.

The guests would tell anyone who would listen (and everyone wanted to hear the tale) they had never seen a happier bride. Others would swear the groom looked almost nervous, but no one believed the Dark One could be nervous.

Gaston fled to Ormiston, only to be flogged, denounced to a hedge knight, and banished from the kingdom forever. That was the last of Gaston they ever heard of, and the princess of Ormiston married some other lordling’s second son who had more interest in farming than war. Rumpelstiltskin always denied he had a hand in it, but after that, Avonlea and Ormiston’s kingdoms were at peace.

As the bans concluded, and after Gaston had long made a run for it, Rumpelstiltskin was walking his new bride out towards the Lord Tower to her chambers. He would lock them both inside and then depart back to the Dark Castle, returning in the morning, and rinse and repeat for the remainder of the fortnight to ensure no one challenged the union. “So,” Belle said, her arm neatly in the crook of his own. “Told you it would work.”

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Your clever plan has left you wed to the most fearsome creature in the world. Just wait. Scores of knights will show up to defeat the evil dragon and rescue the fair lady. You simply tell me which one you like, and I’ll play dead so you two may run off into the sunset. Do we have a deal?”

Belle considered this for a moment, tipping her head back and forth. Then, her blues eyes twinkling as bright as the stars overhead, she said, “No. I’m afraid I never much cared for courtiers. Besides, being a married woman comes with some advantages. No one can tell me what to do anymore, and if anyone gets too out of hand, I have a husband to sic on them. No, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I’ll remain wed as long as you don’t behave too beastly.”

He shook his head at her, but internally, found he was rather pleased. “I’ve been told I’m incorrigible,” he warned. “Impossible and ill-mannered.”

As the lock on her door swung shut, she simply grinned at him and quipped, “I do like a challenge.”

--

If you were wondering, it took Belle five months and five days, but she finally got it through to her husband that she was perfectly happy being his lawfully wedded wife. He relocated permanently to Avonlea having fallen very much in love with his wife, though it took her seven months and seven days to make him understand she felt the same way and was very much ready to be his lawfully bedded wife, but that dear reader is another story.

(and as always a big thank you to @prissyhalliwell for being a wonderful friend/sounding board0

#rumbelle secret santa #rss 2020 #rumbelle #rumbelle fan fic #b does the write thing #for the first time since 2019

[b-does-the-write-thing]

I want to mourn her death. I want to honor her. I want to pay tribute to who she was as a woman, as a mother, as a lawyer, as a fighter, as a wife, as a justice, as a patriot. 

I want to mourn her and celebrate her and thank her for everything that she did, all the decisions that she made that helped me grow up in an America where I was safe to pursue all the things I wanted. 

Instead the first emotion I felt wasn’t sadness, or humility, or solemnity. It was fear. Chill down the spine, tears in the eyes, heart racing, muscle clenching fear.  

And I will never forgive them for that. 

[b-does-the-write-thing]

Ah If only my muse would come back from the war

Still trying to come to terms with the fact I'll never be a librarian who can speak a dead language and be recruited by a ruggish but handsome explorer for a quest to lift the curse and save the world

[b-does-the-write-thing]

Face for Radio, Chapter 12

in case you want a Rumbelle Radio Station!AU- here’s twelve chapters of it and a pinky promise to actually finish the damn thing five years later.  

Read it on AO3

--

Will was waiting for her in front of the station with two cups of coffee. He took one look at her and broke into a shit-eating grin. “And here I thought I had a good weekend,” he declared as he thurst a cup into her hand.

“Don’t start,” Belle warned him. “I’m in a very good mood, which I would like to last for at least another five minutes.”

“Done,” he agreed before throwing his free arm around her shoulder and shepherding her into the station. The night guard waved them through, offering Belle a knowing look before returning to her security feed.

Belle flushed. “Do I have a sign around my neck or something?”

“Not a sign per se, just a rather prominent hickey.”

Belle knew she should have spent some more time on her makeup routine this morning but it had been the hardest thing in her life to get out of bed when Rum Skinner was doing his best to make her late for work. “If it’s the last thing I do,” he had sworn as she had finally wiggled free from his embrace, “I’m getting you back on Night Air.”

“For my talent and skills as a producer?”

“Obviously. But also so I can keep you in bed all day.” He had then loudly described a few things he had planned for them as Belle hurried about the room trying to get dressed. She deserved a medal for resisting a man whose literal job was to seduce people using his voice.

“Come over after your show?” Belle had suggested after a goodbye kiss ended up with her spending several long (wonderful) minutes back in the bed.

“Or you could just call in sick?” he had suggested.

It had been tempting but it was only her second week as odd as that sounded. Last Monday, she was a nobody from Avonlea who just had started her brand new job as the producer on Night Air, having never even so much as spoken to the talent. A week later, she was (faux) engaged to said talent, uncovering an embezzlement scheme at her place of employment- oh and receiving death threats every thirty minutes.

Her phone buzzed, and on the off chance it was Rum, she fished it out of her purse. Ah, no, just a new number threatening the same old nonsense. It was starting to seem like perhaps it wasn’t an entire army against her but a few crazies who with any luck would grow bored of this sooner rather than later.

Her phone buzzed again. Or perhaps not.

Belle took the required screenshots and then deleted both messages. Above her, Will sighed. “Let’s have some fun on the show today,” he suggested. “I have a few friends across the pond I could call. You Americans love a good accent.”

It would be an astronomical phone bill. Regina would flip.

“Sounds perfect,” Belle said as they headed down the hall to the booth.

The night shift DJ was just finishing up her shift. “Everyone’s favorite knave, well, the knave of my heart at least, Will Scarlet is up next. As always, thanks for staying up with me tonight, Storybrooke. This is Sleeping Beauty, signing off.” She flipped the switch to commercial and waved them inside the booth.

“Knave of Hearts,” Will drawled. “I quite like that.”

Aurora grinned at him through her tangle of bubblegum pink and blue hair. She spotted Belle coming in behind him and grinned. “You look ravishing this morning.”

“You mean, she looks like she has been ravished this morning,” Will corrected, plopping down into the seat as he started to fiddle with the dials.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Aurora winked at her. “So. Show me the ring.”

The ring. Oh, of all the stupid things they could have forgotten! “It’s being cleaned,” she lied. “I should get started-”

“Course,” Aurora said with a grin as she hiked her backpack onto her shoulder. “Have a good show, guys.”

And they did. Will dialed up a few of his cronies from England, and Belle was kept busy bleeping out curse words that she recognized and some she didn’t.

“That about does it for us,” Will announced, sitting back in his seat to prop his feet up on the table. “Before we go, I do want to introduce everyone to the person behind the curtain, my producer, Miss Belle French. Well, soon to be Miss Belle Skinner.”

Belle was going to kill him. He gestured for her to flip her own microphone on, not saying a word just grinning at her, the bastard.

She cleared her throat. “Morning everyone,” she managed before flipping it right back off. She waved a hand at him, pointing for him to flip the last section of music live but he just arched a brow. Belle swore (silently just in case the mic was still hot) and then, “Hope everyone enjoyed the show today. It was certainly...an educational one for me.”

“Belle here is also new to SB101,” Will said picking up for her. “She started on Night Air but I was lucky enough to get her - well as my producer. Everyone’s favorite wizard of the airwaves snapped up the lovely lady before I could even my foot in the door.” He sighed dramatically. “Not only she is a beauty, but she’s whip-smart, kinder than she has any right to be and brave as they come.”

She mouthed a “thank you” to him through the glass and he winked back.

“Now, before I hand things off to Little Red for the all request lunch hour, I want to announce the True Love contest SB101. You can enter through our website, SB101.com, and get the link from the Morning Show page.” He paused for a moment as if considering, and then, “Every week, you can enter to win a chance to be a guest producer on the Morning Show or Night Air. You’re choice! Just send an email to...ah let’s see Selena- That’s S-E-L-E-N-A Mills at SB101.com. Well, that’s all from me today. We’ll be back same time tomorrow.”

Belle gaped at him as he stood and stretched, tugging off his headset to rub at his ears. “Bloody things are too small- What?” he demanded when he caught her staring.

“What did you just do?”

Before he could answer, Ruby threw open the door and threw her arms around him. “You brilliant, brilliant man!” she crowed.

Leroy was right behind her, and to Belle’s surprise, he was grinning ear-to-ear. “Get a move on sister,” he told her, gently nudging her out of the way. “You got about thirty seconds before-”

A red-head appeared in the open door. “Mr. Scarlet, a word.”

He disentangled himself from Ruby, though he seemed a bit loath to do so. “All words can go through my agent, love,” he said.

“Fine. I’ll just have a word with your producer, then.” Startling green eyes cut over to where Belle stood, still half frozen. “Ms. French? If you could join me in my office?”

She didn’t wait for a reply, but marched away with every confidence Belle would follow.

“Selena Mills?” Belle guessed. Rum had filled her in a bit about the new station promotion’s manager, and her...uh...interest in him.

“Seems like it,” Ruby murmured.

“Live in thirty,” Leroy warned. “Better not keep her waiting,” he suggested to Belle. “If she’s anything like her sister, she’ll find some way to make you regret it.”

Will escorted her out of the booth. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Want me to come with?”

She shook her head before stopping dead in the hallway and throwing her arms around him. “You are a wonderful, wonderful man, Will Scarlet.”

“You American women are too easy,” he bluffed. “Smart, Beautiful and a sucker for an English accent.”

The station radio crackled to live as Ruby had started her show.

“Morning all, this is Little Red Rider live from SB101 for your all request lunch hour. For those just joining us, you can go to SB101.com to make requests, or you can tweet them live to @LittleRedRiderLive. You can also enter our newest contest, the True Love contest where you can enter to be a guest on the program of your choice, Morning Show, All Request Live, or Night Air.” She paused before adding in a mischievous voice,” all to celebrate the recent engagement of our very own Night Air, the wizard of the airwaves, Rum Skinner. That’s right folks, he’s off the market but yours truly and the Knave of our Hearts, Will Scarlet are both very much single and ready to mingle.”

“Oi!” Will complained, already heading back to the booth. “That’s not-”

For her part, all Belle could do was laugh.

That is until she arrived at Selena Mills’ office.

“Ah, better late than never,” Selene drawled. “Close the door.”

Belle drew it halfway closed, before sinking down into the couch on the far side of the office. Behind Selena, there was a rather large framed poster of Rum with a scrawled autograph in the top left corner. “I see you’re a fan of my fiance.”

Selena’s mouth drew back into a crocodile grin. “Oh, I’m his biggest fan. I have great plans for Rum Skinner and Night Air, so imagine my surprise when your DJ-”

“Talent.”

