#rumbelle big bang

[thestraggletag]

Ties of Blood, aka the Rumbelle cursed!faux!incest, Part Two

Summary: There’s nothing more tragic than ripping two lovers apart, except piecing the broken pieces together wrong. Never say the Evil Queen doesn’t know about revenge.

Rating: NC-17

Part One here.

Hey, it only took me FOUR YEARS to put up part Two! This fic will likely have four parts so I'll be finished before the decade's over.

Enjoy the big cliffhanger at the end of this chapter!

She figured it out seconds before Miss Swan blurted it out to the entire assembly, too late to make a hasty and discreet retreat. She forced herself to look relaxed and betray no emotion as Emma confessed the truth.

"The fire was a setup. Mr. Gold agreed to support me in this race, but I didn’t know that that meant he was going to set a fire. I don’t have definitive evidence, but I’m sure. And the worst part of all this was - the worst part of all this is - I let you all think it was real. And I can’t win that way. I’m sorry."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw her brother stand up and slowly walk away, understanding that he'd avoided sitting next to her because he knew what would happen. Knew Emma Swan enough to predict exactly how she'd react, down to her spontaneous confession. It was terrifying, how he could do that. And it was terrifying, for a whole lot of different reasons, how much he seemed to already know Miss Swan. How he could get inside her head so easily.

Once he was gone she felt some people turn their attention towards her, and it took all she had not to acknowledge it, to pretend she didn't notice it. As soon as she could, however, she slipped out of the hall, hastening home. She felt a sad sort of relief to find the house dark and quiet, Rabbie having retired to his room early for the night, allowing her to do the same and be alone with her thoughts. And they centred around Emma Swan and Mayor Mills, the two women who seemed to hold her brother's interest. It was difficult to tell which one he seemed to favour, and she could see either as being his preference. On the one hand he seemed to be doing the impossible to try and keep Emma Swan in town, toying with her in a way that could easily be interpreted as flirting, but on the other his hatred of Regina bordered on obsession, and could have easily been hiding a deep attraction. She was certainly privy to a side of him Rabbie fought to hide from Belle herself. Besides, the mayor had a dangerous sort of beauty that she could understand would be attractive to someone like her brother. Things were getting out of control, were escalating. A fire was too much to ignore, to excuse.

The days after the fire and the election were filled with the tense silence of things unspoken, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Though neither mentioned it Belle heard about clandestine meetings in the woods with the mayor and unexpected acts of kindness towards the sheriff, including the exchange of information- something Rabbie priced highly- in exchange for "tolerance".

Though she had told herself that she would've been happy if his brother decided to pursue Emma Swan she wasn't sure of it now. But she should try to embrace it, try to see the positive side of it. It was good of Rabbie to take an interest in someone new, good for him to interact more with people. When she expressed a wish to invite either woman for dinner, however, he seemed set against it, as if he found the idea distasteful.

"It's just... you seem to have so many things in common with both women, Rabbie. I thought inviting either for dinner would make a nice change from lonely nights with the town lunatic."

Her brother banged a closed fist on the table, startling her into dropping her cutlery. He seemed contrite as soon as he saw the scared expression on her face, reaching out with that same hand to take one of hers.

"Do not refer to yourself as that. Please. You're not... you're not crazy."

She wished she could agree, but she knew there was something wrong with her. She had dreams sometimes, strange and elusive and unsettling, and often she'd be hit by a sense of wrongness in the middle of the day, as if the world around her... wasn't real. Certain people also made her feel strange, like Maurice French. There was something about him that made her strangely nostalgic and yearning. The mayor, on the other hand, terrified her, and she didn't very well know why. But it was a cold, visceral sort of fear, deep and inexplicable. And her brother... Well, of course she loved him, but sometimes that love felt... wrong. In ways she didn't really want to explore at all.

It was happening more and more, which in turn had her feeling more and more like the little girl trapped in the asylum she'd once been. And like she'd deserved to be there.

"I'm sorry. I know you worry. And I don't want you to, I want you to... enjoy yourself. Mingle a bit more. Perhaps take the new sheriff for a drink or two, now that things seem to be better between you."

He looked puzzled, as if it had never occurred to him to view Miss Swan in a romantic light. Then again her brother was good about lying to himself when the mood struck him, it was altogether very possible he was in denial.

"You're seeing things, dear."

Belle chuckled, a mirthless sort of sound.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Without Graham to go to for some peace when things got to be too much Belle got into the habit of visiting his grave to bring fresh flowers and sit awhile to enjoy the peace and quiet. Her brother had thoughtfully seen fit to install a wooden bench, Marco's handiwork judging by the simple elegance of the design. Unwilling to go visit her friend empty-handed she became a regular visitor of Game of Thorns. The flower shop was poorly kept and Moe French looked like a man who could barely keep things running or his life together, but there was a sort of dignity about the man, the shadow of something great that had faded away with time. His flower arrangements were certainly beautiful, and his merchandise well cared-for.

Though he was wary of her at first her sunny disposition soon had him warming up to her and once she expressed her interest in flowers he became a veritable chatterbox. Every time she stopped by he'd have a new flower arrangement for her, taking great pains to tell her interesting tidbits about the flowers. She got used to stopping by with something to share, muffins or cookies or anything else she might easily carry in a tupper, once she realised the florist seldom remembered to eat during the day. He spoke, sometimes, of his wife- Belle hadn't known he was a widower- and how she'd been the one with the business sense, a force of nature that had kept the house and the shop running smoothly and profitably. He'd tried to emulate her efforts after she passed away, but he'd quickly found himself overwhelmed by daily life.

"I'm just no good outside a greenhouse, it seems. Plants come easy to me... Everything else usually becomes too much."