“Disc Jockey announced he was also taking part in the contest. As now is our request lunch hour.”

And if Belle was any judge of character, Snow & Tell would be joining the contest today as well.

“It’s a great promotion,” Belle lied through her teeth. “It allows for fans of the station to choose which program they most connect to, and we could easily double our ad revenue based on the entries-”

“I have no interest in doubling the ad revenue.”

“An odd thing for a promotions manager to say,” Belle replied back with a confused smile. “You know, I have some great ideas on how we can leverage all the talents across markets- maybe even go state-wide now that we have the support of Midas Air Network-”

“Let me be clear Ms. French, in a week’s time, there will be no SB101. The only thing worth anything in this scrapyard of a local radio station is Rum’s show, and I’ve already made sure that when the smoke clears, he and I will be far, far away from the mess my idiot of a sister has made.”

Belle paused before saying, “You mean the embezzling.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. One did not share their grand plans with people unless they were very, very secure or very, very stupid.

Selena chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious? I caught her at it over a year ago. A station manager can’t afford a summer house in Hyperion Heights, much less new Louboutins every season. I’ve been holding it over her head for a year now. Imagine her surprise when I leveraged all the evidence for a job. At the very station that she’s run into the ground. Not that she thought it strange. What people do for love and all that.”

The phone on her desk began to ring.

“Oh, one second, I’m expecting a call.” Selena fished the receiver off the hook. “Hello? Oh, yes, yes. Yes, thank you..”

Hanging the phone up, Selena turned back to Belle. “Now. It took me all weekend to figure out what I was going to do. You know, Ms. French, you made things rather difficult at first. But all things considered, you ended up being the solution, not the problem.”

Completely at a loss, Belle took a deep breath. “Well. While I appreciate you being so forthright to me about your sister’s illegal activities and your own plans, I really do need to get going. I want to make sure I get to the police station before lunch-”

Selena gave her a little faux pout. “Let me save you some time. Officer Rogers?”

The door swung open, revealing a tall, dark and handsome officer, who had a pair of handcuffs swinging from his fingers. He was sporting a rather terrifying grin. “Thanks for the call, Ms. Mills. Is this the one?” he asked, nodding towards Belle.

“The very one,” Selena said, trying to appear disappointed and failing miserably. Her own cat-eating the canary grin was about as chilling as Officer Rogers’. “I think if you check her office, you’ll find all the evidence you need for an embezzlement charge to stick.”

“Yes, Mr. Glass has already been very forthcoming on the subject. Seems he was using Ms. French’s station out in Avonlea to fence the cash.”

“Wait- what?” Belle bolted to her feet. “What are you talking about? I just started here-”

“Yes, all at the behest of Mr. Glass. He got you a job producing here when Midas started sniffing around to acquire the station, but by then it was too late. Really so awful. To embezzle money from a local family-run station.” Selena’s eyes were glistening with mirth. “And poor Mr. Skinner, falling for your little act. I must admit it was rather genius of you to blackmail him into proposing to you or risk losing his show. We all know how much it means to him.”

“But I-” Her words were cut off as Officer Rogers snapped the handcuffs, he was not gentle. Belle stared at Selena Mills in horror. “This isn’t happening.”

“Oh, but it is.” Regina Mills stood in the doorway, another officer, shorter and squatter, behind her in the hall. “Did you really think you’d get away with it, Ms. French?”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #b does the write thing

[b-does-the-write-thing]

K.

“They supposed to look like that?” Gaston asked, nudging the nearest bush with his boot. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them, Gaston,” Belle replied, gently shooing his foot away from the rose bush. “I had to trim them back so they’ll bloom.”

He snorted. “Looks dead to me.” 

Belle bit back her annoyance. It wouldn’t do any good to get defensive, he wouldn’t listen to her anyway. Her husband had a singular knack for tuning out anything that didn’t pertain directly to him and his own interests. She reached out to the next dropping bloom and with a quick twist of her wrist, snapped it off to discard in the soil alongside its other fallen brethren. This summer had been particularly hot and humid even for Maine. The cluster of bushes around the porch were drooping sadly, almost as if they felt as trapped and burnt out as she did these days. 

“Got no idea where you want to spend your weekends down there sweating in the dirt. Why don’t you come on a run with me? Get some exercise?”

Belle sat back on her heels, tilting her head so she could look up at him from underneath her hat’s brim. Despite the early hour, Gaston looked as handsome as always. His black hair was tied up in a messy bun and he had foregone a shirt and opted for the tightest (and shortest) pair of running shorts he owned. In comparison, Belle looked like she had just rolled out bed Mostly because she had and also because she didn’t really care. Her only caveat to fashion was her oversized straw gardening hat, which Gaston hated about as much as he hated her rose bushes.

“I’ve told you, I don’t like running,” Belle replied as she returned to her pruning. But he knew that she would never actually take him up on his offer. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have even asked. “You go ahead, I need to get this done before it gets too hot.”

He shrugged, having already forgotten her. “Suit yourself.”  Just as he went to put in his AirPods (his third pair this year alone), screeching breaks drew both of their attention to the far street corner. A large moving truck was idling at the stop sign and as they watched it made a slow left onto Avonlea Avenue. 

“Huh. Guess the new neighbors are finally moving in,” Gaston said appraisingly as the truck slowed to a stop in front of the SOLD sign next door. Belle stood, brushing off the dirt from her bare knees. “They’ve been renovating that damn place for months now. Could have at least painted it a different color.”

Belle didn’t reply. She had always loved the old salmon-colored victorian. If truth be told, she had wished they could have bought it but between her job at the library and Gaston’s spending habits, they were lucky even be able to rent a house instead of an apartment. Well, not quite lucky. When they had started looking before the wedding, Belle had been adamant that they have a yard and Gaston had been determined to have at least three bedrooms. One for them, one he could use as his rec room and the third for him to use as a home gym. 

Belle peeled off her gardening gloves. “Let’s go say hi.”

He looked her over. “Like that? You might wanna clean up a bit first. Not sure that’s the message you want to send.”

Belle glanced down at her attire, a ratty oversized t-shirt over gym shorts. She couldn’t really argue with him. “I’ll finish up and take a shower. Whip up some cookies or something. We can wait for you to get back from your run and then head over once they have some time to get settled.”

He shrugged, popping his earbuds back into place. “Don’t know why we have to bring them anything,” he was saying to himself as he started to jog down the driveway. Belle watched him go, selfishly relieved to see the back of him. She waited until he turned the corner and then sank back down to her bushes, turning her back on their new neighbors. Let them think her a sweaty, dirty gremlin. Come fall, she could bring them a vase of roses. 

She spent the next hour snapping the deadheads off her bushes until she was surrounded by a pile of petals and buds.  The humidity rose steadily until her back was damp with sweat. It was only when her feet started to go numb did she finally stand and take a break to survey her work.

The bushes were clean, their leaves green as ever. Belle was just about to call it a morning when she noticed one section toward the back still had a fair amount of dead blooms. There was only one way she was going to get to them. Peeling off her shirt, she wrapped it carefully around her right arm all the way up to the elbow. She had thrown on a bikini top this morning as she always did, not wanting to suffer a bra or sweat through a sports bra. She had planned to spend the rest of the morning with a book in the hammock out in the backyard, but if she wanted to make cookies for the neighbors she wouldn’t have time before Gaston got home. 

Carefully, she reached through the tangle of thorns to reach the decaying blossoms. It was such a shame there had been so many left this year, but Gaston was allergic to pollen and refused to let her bring any of her roses into the house. So, whatever she wasn’t able to give away were left to thrive and die on the vine.

“There you are,” Belle muttered as she grabbed the last of them. “Thought you could hide from me, you little bastard-”

“Well, I was coming over to introduce myself, but you’re quite right, I should have done so earlier.”

Suprised, Belle whirled around, only to get her arm completely entangled within the thorns. “Ow, ow, ow!” she cried, twisting back as quickly as she had initially turned. 

“Oh, wait- wait, here-” Deft fingers appeared over her shoulder and quickly plucked disentangled her arm from her shirt, which was already hopelessly snagged amongst the thorns. “I’m afraid it’s their shirt now,” the newcomer apologized. “I didn’t mean to surprise you, I didn’t realize you were-”

The voice trailed off as Belle turned to take in her new neighbor. Who was not that new at all. 

“You!” Belle sputtered, turning as red as the scratches along her arm. “What are you-”

No, no, no. This was not happening. It couldn’t be. 

“Ah, Miss French.” He straightened his tie nervously. “I...uh...I didn’t…”

“What are you doing here!” Belle blurted out, grabbing him and hauling him up the three steps to the porch. Throwing open the door, she pushed him inside before following suit. “How did you even know where I lived?”

The man she only knew as Mr. Gold threw up his hands. “Miss French, I had no idea this was your home. As I mentioned last time we...um saw each other- I recently purchased a new home in the area and well-”

Belle felt faint. “Wait. You bought the house next door?”

He grimaced. “Afraid so.”

Belle staggered to the kitchen and collapsed onto a stool, clutching her head in her hands. “Oh no, oh no, oh no-”

“I should- I should go before your, uh, husband-”

“He’s on a run,” Belle muttered through her fingers. “Which on Saturdays means he’s at Anita Hall’s house. Her husband works on the weekend.”

“I see.” There was a long pause, Belle could not quite find the strength to lift her head. What was she going to do? How was this happening? She knew it was a bad idea. She knew she’d regret it but this was ridiculous. What had she done to deserve this of all things? “I don’t mean to intrude but you’re bleeding.”

Belle jolted upright to find he was right. Blood was dripping onto the countertop from a gash that sliced across her upper arm. “Oh, I didn’t even feel it-”

Gold had already grabbed a paper towel. He filled it with ice from the fridge before moving back over to where she still sat, utterly gobsmacked. “Here,” he said, handing it over to her. 

“Thanks,” Belle managed before pressing it against the cut. The icy chill sent a shiver down her spine, Well it was either that or her sudden proximity to Mr. Gold. Too late, she remembered she was clad in nothing more than a bikini top and a pair of gym shorts. Alone with her one-night stand. In her kitchen. In the home she shared with her husband-

And yet. Oddly enough all she could think about was that thing Gold could do with his tongue-

Flushing, Belle dropped her gaze. “I’m so sorry. I- you caught me by surprise.”

“Likewise,” he confessed. He didn’t step back, instead, he gently took the ice pack from her now numb fingers and pressed it back over the cut. “I can go if you’d like,” he offered.

“No, that’s not….” Belle trailed off, unsure of what she had meant to say. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

He chuckled. “You were pretty adamant on that count if I recall correctly.”

Somewhere in the rush inside the house, she had lost her hat. She tucked some of her hair behind her ear, all too aware it was in disarray. She was a mess, sweaty and covered in dirt- and oh god, how was this even happening? This was the kind of thing that happened in movies!

“I can promise you, one thing, Miss French,” Mr. Gold continued as he shifted the ice. “Your secret is safe with me. I have not and will not ever breathe a word about what happened between us and furthermore, I would never believe that anything like it might ever happen again-”

“Why not?”

His eyes were the most lovely shade of brown, Belle thought as his gaze jerked up to her face in surprise. She had tried to remember the exact shade but it had been dark and she had been a little drunk - and they were chocolate brown with hints of honey. Lovely and warm. She liked making them go all wide and surprised like that. 

“You’re...you said-”

She had said a lot of things that night. 

Gaston had gone off to Boston for some CrossFit conference, and she had gone to the bar, not out of anger or jealously but because the house was big and empty and everything was Gaston’s and she had been about to burn it all down and a bar had just seemed the safer option at the time-

Until she knocked over a stranger’s drink with her purse. She had insisted on buying him another one, and then another one and then- somewhere between discussing the merits of Emily Bronte and Jane Austen, she had revealed she had never understood the passion of such romances, how she was in a loveless marriage because after ten years of dating she hadn’t known what else to do other than say yes, even though she didn’t really love him, not really but she had never really loved anyway- and how she had called a divorce lawyer but had never actually gone through with getting the papers-

And then, of course, her drinking partner had tried to be a gentleman about how he was sure her husband loved her in his own way- she had started telling him about Gaston’s affairs and how they hadn’t even so much as kissed in nearly a year- and how she wished she could be brave and leave him-

And then the bar had closed. Belle distinctly remembered not wanting to be alone, and how Gold had offered to buy her a cup of tea at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast, but it was 2 AM and Granny was asleep. They had ended up making a cup of tea in his room except no one had ever touched it because she had started kissing him when he offered to go find her some honey, and then it had been morning and-

“I know what I said,” Belle mumbled. She had been horrified at herself for nearly a month afterwards. Not because she regretted it- or because she had been drunk. She didn’t regret it and she hadn’t been drunk.  No, she had been horrified because she had left his hotel room and gone back to this house and this life- knowing she had never been as alive as she had been when Mr. Gold was kissing her-

Belle licked her lips and felt the strangest swoop in her stomach when Gold’s eyes plummeted down. He swallowed,” Miss French, I-”

“Belle.”

He let out a wheeze of a laugh. “Of bloody course. Belle.” He said it again as if savoring it. “It suits you.”

Oh for God’s sake, could he be any more perfect? Belle managed a weak smile. “It is good to see you again. I didn’t get to properly thank you for everything you did for me that night.”

His eyes grew darker until they were much more like she remembered- Oh. Oh. 

“I was happy to help,” he murmured as his thumb started to trace the skin of her upper arm. “And I believe you were very generous in return, Miss French.”

“Belle,” she corrected but her voice had gone all soft and breathy.

“Belle,” he amended. “I must admit I had...hoped to run into you again. I spent all of last night at the Rabbit Hole in the off chance you might be there.” 

Oh, she was doomed if he kept looking at her like that. 

He bent down until his forehead was inches from her own. “Tell me to leave,” he murmured against her ear. “Curse me for being a cad, threaten to tell your husband- do it quickly before I lose what little sanity I have left and do something absurd like-”

“Like what?”

He inhaled sharply. “Belle- I’m serious.”

She straightened her spine. “So am I. What are you going to do if I-”

He kissed her. There, in the house, she had tried to make a home. She raised her own hands to card them through his hair, thick and soft and slightly grey around the temples. He made a noise of encouragement in the back of his throat and Belle’s blood was singing as she deepened the kiss, using the stood as leverage to surge up and kiss him more deeply. His hands cupped her face, making the kiss tender and sweet but she didn’t deserve tender and sweet- she was an adulteress and-

He broke away, breathless. “I should go. I don’t- I don’t want to but I’m afraid I’m in very real danger of taking advantage of you-”

Belle started to laugh. “You are the most impossible man!”

He stepped back a bit. “I’m well aware but-”

Belle swiped furiously at her cheeks, quite unable to contain the smile spreading across her face even if she tried which she didn’t. He was perfect, utterly, maddeningly perfect. “Here I am throwing myself at you and you think you’re taking advantage of me.”

He softened. “I think...we both could use some time to process… this,” he gestured back and forth between them. “I know I’ve...been thinking of you and hoping to see you again but…”

But she was married and they were barely more than strangers. “No, you’re right,” she agreed with a sigh. She stood, legs rather shaky underneath her. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Her hat had fallen in the foyer. He bent to pick it up, wincing slightly when he straightened to hand it back to her. “Bad knee,” he explained when she looked at him quizzically. “Broken in the war.”

“The war?’

He smiled. “That’s what I call my divorce. Nasty business.” Divorce. The word hung in the air between them for a long second before Gold cleared his throat. “I uh should get back over to the house. The movers were taking a lunch break but they’re probably in the process of destroying my piano- and I um...really need to leave before I forget everything I just said and beg you to come home with me-”

Belle couldn’t help but be thrilled at that admission but she made herself smile and nod as he backed away towards the door.

 “I’ll guess I’ll be seeing you,” he said as he fumbled for the doorknob. “Neighbor.”

“I guess so,” Belle agreed. She crossed her arms over her chest so she didn’t grab him and drag him upstairs with her. “I’ll see you later then.”

With one last look back, he disappeared out the door. Belle collapsed back against the nearest wall, and slid down until she was seated on the floor. She thumped her head against the wall, once, twice and then for a final measure, a third time.

She hadn’t even gotten his first name. 

-- 

Anyway @prissyhalliwell and I did write night tonight and this happened. 

Belle is tending to her rose garden but can't stop looking next door. It was only meant to be a one night stand while her husband was out of town but now that one night stand just became her new neighbor.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #tw: adultery

[b-does-the-write-thing]

To the Rumbelle community-

In the last few years, I have taken on new opportunities and new challenges that have severely cut my time participating in the fandom. Taking me from active contributor and supporter to a lurker in the corner. I continued to be in awe of the talent of the fandom, its writers and its artists but took a step back from being able to read the myraid of talented and amazing stories being produced by our fandom much less write any of my own.

Soon I began to struggle with the feeling I had somehow deluded myself into thinking I was a good writer and actively disliking most of what I tried to write. WiPs such as Story Teller and the Gate withered on the vine as I struggled to find my voice again. I produced two new projects this year (Teach us Something Please and The Demon Earl’s Deal) but personally did not feel either lived up to what they should have been. 

I was aware T.E.As was happening but due to real-life I did not get a chance to participate in the nominations and knowing the amount of talent in this fandom I personally didn’t feel like I had done anything worthy to contribute so I did not put together any lists or submit nominations for myself.

So. When I got a notification on tumblr, I clicked it to find you brilliant amazing beauties had nominated- not just my work from this year but older projects such as Face for Radio and Elevated Hearts. I was floored, humbled and honored -

And then I saw I had been nominated as Best Author with some of the most illustrious writers of this fandom. 

Guys, I can’t believe- I’m blown away. So, if you nominated me, added me to a consideration post or have read my work at all, thank you. I will figure out some small way to give back to the fandom. even if it is just me reading every single nominated piece for 2019 and writing a review, leaving kudos, reblogging it, etc. 

I am honored for your consideration, humbled by your decision to choose to spend some time with my words, and grateful that this small corner of fandom has allowed me to be exposed to some truly talented, kind and warmhearted people who I may otherwise never had gotten a chance to know.  

#b does the personal thing #b is floored #long post yada yada #my ramblings on being nominated for teas #guys i'm emotional

[b-does-the-write-thing]

general incivility, chapter two

                              - a brienne x jamie pride & prejudice retelling -

chapter one l chapter two 

The day of the assembly,  Morne Manor was busier than it had been in over a decade. The carriages had finally arrived from Casterly Rock just yesterday with all the trappings and furnishings that befitted the scion of the lion.

Not that Tyrion had wanted any of the crimson or gold hangings. All Tyrion had cared about was the bottles of brandy from the Rock. And the wine from the arbor. Though to be fair he had also expressed considerable annoyance over the lack of port. 

Thankfully, all had arrived with the rest of his things, not that Tyrion was around to notice. His new steward had things well in order, though he was an odd, rough sort of man. Tyrion had picked him up somewhere along the mountain roads. Gruff and sly, Bronn Blackwater had seemed an odd choice for steward to Jamie’s eye, but Tyrion enjoyed the man and so far he had proved proficient.

All in all, Tyrion was overall delighted with the ancient place and its idiosyncrasies. He had already found two hidden passages and a carving he was convinced dated back to the Andals. 

For his part, Jaime was ready to flee back to Casterly Rock. From what he had seen thus far, the Stormlands were a destitute, rocky wasteland. Morne Manor itself had been nearly in ruins when Tyrion had decided to purchase the estate. The youngest son of Tywin Lannister had read about it some book somewhere and decided on a whim to make it his new home. Though why anyone would want to live in the Stormlands instead of the Riverlands, Jamie couldn’t have said. 

“It’s ghastly here,” Cersei echoed, even though he had not uttered a word. His cousin stood beside him at the head of the staircase, watching the servants scuttle this way, spilling from the doorway like black ants.  With a sigh, Cersei turned away from the organized chaos unfolding below. “Take a stroll with me,” she purred, more a demand than a request. Before he could answer, she took him by the arm and began to stroll up the hallway, letting her head rest upon his bicep. 

He tensed, ever so slightly, eyes cutting around them as they walked. In a town this size, someone would always be watching, if only out of boredom rather than malice. Another reason he could not wait for Tyrion to grow bored with this little game and return back to the Rock. 

He did not disentangle himself from Cersei but he could not quite relax either. Born on the same day, the firstborn children of the Lannister twin brothers, Cersei and Jaimie were as close as any siblings. They had grown up together but lately, Cersei had been hinting at something new...at taking their relationship from those of cousins to that of something more intimate...to an understanding.  

She was a beautiful woman, smart and intelligent, and he cared for her, yes, but something held him back. He could not say what it was other than an innate certainty that her interest was less for the love of him and more of a desire to be known as Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock, instead of just simply Ms. Lannister. 

As they turned down the west wing hallway, a door creaked open just as they passed, revealing the empty library. “There you are, Jamie,” Tyrion declared. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Cersei gave a sweet, short laugh. “Well. Small wonder you couldn’t find him in the library. Your brother was seeing to the preparation of the house, something the master of the house should be overseeing. Not tucked away in some musty old library. For such an intelligent fellow, you tend to be terribly short-sighted, Tyrion. ”

Not missing her emphasis, Tyrion gave their cousin a grin. “I’m surprised you can even see me from that high horse of yours, cuz.”

Cersei’s green eyes, so like Jamie’s, flashed in rage. “Have a care how you speak to me, sir. I need only stand in my stocking feet  to look down upon you.”

“No fine feat considering most children can as well,” Tyrion agreed. “Which is why I have need of my brother here. I cannot reach one of the shelves and my ladder has not yet arrived.”

Knowing they could go on for hours, Jamie disentangled himself from Cersei. “Now, now, children. Manners.”

Cersei knew Jamie well enough to pick up that he was in no mood for their diatribes today. She smoothed her face back into a courteous smile. “You’re quite right, Jamie, dear. Besides, I should go see that these country maids have managed to iron my gown without ruining it.”

Without so much as a glance at Tyrion, she pressed a kiss to Jamie’s cheek before departing. Jamie lingered just long enough to admire the way her hips swayed in the scarlet silk gown she had custom designed from Bravos. Empire-waisted, she had explained when she had first shown it to him. He wasn’t sure what that meant but it did fit her tall, willowy figure admirably- 

Tyrion chuckled under his breath. “Our dear cousin is rather out of her element in the Stormlands, isn’t she?” He looked up at Jamie knowingly. “I must say, it did rather surprise me when our sweet cousin voluntarily chose to accompany us to my new estate.”

“As I told you, once I’ve seen you settled, I will accompany Cersei to King’s Landing for the winter,” he reminded Tyrion. 

“Right, right,” Tyrion muttered as he waddled back into the library. Jaime followed after him, feeling already ill at ease in the massive room. Every surface was covered in books. Their father had been happy to get rid of his black sheep of a son, happy enough to send a majority of the Rock’s library with him to the Stormlands without an argument. 

“Where were you this morning?” Jaime inquired as he followed behind Tyrion towards the back of the library. “I had hoped to take a ride down to the shore before the weather turned.”

Tyrion screwed up his face. “I have no interest in riding down to any body of water.” He patted his short, squat legs with a leer. “I’m not made for swimming. I’d sink like a stone.” Jamie ignored this. Tyrion always used his stature as an excuse to avoid anything more strenuous than going down to the kitchen cellars. “Besides, I called on Selwyn Tarth at Evenfall Hall.”

Jamie was not familiar with the names. “For what purpose?”

Tyrion climbed up into the chair specially designed for him. “In all honesty? I had hoped to catch a sight of his daughter.”

Jamie groaned. “Tyrion-”

“The Beauty of Tarth,” Tyrion continued, pointing to a blue book on the top leftmost shelf. “Fetch that for me, would you?”

Jamie did as he was asked. “Lives of the Nine Septons?” he read quizzically. “Feeling rather pious lately, dear brother?”

Tyrion harrumphed. “Not on your life. I was looking for the Jade Compendium. I could have sworn it was that same color. Perhaps over here…”

Tyrion hopped back down and headed across the back wall of windows towards the far corner. Jamie trailed after him. “This beauty,” Jamie said, knowing his brother well enough to know where this was going. “Does she….”

“Know I’m a dwarf?” Tyrion said with a leer over his shoulder. “I haven’t the foggiest. If it hasn’t gotten out by now, I suppose she and the rest of the Stormlands will learn of it tonight at the assembly.” He paused, looking this way and that. “Where could it have gotten?”

Jamie knelt down and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tyrion, I know this whole business has been...strenuous.”

“Oh, the part about un-inheriting me unless I give up my claim to Castlery Rock and settle down with a respectable wife on the other side of Westeros?” Tyrion was smiling but his eyes were hard. “Or the part where my dear brother informed my father of my plans to elope to Gretna Green with a crofter’s daughter?” He brushed Jamie’s hand off his shoulder. “Forget the book. I should follow Cersei’s lead and prepare for the assembly. I want to make an impression, after all.”

“Tyrion-” Jamie began but it was too late. His brother had already turned the corner and disappeared down another stack of shelves, leaving Jamie Lannister alone in the library alone with only his good intentions. 

--

Tyrion Lannister was a dwarf.

The entire assembly was abuzz about this development. It was the most shocking piece of gossip in over a century and no one was immune to its salacious nature. People reporting back also admitted to finding the gentleman gifted with an easy, unaffected manner paired with a sharp wit that was delightfully well wielded. 

Attention soon also shifted to his companions: a brother and cousin. Beautiful in the classic way that was so en vogue at the moment, the pair looked so alike they could have been twins, from the way their green eyes narrowed in disdain to the way their full lips curled up in amused derision. 

Half the ladies were already in love with the gentleman before they even learned that he had ten thousand pounds a year. After that, there was a great burst of fuss and fluttering before it became clear that though rich and handsome, his manners left much to be desired. Jamie Lannister was curt in conversation, rude in his responses, and refused to dance despite the numerous ladies sitting along the wall. He was quickly declared to be the most disagreeable man anyone had ever met. 

On the other hand, Tyrion Lannister, despite his stature, had already made the acquaintance of nearly every person in attendance. Every corner soon buzzed about his latest quip or joke, if not remarking on the cold beauty of his companions. 

In all the excitement, Brienne’s usual tormentors did not notice or care that she was even in attendance. She had been left mercifully alone for the entire evening, having selected a spot along the back wall upon her arrival but as more and more guests arrived, her haven was soon overrun.

Heading out of the gathering crush before she garnered any unwanted attention, Brienne was in the process of trying to make herself as small as humanly possible (which did not work any better than it ever had or would for someone over six feet tall) when she nearly stepped on the gentleman of the hour. 

“My apologies, my lord,” Brienne hurried to amend, dropping into a rough courtesy. “I didn’t see you- I mean-”

The dwarf threw his head back up at her and then,  to her disbelief, laughed. “No, I don’t think you could from all the way up there,” he agreed. One black eye and one green sparkled up at her. Tyrion Lannister was almost half her size, with a face almost as unfortunate as her own, but it was plain to see he was at ease with himself, as confident in his own skin as any man. 

Before Brienne could muddle things further, her father materialized at their sides, handing Brienne a glass of punch. “Ah, Mister Lannister, I see you’ve met my daughter. Brienne, this is Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Morne Manor.”

“This is your daughter?” Tyrion said, clearly taken aback. Uncertain of what to say or do, Brienne offered him another courtesy.  He recovered quickly, a smile back on his odd face. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Brienne,” Tyrion said, offering her his own small bow. “I am afraid I’ve promised this dance and the next and the next.”

“I thank you, but I do not dance, good sir,” Brienne said hastily as the music started to summon the dancers back to their places. 

“Sad tidings. We would be quite a pair,” he said with a cheerful wink, that was not at all mockery. It was more like an inside joke, and Brienne found herself relaxing despite herself, something she never did at balls. “Till we meet again, Miss Tarth.”

As her father spied one of his old business partners and moved to speak with him, Brienne retired to the edge of the hall. There were a few other ladies lingering against the wall, but none of them spared her a glance. Everyone knew Brienne Tarth and no one was worried they may be slighted for a dance in her favor. 

With her height, Brienne was able to see everything on the dance floor with ease despite the occasional plumage in a lady’s coiffure. She remained there, watching the events of the evening unfold and hoping her father would grow tired soon and they could leave. Septa Roelle would be waiting to hear all about the evening and Brienne wanted to have plenty to tell her. She would just leave out the part where she had stood in a corner the whole evening. 

Unintentionally, Brienne's gaze was drawn to the pair of lions on the far side of the room. It was hard to miss such a splendid pair. Tyrion’s older brother, Jaime Lannister, was indeed a handsome man but his face seemed to be permanently contorted into a sour glower. He stood with his arms crossed and did not speak to a single person with the exception of his brother and the stunningly beautiful woman at his side. 

Cersei Lannister, a cousin on their father’s side, was by all reports an accomplished woman. She too was tall, but still at least two heads shorter than her cousin. She had the same blonde hair as the Lannister brothers but hers was pinned in curled ringlets, tightly coiled and shining as if it was actual gold in the lamplight. Her dress was of the latest fashion, only seen thus far in magazines from town, and outshone all the drab, simple cotton dresses the rest of the ladies wore.

The handsome pair had already danced once and soon Cersei Lannister danced with three other men. All the while, Jamie Lannister did not move from his spot. 

Despite being the early days of autumn, the day had been unseasonably humid and the evening continued to be as such. Brienne soon grew too warm in her vantage spot and was obliged to move towards the back wall where the doors were opened up to let the night air circulate into the hall. 

She took a seat upon the benches lining the wall, and let her eyes fall shut as she listened to the last song fade away. When the song changed, she opened her eyes to find she could no longer see the dancers. A few couples had retired to this edge of the dancefloor to catch their breath, amongst them Tyrion Lannister who was joined by his brother. 

“Come, Jamie,” Tyrion wheedled. “You looked wretched standing there twiddling your thumbs. I’ve seen you dance at the Rock. These dances are not so different.”

His brother scoffed. “I prefer to be acquainted with my dancing partner. And the only lady in my acquaintance present has been engaged for the majority of the evening.”

“There are plenty of pretty girls,” Tyrion protested. “And if none of them turn your fancy, I just met the most wonderful specimen of woman. The Beauty of Tarth. You must let me introduce you.” 

For some reason, hearing Tyrion Lannister utter that moniker stung. Brienne stood, intending to find refuge in the music room for the remainder of the evening but she miscalculated. 

At the sudden movement behind him, Jamie Lannister half turned and caught sight of her just as Tyrion announced, “She can’t be hard to spot, she’s taller than you are! ”

Brienne hastily averted her gaze. She could feel Jamie Lannister consider her for a moment before he turned his back on her. “I am in no humor at present to give consequence to slighted young ladies, tolerable or no.” The apothecary's daughter appeared, requesting a dance from Tyrion who happily obliged her. As the pair hurried to join the reel, Jamie Lannister walked away as well, leaving Brienne to sink back down to the bench. 

Thankfully, the evening passed quickly after that encounter. When she and her father returned to Evenfall Hall, Septa Roelle was still up with The Seven Pointed Star. She put it aside and stood hastily. “Well?”

Selwyn Tarth hid a yawn behind his hand. “Apologies, my dear, septa,” he murmured through another yawn. “I’m quite done for. If you’ll excuse me-”

Brienne found herself quite alone with Septa Roelle, who was inspecting her closely. They had hidden the bruise under powder and rouge and done Brienne’s hair up as best they could but it had fallen with the humidity and was currently hanging lackluster around her face. Thankfully, her gown had been spared the usual “accidental” punch spill this time. It was rather damp under the arms and would need a good laundering but was otherwise still presentable. 

Brienne was also quite exhausted but she knew she would have no peace until she recounted the entire tale from start to finish. Lowering herself to the chaise, she kicked off her slippers, which had pinched her feet mercilessly and caused her to mince for the last hour or so.

“How did you find Mr. Tyrion Lannister?” Roelle prompted. 

“Short,” Brienne answered honestly. “But overall well mannered if not prone to being a bit libel with his consummation of brandy.”  

Roelle frowned at this. “Did you dance with him?”

Brienne flushed. “I did not have the honor, Septa, no.”

“And what of his brother?” Septa Roelle continued, though she made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “I’ve heard he is quite handsome and is to have ten thousand pounds a year-”

“He has an understanding with his cousin, a Miss Cersei Lannister,” Brienne lied. Well, she did not know it was a lie. It could very well be true. And if it wasn’t, Septa Roelle would hear about it, no doubt. 

“Hmm, well, I cannot say I had expected any different,” Septa Roelle said as she settled back into her seat. “I simply thought perhaps…”

A dwarf would be desperate enough to marry a giant. It would have been rather funny if Brienne had not been the butt of the joke.

#b does the write thing #bramie #braimie #jaime x brienne #asoiaf fic #asoiaf fan fic

[b-does-the-write-thing]

general incivility

- a brienne x jamie pride & prejudice retelling - 

A plain woman without a penny to her name is a spinster in the making. 

So said Septa Roelle, often and within Brienne’s hearing.

“No matter how high she was born,” she would add with a pointed look as if to ward off any argument on the subject.

Not that Brienne would dare doubt the validity of such a universal truth. After all, she owned a looking glass and had a pair of working eyes. Even if she had been deluded enough to ever believe the reflection in the glass was anything but homely, she was intelligent enough to wrinkle out the looks most people bestowed upon her was not the desired expressions for which a lady aspired. 

It was not that Brienne Tarth was plain. She was also just too large all over, too odd, too wrong. Hard where a woman should be soft, flat where they should be round. Her body was broad of shoulders and hips but with no bosom to speak of to give it a woman’s shape. She was taller than any woman had a right to be, towering over most men and even some small saplings, but she was not willowy or graceful. She was quick on her feet, fast and sure-footed for her weight and height but it mattered little, no one had ever asked her to dance, nor would they.

Even if Brienne slumped her shoulders and fasted for a year, she would never be considered anything but truly unfortunate looking. While her eyes were the same bright blue as her father’s, her hair was like straw, dry and pale yellow, which hung limply about a broad, freckled-face. And if she smiled, she revealed an overbite filled with crooked, albeit thankfully healthy, teeth.

The only person who did not look at her with that odd mixture of pity and disgust was her father, Mister Selwyn Tarth, a kind and noble man with a generous but simple nature who was often cheated by his servants. The Tarths had lived at Evenfall Hall for as long as the manor had stood. Tarth was a proud name, albeit a poor one, which had come upon hard times in recent years. 

To hear Septa Roelle tell it, Evenfall had once been a place of great merriment when Brienne’s brother and heir of Evenfall, Galloden, had still been alive. Energetic and strong, the young heir had helped his parents weather the deaths of their first two daughters, Arianne and Alysanne, both perishing while still in the cradle. The Tarths had tried once more, hoping for a son, a worthy playmate for Galloden but the Gods were cruel. They heard their prayers but instead of a son, they gave them a mockery of a daughter, one who was too large and too loud.

Though Mrs. Tarth had died when she was three, Brienne’s earliest memory was not of her mother’s funeral but of Galloden’s. On the eve of his eighth birthday, he had gone swimming in the great lake and gone too far. He had drowned, leaving Brienne the only surviving child of a widower. Her father had never remarried. He claimed was too poor to tempt any lady of respectable birth, and so he settled in amongst his books and his tinkerings and let the world pass him by.

Brienne did not have that same luxury. The local septa took up the reins of raising the child. According to the other servants, Roelle had moved in without so much of a by your leave. One day the guest bedroom above the kitchens was empty, the next it was not. 

Colonel Goodwin often told Brienne the story of the day her father had finally looked up from his newspaper to find Septa Roelle sitting at the table, buttering Brienne’s bread. According to the story, her father had simply watched them for a moment before going right back to reading.

Two and ten years later, nothing much had changed. The dining hall was the same, as were the plates and cups. All ornate and well taken care of, but older and much out of style. The same could be said of the table and the people around it. Outside, the spring day was bright and there were blossoms starting to bud on the trees but there was a lingering chill that threatened winter had not yet had its say with them. Brienne was late in coming down the stairs to breakfast, having struggled to no end with her hair and wishing, not for the first time or the last, that she could cut it all off entirely. 

Instead, she had left it in a loose braid that fell across the left side of her face, hiding the bruise that was quickly forming. “Morning father,” Brienne murmured, pressing a dutiful kiss to his smooth, wrinkled cheek. He mumbled back a reply as he flicked the pages to the next section but did not look up. 

Lumbering to the other side of the table, Brienne carefully lowered herself into the wicker chair, grimacing as the worn and ancient chair groaned as it struggled to hold her heft. Before she so much as thought of reaching for a roll to break her fast, Brienne turned to her right, careful not to turn too far and reveal the reason she was late. She bowed her head. “Septa Roelle,” she greeted. “Good morrow.”

Narrow faced but broad of hip, Septa Roelle had the permanently pursed lips of the constantly disgruntled. “You’re late,” she reprimanded, spearing a sausage with her fork before depositing it unceremoniously on her plate. “I cannot account how that could be. The maids mentioned you were gone from your rooms by first light this morning. Not out visiting Colonel Goodwin, were you?”

Reaching for the milk, Brienne had to choke back a groan of pain as her muscles, weary and sore from her morning training, nearly buckled under the weight of the silver pitcher. “At this hour?” Brienne replied as she added a splash of fresh milk to her tea. “It would hardly be proper for me to call upon an unmarried gentleman before breakfast, Septa.”

Roelle sniffed, not fooled for an instant, but thankfully, she let it go. For now. 

Brienne sent a quick prayer of thanks to the gods, even as a bolt of pain came coursing down her spine. Colonel Goodwin had caught her neatly on the back with a well-placed punch. It would have bruised nicely on its own but in her damned thrice dress, she had been caught off balance. She had gone staggering into the fence. She had ended up taking the entire section of whitewashed wood down with her to the ground.

Her muslin dress had been torn beyond ruin and every bone in her body hurt but nothing smarted so much as her pride. It should have been an easy jab to dodge but her left foot had gotten caught in her hem. No matter how many times she begged the Colonel to allow her to wear men’s garb while sparring, he refused. “Worse enough I agreed to teach you,” he said when they had first started training,” even with your father’s blessing. But your Septa would have my head if you were caught in trousers.”

Retired from the army, Colonel Goodwin had been passing through the country ten years ago when he had met Selwyn Tarth by chance in town. He had come to the manor for a meal, spotted Brienne at play in the distance and barked,” That’s a strapping lad! A natural-born pugilist if I ever saw one!”

When he got close enough to realize the lad was, in fact, a lass, the Colonel had not blustered or apologized, stammered or blushed. “My mistake,” he said to Tarth with a shake of his knotted hair, still black in those days though already streaked with silver. “But I stand by it.”

When the two men had gone inside the study to chat, Brienne had gone straight to the library to look up the word ‘pugilist’. She was soon standing in her father’s study before the two men brandishing The Art of Boxing and demanding to learn the sport. She had been seven and had never asked him for a thing in her entire life before that moment, as she and her father were both well aware. 

And so, Colonel Goodwin, needing a place to stay and a roof over his head, had moved into the gardener’s quarters at the edge of the manor property where he tended to the grounds in between boxing lessons with the daughter of the household. 

If her father thought she would grow bored or grow out of it, he was mistaken. Her natural reflexes, shape, and size were all well suited to the sport and having found something that felt right for the first time in her life, Brienne dedicated herself to the sport entirely. She would have trained morning, noon and night but Colonel Goodwin had insisted upon a more regimented schedule that balanced training with strength building and exercises to build stamina. Brienne had always loved being outdoors and adopted long walks down to the shore to her daily routine. Once upon the secluded shores, she would pick up boulders and hurl them down into the sea below until her shoulders ached and her arms were exhausted. 

But the sport was not just physical nor innate. She had to be able to keep her wits, even when a well-placed punch to the face knocked her clear of her senses. She had to size up her opponent, know their size, shape and speed and how best to use it against them. 

She was mentally going through the steps of the match she had just lost, trying to pinpoint when the colonel had gotten the better of her when Septa Roelle cleared her throat. “I received word that Morne Manor  has been re-opened at long last.”

There was no sign from behind the newspaper that Selwyn Tarth had heard, much less cared. 

“From what I have gathered, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock have decided to purchase it as a country seat for their youngest son. Despite his...shortcomings, he is a single man of great fortune; five or six thousand a year.” 

When there was still no answer, Septa Roelle cleared her throat imperiously. She did this twice more until the left-hand ledge of the paper lowered to reveal the bright blue, water-shot eyes of Selwyn Tarth as he peered over the print at her. “Are you quite well, Septa?” he frowned. “You ought to see a maester about that cough.”

“Mister Tarth,” Roelle said tartly. “Did you hear any of the information to which I just imparted to you?”

Caught out, the master of the manor lowered his paper with a sigh. “Something about a gentleman newly arrived?”

“Yes, and you must go and call upon him at once.” “Must?”  he said warily. 

Neither of them so much as looked at Brienne, who was rather wishing she had been knocked unconscious in the garden this morning. Her face was flushed and her skin was tight as she realized exactly what was happening. 

No matter how many times men laughed, or excused themselves or just flat out ran in the other direction, Septa Roelle had never given up hope she would one day find her charge a husband. She had not even been swayed after Ronald Connington had mockingly labeled her charge Brienne the Beauty and the nickname had spread all over the Stormlands.

It would be one thing if the septa’s dedication was kindly meant but Brienne doubted Roelle’s obsession with the subject was borne out of any love or affection. It was more of some sort of twisted, proud duty to ensure her charge settled down as a proper lady instead of becoming a sideshow act. 

“Indeed,” Septa Roelle confirmed. “You recall the Baratheons are throwing a ball at Storm’s End within a fortnight and Brienne will hardly be the only young woman in attendance in need of a husband. We must make his acquaintance before the assembly or it will be impossible for him to call upon Brienne beforehand.  Consider your daughter’s future, sir.” 

Once again, no one bothered to ask her what she wanted so Brienne opted to study the wood grain in the table. After a moment, she could feel her father’s eyes flicker over to her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, all too aware of what he saw. What this Lannister would see. What they all saw. A freak in women’s clothing. An oddity. A beast. 

“My, that is a very lovely bruise on your cheek, Brienne.” Brienne looked up guiltily, but her father was smiling at her, in that proud way he always did. “I do hope Mr. Lannister is fond of the color purple.”

Warmed by the reminder of his unusual but unconditional love and acceptance, Brienne offered her father a watery smile, loving him for loving her, scars and all. 

“We will hardly know what this Mr. Lannister will or will not like,” Septa Roelle sniffed, ruining the moment entirely. “Not until you call upon him, Mister Tarth.”

Selwyn settled back into his chair. “As it happens,” he remarked, steepling his fingers. “I had the pleasure of calling upon Mr. Tyrion Lannister yesterday afternoon.”

Caught off guard, Septa Roelle forgot herself entirely and clapped her hands together. “Mister Tarth!” she exclaimed in her excitement. “What wondrous news!”

Brienne glanced between her septa, who looked relieved, and her father, who now looked immensely uncomfortable,  and realized she was missing one crucial piece of information. She could never hope to win a man of great fortune with her looks and her dowry, much less a handsome or distinguished one…

Her father did not look at her but rather stood abruptly. Brienne watched him go, torn between running after him and running down to the shore and hiding until this Lannister had left the Stormlands entirely.  Brienne had never wished she had spent more time listening to gossip than she did at this instance. Who was this wealthy Tyrion Lannister, and what was it to her?

“Well,” Septa Roelle said as she too rose from the table. “There’s much to be done. No telling when he will return your father’s visit. I’ll go speak with the cook to determine when we shall invite him to dinner. Oh, and Brienne?”

Brienne tilted her bruised face up to the woman who was the closest thing she had ever had to a mother. “Yes, Septa Roelle?”

The Septa’s stubby fingers grazed tenderly over Brienne’s upturned face, lingering lightly upon the bruise that would soon cover the lower half of her jaw. “No boxing until after the ball.”

#b does the write thing #asoiaf fanfic #braimie #pride and prejudice retelling #braime #wait is it braime or braimie #oh no #braime fic #jaime x brienne

[b-does-the-write-thing]

my heart is warm and fuzzy. Bookmarking this for a warm comfortable fic in the winter months. Anyone who wants to feel like they drank the world’s best hot chocolate curled up in a fire with the love of their life should read this ASAP. 

A Tradition to Remember

This is my @rumbellechristmasinjuly​ gift for @jenitosam​! This story is inspired by her prompt (cozy, holiday, feast, happy ending) and her adorable Rumbelle fan art! 

Summary: A book club is only as good as the book it reads. Belle has no idea how important her choice will become. I Read on AO3

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Storybrooke, Present Day

Mr. Gold stared at the cover of the deep emerald book, the gold embossed print jumping off the cover as if mocking him.

Her Handsome Hero

Gold snorted. What utter rubbish.

He glanced up from his armchair as Belle French, Storybrooke’s irresistible librarian, walked into his living room, bringing with her two steaming cups of tea from the kitchen.

“So,” she said, giving him a warm smile as she passed him a cup and gestured at the book in his hands, “what do you think?”

Gold bit back his first comment, not wanting to insult Belle’s choice of book. It would hardly be the best way to start this new chapter of their friendship.

Pun intended, of course.

When Belle had first asked him to start a book club with her, he’d initially been delighted. They’d had many chats about literature over the years, often while he was checking out new reading material or she was perusing his shop’s antique book collection. The chance to make these interactions more regular was a very agreeable one, especially during Storybrooke’s long winter months. The idea of being cozy and huddled up in front of a fire with Belle - he had insisted on holding these chats at his house instead of her drafty old apartment above the library or worse yet, in the even draftier library itself - was even more appealing.

The only downside so far seemed to be the reading material itself. He’d spent years carefully crafting his reputation as Storybrooke’s resident monster. If word got out that the fearsome Mr. Gold not only attended a book club, but one that was reading a book called “Her Handsome Hero”, he’d be laughed out of town.

Keep reading

#fic rec #rumbelle fic

[b-does-the-write-thing]

What an adventure! I read this all yesterday afternoon but I had to wait to leave a thoughtful comment on a computer instead of my phone so please excuse my tardiness.

First thought was seeing your name and going: SPOTTY! In absolute giddy delight at seeing an old friend. Which is ironic for another old fandom friend appeared in this as well.

I have to say I thought the start was excellent but then once Gold/Rumple was introduced to the story and things got so much more intriguing, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen! The title is a perfect name for this adventure story with more twists than you can possibly dream! And when Stan emerged from the water, I had to put down the phone I was laughing so hard in delight. Spotty, you sly dog, you crafted a wonderful story from a simple prompt and made it your own. Belle was a delight in this, and I will recommend this to any single soul who loves a good Rumpelstiltskin trickster/woobie/man in leather. You covered all of his facets seamlessly and he grew in the span of this (deliciously lengthy) one-shot in such a genuine, natural way.

This entire story was a surprise after the other and such world-building! Oh, their little castles made out of trees, or sand or stone- my heart....such a great fairytale image and so perfect for these two. (AND THE BED SHARING- UGH. MY HEART)

This was a wonderful Christmas in July gift and I treasure it just as much as I treasure the person who wrote it. Spotty, thank you, thank you, thank you. <3

Not Quite What Was Expected

Hello @b-does-the-write-thing!  I AM YOUR SANTA! (NOOOOOO!!!!). Ok sorry, I had Darth Vader’s voice in my head for a moment. DON’T ASK. So I am done with your story and the title makes me laugh because it describes the story AND pretty much what I think of it. This did NOT go where I expected at all. And I hope you find it a fun little action-adventure. I feel bad because the story just never quite managed to get to smut, even though I wanted it to go there. But I’m happy to write a smutty tag to the story (even though it’s most definitely a complete story!).

I hope you are having a wonderful vacation and enjoy reading this when you’re back!

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Summary: When Belle French sets out to run far far away from home before her father can marry her off to the likes of Gaston, she meets a strange, enigmatic little man who takes her on an adventure she never quite could have seen coming. [Prompt: Shipwreck, SOS]

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 11,660

Keep reading

#rumbelle fic #fic rec #read this #bed sharing #just saying

[b-does-the-write-thing]

Teach Us Something Please

I was deeply honored (and terribly excited) to get @thestraggletag for Secret Santa this year. I really wanted to write something worthy of my deep admiration for you and I hope it comes through in this little (okay not so little as usual I got carried away) Hogwarts Professor AU. 

It has a lot of callouts to the books and I formatted it to fit the same story structure so I hope you enjoy it! Happy Rumbelle Christmas in July, straggle. Sincerely, one of your biggest fans. 

(Note: I did not get to brit-pick this as well as I would have liked so if you see something, say something and I’ll update!)

Chapter One: Summer

June

There was a light deep in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

In this forgotten place, there were trees older than most civilizations but it had been eons since anything unknown to them had strayed this far into their dominion. Around them, the night was ripe and ready, potent with promise. It was just minutes from midnight and magic hung in the air as tangible as a summer berry ready to be plucked.

A branch creaked as a tree leaned closer to get a better look. The light spun, illuminating the inquisitive tree, but also revealing a witch’s young, pale face.

Her eyes were as bright as the bluejay’s breast.

Her hair a rich brown, the same shade as the maple wand she held in her hand.

Satisfied the creak had not foretold danger, the witch turned to continue forward, following the protected path deeper and deeper into the woods. As she arrived at a grove of aspens, the witch faltered for a moment, pausing to dig out a small book from her robes. Though there was no breeze, their silver leaves shivered and shook as the trees chatted amongst themselves. Nearby, a river gurgled and bubbled in interest.

Her wand tip lowered to the pages, revealing a scrawled map. The map was still, save for one small dot that was moving rapidly across the page. Keeping the book in one hand, the witch threw a cautious look over her shoulder before she carefully placed her wand in the palm of her hand. “Point me,” she whispered.

The wand hurried to obey. It spun once, twice, three times before it jerked to a stop sixty degree to her right. Well off the path. With a weary sigh, the witch continued onward, casting occasional glances to her right but keeping the octavo open in her hand.

Bound in black leather and stitched with golden thread, at first glance, the book looked like any other Hufflepuff memoir. Perhaps why it had been left undisturbed for over a century, hidden in plain sight amongst the other books in the library.

As the Hogwart’s librarian, Belle French had numerous obligations to the school. First and foremost to make sure its students were safe. Books could be very dangerous things, and even the most unassuming book could cause lasting harm to the unwary. After all, knowledge was a dangerous thing.

The book in her hand was an excellent example. If Belle had not been searching for some light reading on Bridget Wenlock, she may not have ever noticed the small book. It had been nestled in amongst the countless Helga Hufflepuff biographies and Belle had assumed that was what it was as well. That was until she had lifted it to get a better view and felt the tingle of dark magic race down her spine.

Pushing cautiously through the overgrown branches barring the path, Belle was careful to keep on the trail. Robin had warned what might happen if she stepped so much of a toe out of the protective wards. He had wanted to go with her, but the book was clear: only a winged maiden of sound mind would be able to seek and find.

Seek and find were the words of the book. A winged maiden could have meant anything but Belle suspected it meant a daughter of Ravenclaw. She was not descended from the line but she had been sorted into the house. She hoped that would be enough. As of sound mind… she felt far from sane at the moment.

“Are you sure about this?” Professor Lucas had demanded when Belle had started asking questions about the forest. The Care of Magical Creatures Professor knew all too well what lurked in the forest during the full moon.

The attack had been two summers ago now. Ruby had been lucky to escape with her life. While parents had not been keen on a werewolf teaching their children, Headmistress Ghorm had pointed out there was hardly a better-suited teacher for the role. Thus, Professor Lucas had been allowed to stay, with some safety measures in place.

As if sensing her thoughts, there was a howl in the distance. In answer, a branch broke nearby as something hurtled through the underbrush. Belle froze, waiting until it had passed. After several long minutes, when nothing stirred, she began again, but her heart was thudding sickeningly in her chest.

She walked on for what felt like hours, occasionally stopping to check the map. The dot on the map had come to a stop up ahead but she was still a fair ways away and the path was overgrown and slick. Belle had cloaked her steps to make no noise but her feet were sore and her back grew tight. She was pressing on- when all at once, the path stopped.

A great tree had fallen across the path. The trunk was nearly seven feet high on its side. Belle considered it for a moment. She could easily levitate over it or remove it from the path entirety but she suspected that was exactly what something wanted her to do. Upon closer inspection, she saw the tree had been recently felled. She hoped and despaired all at once.

Steeling her spine, she spoke into the wind. “I seek the one who sees all,” she said to the gloom surrounding her. “Let the seer be seen.”

The wind rustled the branches, and for a moment, the only answer was the shivering of leaves. Belle bent her head back to the book, murmuring a sharp “Lumos.”

The tip of her wand flared brightly as a torch, illuminating not only the map but the face of something reptilian and cruel which sat crouched at her feet. Belle would have shot backward, and nearly did so, before she recalled nothing could hurt her on the path.

Still, she trembled when she lifted her wand out towards the creature to find it safely outside the path’s border. Belle released the breath she had been holding when it stood, revealing it to be more man than creature.

“You would look upon the seer,” it hissed. “Look your fill and then release me. I have my own business this eve that does not pertain to you, child.”

Belle’s fingers were thick and clumsy as she raised her free hand to the neckline of her robe. Slowly, she pulled at the chain at her neck until it fell free, revealing what appeared to be a small charm. It was shaped like a crooked lightning bolt but on closer inspection was a dagger. It was heavier than it should be and cold as ice against her skin despite the warm night air and her evening exertion.

An artifact of untold power with the only clue to its purpose the single word etched into its surface. Few wizards or witches would have recognized it for what it was, but Belle had delved deep into the tomes detailing the darkest of arts. When it had fallen out of the octavo’s pages, Belle had suspected it for what it was the darkest of dark magic.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Belle said, faltering slightly as she recited the unfamiliar word writ upon the dagger. “I name you.”

A crooked smile revealed jagged, yellow teeth. “As did my mother.”

“Dark powers are gathering. War is coming.”

“It is already here,” the creature told her cheerfully. “And it will fall upon Hogwarts before the next summer solstice.”

It was as if he was stating a fact and not the end of the world as she knew it. Belle lifted her chin. “I have need of a seer. Need of you, the one connected to the Darkness but unbent to its will. I have sought you out to free you from your binds.”

“And how do you know I am what you say I am?”

Belle held up the book. It had been vague in details in some places, but rich in others. It had spoken of the seer, a creature tainted by the Darkness, bound to the Forbidden Forest.

Belle bit the inside of her cheek. “I am here to seek and find-”

“Seek and find?” he began to laugh. “All you have found is death. I see your end, child. Alone. Afraid. Surrounded by books. Blood seeping into their pages. You are still. You do not move.”

If he thought to scare her with foretellings of death, he misjudged her. “So, I will not die here tonight at your hands,” she said with a grave nod. “Good. Then, we can speak frankly.”

Belle transfigured a nearby branch into a chair. “Tell me how you came to be bound to the Darkness.”

He raised a clawed talon to his breast, raking the sharp claws down his scaled chest as he considered her. There were remnants of leather hide clinging to his arms and shoulders but they were in tatters, shredded. Belle wondered how long he had been out here.

“Four centuries,” he answered, golden eyes unblinking. “As for my origins, I sought protection from the Darkness by joining with it and found more than I had bargained. I found power beyond telling, a power that meant I would never be afraid again. The cost was madness.”

“You don’t seem insane to me.”

He cackled as he sank back down into a crouch. “Says the child who wandered into the woods alone. Haven’t you ever heard of what happens to maidens who enter the Forbidden Forest?”

“I am no maiden,” Belle said curtly. “Now, as I was saying-”

“Where did you find that?” He gestured to the book which was now open in her lap.

“That would be telling,” Belle responded just as blithely. “Why do you want to know?”

Without warning, his hand shot out as if to grab for her. Belle leaned backward, nearly toppling over in her transfigured chair. His talons stopped just shy of her.

He was grinning. “I am tied to that damnable piece of steel. I have searched every inch of this forest. I have dug through the dirt, broken stones, climbed to the top of trees. I have plundered the bottom of the Black Lake and for not. A spell has been placed upon it, binding me to this land. Even if I wished to join the gathering Darkness, I could not so long as that dagger remained out of my possession. So, I will ask you again, where did you find it, child?”

“I am not a child,” Belle snapped, losing her patience as usual. “I am the head librarian of Hogwarts-”

“The library!” Rumpelstiltskin hissed. “A dirty trick. He knew I could not cross the castle’s wards.”

“Who knew?” Belle was annoyed at herself for giving it away, even unintentionally. She would have to be more careful.

“My son,” he spat. “All I did, I did for him. But he could not see past what I had become. He bound me here, left me here to rot.”

Belle swallowed. “Then, attend me well. I have a deal for you.”

“Oh?” He sidled closer. “ I like deals. What shall it be? You wish for freedom. To see the world. You wish for knowledge. You thirst for adventure. You long for something more-”

“This is not about me,” she snapped, afraid of what he might reveal. “This is about the fate of the wizarding world.”

“Spare me,” he said with a shake of his head. “It is none to me what happens to it. I ceased caring long ago, child.” He gestured to his tattered clothing. “I have my problems.”

“Then, I have a beneficial solution for us both. Come teach at Hogwarts,” she proposed.

“Teach?” he hooted. “Teach what, child? The Dark Arts?”

“Divination,” Belle replied as the pieces fell into place. “Our divination professor foresaw her death and fled. The students leave for summer term shortly. Come on the first of July. If you swear no harm shall come to anyone who calls Hogwarts home, the wards will be open to you.”

“And why would I want to do that?” he snarled. Saliva dripped down from his curled lip. “You would have me swap one cage for another,” he murmured. “A nicer cage, true, but a cage nonetheless. Give me freedom.”

Freedom would allow the seer to return to the Darkness from which its power originated. And with a seer as powerful as the creature before her...whose very existence thrummed and hummed with secrets of the past, present and what would be...if Belle freed this being from its binds, she would condemn all of wizardkind.

Belle shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

“You could,” it sang, sliding back into the shadows.

Belle took a risk. “It very well might be swapping one cage for another, but this cage has running water.”

Rumpelstiltskin scoffed.

Belle pressed on. “If there is to be a battle, you may do as you like, fight or flee back to the forest. All I ask in return is that you give us counsel. Warn us of what you see.”

Warn you? Very well. I’ve seen you,” he said quietly. All traces of insanity and monstrosity vanished. “If you offer your hand to me, I will take it. But,” he held up a finger and wagged it at her. “Once I take it, you will never be free of me.”

Belle cocked her head to the side. It did not sound like a threat...more of a warning. “I’ve come all this way,” she told him. “If my freedom is the cost of knowledge, so be it.”

She reached her hand out across the path border.

When his scaled fingers curled over her’s, they were warm.

July

A cup of lukewarm tea was cradled in her hands. Belle had barely touched it, too caught up in searching the forest line, waiting with bated breath for Rumpelstiltskin to emerge. She had been waiting since morning. Hours had passed and now the light was fading as the sun started to sink in the western sky.

It had been a long two weeks. She had emerged from the Forbidden Forest the morning of the Summer Solstice and gone straight to the Headmistress. Reul Ghorm was one of the most powerful witches in the wizarding world as well as the wisest but it took all of Belle’s collective powers of persuasion, stubbornness and determination to get the Headmistress to agree to let the seer into the castle, much less award him a role on the teaching staff.

In the end, Belle had not been completely forthright. She had shared the book, told the story of her encounter with the Seer in the forest, and shared her plans to use his powers to continue to protect Hogwarts. But she had left out his true name and the matter of the dagger currently hanging around her neck.

Footsteps approached from around the back of the groundskeeper’s hut. She turned to find a wizard standing over her, but not the one she was expecting.

Robin hoisted his son, Roland, upon his hip and nodded toward the untouched cup in her hand. “My tea’s not that bad, is it?”

“Bad tea, Daddy,” the toddler insisted, struggling to get down.

Belle shook out of her reverie and stood. She murmured a wordless apology as she swapped the teacup for Roland, gathering the boy in her arms. His curls, so like his mother’s, tickled her nose. A rush of sorrow washed over her as she thought of Marian. She would have understood.

To hide the sadness in her eyes, Belle pressed a kiss to Roland’s forehead, and the boy giggled. “Down, Belle!” he begged but she didn’t dare let him down to run, no matter how much he wiggled and whined.

The sound of someone else approaching caused her heart to jump up into her throat. But the figure was coming from the castle, not the woods, draped in a familiar red cloak. “No sign?” Ruby called out as she neared the hut.

Belle shook her head. She should have known Rumpelstiltskin would keep her waiting. If he was even coming at all-

“Do you have such little faith in me?” came Rumpelstiltskin’s voice from behind her.

Roland took one look at the scaled creature and began to wail. Robin had his wand in his hand in an instant but Rumpelstiltskin waved a lazy hand and the wand skittered out of Robin’s grip and flew high and far out of range. For a horrible moment, it looked as if Robin meant to tackle Rumpelstiltskin, who was already grinning nastily.

“You will do no harm to those who call Hogwarts home!” Belle reminded him over Roland’s terrified cries.

Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth at her just as Ruby’s spell hit him square in the chest. He froze before teetering backward to crash across the kitchen table at his back. Cookery went everywhere as the petrification totalus spell kept the Dark One from twitching so much as a muscle to stop his fall.

“Ruby!” Belle cried out as the Gryffindor came charging to the rescue. She accio-ed Robin’s wand as she charged past Belle into the hut. Belle couldn’t get to her wand to stop them, not with a screaming Roland nearly choking her in his terror. Small bursts of magic were emanating from the toddler, which could turn dangerous quickly. “Stop! He wouldn’t hurt anyone!”

At her exclamation, Robin and Ruby paused in the doorway, between her and Rumpelstiltskin. The two Gryffindors considered the creature bound on the floor but they did not sheath their wands.

Belle pushed past them, handing the sobbing Roland to his father. “Take him outside,” she murmured, patting the boy’s back as he clutched at Robin’s shoulders.

The groundskeeper looked as if he might argue but he only cast one last look at the creature on his hut’s floor, surrounded by shards of wood and pottery before he did as she suggested. Belle could hear him murmuring platitudes as he attempted to calm Roland down.

Belle knelt among the ruins of the table, careful to keep her face in clear view. The dagger free from her robe’s neckline “Rumpelstiltskin,” she greeted. “Took you long enough.”

“Belle,” Ruby wheedled, clearly frustrated. “This doesn’t feel right. We should get Mary Margaret. ”

Belle didn’t need a host of well-intentioned Gryffindors telling her what to do. “Give me a minute,” she said over her shoulder. When Ruby did not move from the doorway, she sighed and stood. “Ruby, please,” she said quietly, though she did not doubt Rumpelstiltskin could hear every word. “You said you’d trust me on this.”

“I trust you,” Ruby said, looking over her. “I don’t trust that thing.”

“Ruby,” Belle said softly, hearing the loathing in Ruby’s voice. “He’s not the creature that bit you.” Her hands were gentle as she laid them upon Ruby’s right forearm.

The witch wrenched her arm away, holding it protectively. “Could have been one of his pets,” she argued. “That’s just what I mean, Belle. It’s evil.”

Belle did not feel much like arguing. She had her doubts about all of this, but it did not change the facts. They had sent the students home across Great Britain and every day she woke wondering which ones may not come back.

“He can help,” was all she said.

“Yes, because he’s a great and powerful seer,’ Ruby mocked. “He doesn’t seem all that powerful if he didn’t even see a second-year level spell coming straight at him.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Belle whispered, all too aware he could hear every word. “Don’t you remember anything from Divination classes?”

Ruby bristled. “I’ve been more interested in astronomy these days, so forgive me if I don’t recall the intricacies of fortune-telling.” She brandished her hands out at Belle, palms facing upwards. “Remind me. Where’s the line that says I was going to turn into a bloodthirsty animal every month for the rest of my life?”

Belle’s temper flared. “You went out into the woods to find what was killing the unicorns. No one made you-”

“I went out there to stave off the Darkness from encroaching into Hogwarts-”

“And I did the same exact thing!” Belle finished breathlessly. “I went out in the woods, the same as you, for the same reason.”

There was no more time to cross one’s fingers and hope for the best. They had to defend themselves, defend Hogwarts. With knowledge. With foresight. With whatever they could.

“I had to at least try. We,” she added. “We have to at least try. I’m not saying you have to like this...but access to a true seer...one linked with the Darkness but not bent to it? It’s not much...but it’s more than we had before.”

Ruby stared at the creature on the floor for a long, long moment. Finally, she nodded but she wouldn’t meet Belle’s eyes. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Belle.”

Me too, Belle thought miserably but she managed a smile. “Go help Robin?” she suggested gently. Outside, Roland’s crying was only growing louder and pops of what sounded like fireworks were starting to go off.

Ruby disappeared back out into the warmth of the early evening, leaving Belle alone with Rumpelstiltskin. Her hand went to the dagger around her neck, a constant chill against her skin.

Taking a deep breath, Belle turned to kneel back down beside the seer but she did not take off Ruby’s spell, not yet. His eyes were calculating, something hidden deep in their depths. “I hope you can help,” she said quietly. “Merlin’s beard, I hope you can help.”

She murmured “finite” and braced herself for an attack, physical or magical but none came.

Rumpelstiltskin merely raised himself to a sitting position and took a look around the hut. “What a sty,” he grumbled and with a casual wave of his left hand, everything straightened around them. The shattered table repaired itself, the crockery mending. The sink suddenly splashed to life, submerging the dirty dishes in soapy water as the soot started to scoot across the floor and out the door.

“His wife died last fall,” Belle said as she got to her feet. “She went to Diagon Alley for a pixie deterrent for the pumpkin patch. She didn’t come back.”

Belle offered a hand to help him up but the Seer did not take it. He rose to his own feet in a graceful motion, dusting off his leather breeches as if he had not been utterly at her mercy moments ago. “Explains his less than hospitable hosting skills.”

“He’s had a rough time of it.”

“And what’s the werewolf’s excuse?” he grumbled.

“She gets a bit...snappy around the full moon,” Belle said with a shrug. “We’ve gotten used to it.”

His strange golden eyes flickered to the sunlight where the two Gryffindors stood. They were both waving their wands so hundreds of colorful bubbles billowed out of the tips. Roland ran between them, his head thrown back in laughter as he rushed one way than the other.

“Everyone here has a story of being touched by the darkness,” Belle added quietly.

His eyes turned back to her. “And your story?”

Belle hesitated, just for a moment. “Ask me again at the end of this year,” she said quietly. “Come on, I’ll take you up to the castle. We set up rooms in the Divination Tower.”

August

The Charms professor was mad as a hatter.

That was the only reason Rumpelstiltskin could think of for why Jefferson had taken to coming to his office every day when most of the Hogwarts staff had decided to steer clear of him. All but the Charms Professor, the castle’s healer, and of course the librarian.

Rumpelstiltskin stood at the window, looking out across the Black Lake. The Giant Squid propelled along the surface, basking in the summer light as it had done for the past century. Behind him, Whale was reading the paper while Jefferson lounged on his back, spinning his hat idly round and round his finger.

“Someone spilled the beans,” Whale whistled as he folded the Daily Prophet and flung it over at Jefferson. The Slytherin caught it and flipped it open in one smooth motion without so much as missing a beat.

Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at the paper, and the photograph of a bombed-out building stared back at him. Flames flickered in black ink, the moment captured on magical film to be replayed over and over again for all of time. He turned away from it, back towards the sun, lifting his face to enjoy the Scottish summer breeze wash over him.

This he knew. This is he remembered. He had not forgotten the ways of wizardkind but a lot had changed since his Hogwarts days. He had spent the entirety of July ensconced in the tower reading whatever the Librarian had brought him and still wasn’t caught up.

Belle, a voice whispered in his head. Her name is Belle

She had not given him her name but he had heard it upon the lips of the others. Until she gave it to him herself, he would continue to call her the Librarian.

It had been what he had called her before he had known her.

He had known her the instant he had laid eyes upon her on the summer solstice. He had even warned her...and still, the foolish, brave girl had given him her hand. Sealing their fates.

How often had he seen her in his visions? The bright light at the end of the dark, long tunnel of his existence. He had seen their future, saw their lives entwined in ways he had not thought possible. His destiny stamped as clear as the printed word upon her fair face but he could not find the courage to give that truth voice. So, he told her of the other things he had seen: Her death. The fall of Hogwarts. Everything she was scared of.

But he left out the other parts. For those were the things that scared him.

Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the first owl that flew by the window or the second. It may have been the fourth or even fifth owl he finally saw, but soon the entire sky was full of them. His brow furrowed at the flurry of wings. Jefferson joined him at the window, wordlessly handing him the paper.

The paper was opened to the headline “Newest Divination Teacher: Monstrous Minion of Darkness”. The article went on to explain in graphic detail how he had supposedly run off the old Divination Teacher (a young woman named Astrid Nova) and took her place, bewitching Headmistress Reul Ghorm and bending her to his will.

He tossed it aside. Ghorm had already been bent to the Darkness’s will. Even if she did not yet know it. He did not know how the Librarian had convinced that one to let him cross the castle boundary, but he suspected it was only a matter of time before the Darkness in the headmistress's heart overwhelmed her. He could see the shadows on her face whenever she gazed at him, considering, wondering. She would come to him by the end of the year with her questions.

There was a knock at the trap door. Ever polite, his Librarian. He waved a hand and the trap door flipped open for her to emerge with her daily peace offering, a tray of tea. “Master Whale,” she greeted as Victor took the tray from her. “Professor Jefferson.”

“The Dragon was just telling me my fortune,” Jefferson said with a sorrowful grin.

The Librarian knew all too well what his fortune entailed. Day after day, Jefferson only asked Rumpelstiltskin the same question. “And how does your Grace fair today?”

“Thriving,’ Jefferson answered proudly, though his sad smile did not brighten.

Jefferson and his family had encountered the Darkness early in its rise. After Jefferson had barely survived the attack that had claimed his wife, he had sent his only daughter to the continent to attend Beauxbatons, praying it would be far enough. She had not spoken to him since, nearly three years

“And you, Master Whale?” Belle asked, though not as warmly.

It was clear that the Librarian did not quite trust Whale’s interest in him. Rumpelstiltskin could have told her that Whale had lost a brother years ago and had kept his body in the hopes of finding some magic strong enough to reanimate him, to bring him back. But he doubted that would do much to alleviate her suspicions. The healer was harmless. For now.

“Happy to be here,” Victor responded flippantly. “But like all good things, my time with you all has come to an end. The Nolans are stopping by the infirmary for an informal check-up.”

The Defense against the Dark Arts professor and her husband were expecting their first. They had been going to St. Mungo’s but with the rise of violence in London, it did not surprise him that they had opted to stay closer to Hogwarts.

Rumpelstiltskin exposed his fangs in a grimacing smile. He did not care much for Mary Margret Nolan. She had been the most vocal against him taking residence in the castle and been a thorn in his side ever since. “Send along my congratulations,” he said as Victor started to descend the spiral staircase. “Emma is a lovely name.”

The Librarian sighed. “They were going to have it be a surprise,” she chastised him as Victor’s laughter floated back up to them.

“Oh?”

He wasn’t fooling her but he had come to enjoy teasing the smile out of her, it was happening more and more frequently these days, which should have worried him.

Jefferson cleared his throat. “I’ll go and give Leroy a hand with the owls,” he said with a tip of his hat. The trapdoor swung shut behind him, leaving the two of them alone.

“Owls?” she echoed in confusion. Rumpelstiltskin nodded towards the paper on the table. The Librarian picked it up, scanned the headline and groaned. “Curse her,” she muttered, tucking her hair behind her ear. He watched her from beneath his curtain of hair. The Librarian always wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail, using whatever scrap of ribbon was at hand, but tendrils always escaped to fall about her face. “I’m going to wring her neck for this. She knows how important you being here is-”

There was little love lost between the defense teacher and the librarian but he had not expected such violence on his behalf. “Pregnancy does strange things to the mind,” he said, remembering all too well his own wife’s pregnancy and the mood swings that had accompanied it back in the days before modern medicine’s miracles. “It matters not,” he said even as more owls flew by. “Hogwarts is still the safest place in England. Those who do not send their children put them at great peril.”

The Librarian poured a cup of tea, absently sending it floating over to him as she began to pour another. “I hope I was right about all this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

He could have told her she was. That her destiny had been written long before she had been born, that she was following a path already laid out for her. But then she would ask him too many questions. He had did not always know when, just what would be.

So, he said nothing.

She let the paper drop to the table and sat in Jefferson’s vacated chair. Her fingers went to her throat, idly playing with the necklace hidden beneath her robes. “Why do you wear that?” he asked as he sat down across from her. “Inanimate magical objects can be dangerous things.”

“I’ve heard,” Belle said drily as her hand fell back to her lap. “I thought it better to keep it close than to risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

Rumpelstiltskin had thought the same thing. He could still remember the splitting pain...the emptiness that had never left him. To this day, he could feel the hole where his soul had been ripped away.

They didn’t say much after that. They took their tea in silence as owl after owl flew across the summer sky.

Read the rest on A03

#Rumbelle Christmas in July #Rumbelle Christmas in July 2019 #thestraggletag #rumbelle fanfic