For some reason, she felt the overwhelming need to fuss about his clothes and his eating habits, though she knew that would imply far too much familiarity. Moe French was a gruff sort of person, and she was nothing but a glorified customer. He did seem not to mind her intrusions on his time, cheering up when she entered the shop and not at all eager, it seemed, to send her away.

Once, after a particular rotten day- she'd woken in the middle of the night with the remnants of some sort of horrible dream about her and made her way to her brother's room only to find him gone, and nothing had quite gotten better after that- he'd offered to show her to his greenhouse, which was fascinating. A large portion of it was occupied by rows of hydrangeas.

"It was my wife's favourite flower. Funny, some days I can hardly remember her face, but I've never forgotten she loved hydrangeas."

For some reason it didn't surprise her to find the late Mrs French had also favoured hydrangeas. It certainly explained why the flower shop always kept them in stock and in such an array of colours. Belle had thought perhaps that the florist did it to curry favour, to try to appease her brother come rent day, give him a reason to be lenient. She rather liked the more romantic explanation, it made the flowers seem less mercenary. And it fit her newfound understanding of Moe French as a man who'd loved fiercely and lost, who was hopeless at anything remotely business-related- something her brother often commented on, in a far less diplomatic manner- but made the most beautiful flower arrangements imaginable and spent a lot of his time talking to his plants in his greenhouse, claiming it helped them grow.

Changes were definitely happening, and though Belle could have done without a lot of them she rather liked some others.

He hated it. Couldn't quite tell why, but he hated it. Somehow the florist had always rubbed him the wrong way, for no apparent reason. He was a snivelling, barely-functional excuse of a man, with the worst business sense he'd ever seen, who saw fit to blame all of his woes on others. Granted, he was not the only person in Storybrooke Gold was less than impressed with, but there was something about him, something special that pushed his dislike into outright, seething hate. Being in the florist's presence for long tended to make him violent, to fill him up with an inexplicable rage.

Belle's soft spot for the old man made him strangely apprehensive and anxious. It felt almost as if he thought Moe was dangerous for his sister, like he wished to do her harm, which he knew wasn't true. In the past, however, that awful feeling in the pit of his stomach had not been recurring, since Belle crossed paths with Mr French only seldomly. The flowers that decorated their home were picked up by him or, more often, by Dove, his only employee. The library and the flowershop were far enough away from each other and Moe French wasn't into reading anything longer than a magazine. Gold doubted he even had a library card.

But after Graham died Belle had acquired the habit of visiting his grave, often bringing with her a bouquet to place near the headstone. Which meant she was suddenly visiting the flower shop often and that set his teeth on edge. Especially when it became clear his sister was taking a genuine interest in the florist and he seemed to be responding in kind. Belle had never given him the impression of wanting a father figure. They had both tacitly agreed, once they'd been reunited, that each was all the family the other needed. He didn't like the notion that he wasn't enough, that he'd failed somehow, in some way he couldn't fathom. That he was lacking.

Moe was a lonely man, who likely found himself nearing retirement and dealing with the regrets of a life half-lived. He had a vague notion that he'd once been married, long ago, but there had been no kids, and later on his wife had passed away, leaving him all alone. A man with no family, with no friends, with very little in the way of a future. He could understand that someone like that might start to covet things that weren't his, things he desired. For some reason the idea that Moe might actually have... an unseemly interest in his sister had never crossed his mind. Man was no lecher, which might easily be his one and only virtue. But he did have some sort of interest in Belle, man lit up whenever she was around and became someone capable of carrying a conversation and not simply grunting. He'd tell her about plants as if they were a fascinating subject and, much to his chagrin, it led to botany books joining Belle's multiple book piles around the house. Books were how Belle best expressed herself, and so he'd learned to read the book piles. Victoria Holt novels when she was feeling down and needed a bit of romance with a twist, Agatha Christie when she was feeling bored with the quiet daily life of Storybrooke, Cortazar for when her mood was dark and strange and she needed stories to match and so on. Everything new that caught her eye would eventually end up in the piles and, over the years, he'd been their biggest influence. Law review books when he was handling a tricky case, art history books to learn more about whatever big project he was working on, even the odd medical journal whenever there was an interesting or relevant article about physical therapy for people with his sort of injury. To see a bit of Moe French in the piles set him on edge.

He tried to tell himself when rent day came along that he wasn't taking any sick pleasure from running the numbers and discovering that French was a whopping three hundred and fifty bucks short. Told himself that he was simply following protocol when he called Dove to provide muscle protection as he prepared to seize the florist's collateral, his van. So what if he'd perversively and carefully picked out what he was wearing that day, down to the paisley purple and silver tie? It simply meant he knew the power of appearances.

He told himself over and over he was in the right, preparing the arguments in his head to tell Belle once she, without a doubt, went off on him for it. He rehearsed them over and over and was in the process of reciting them in his head for the seventh time as he approached his house when he noticed the front door open. It was too soon for Belle to have closed the library and made her way home so his guard was immediately up. Once he made his way inside he reached for the Walter PPK he kept near the front door, removing the safety quickly as his eyes surveyed the living room, already noticing some valuables missing, as well as things strewn about, clear evidence of a robbery.

The appearance of Miss Swan a few seconds later, far from welcomed, put a damper on the plans already forming in his head. It was too much of a coincidence, being robbed the same day he'd moved against Moe French. This had all the markings of French's brand of sloppiness, down to the many expensive items he'd left behind because they weren't glittering baubles. He wouldn't have guessed anyone else was involved if he hadn't noticed a particular object missing. It was a small, insignificant thing, a bone china cup, dainty and chipped, that had once belonged to an expensive tea set his aunties had owned. Belle had chipped that cup as a baby, and so when the aunties were forced to sell it they had omitted the cup, which he had saved from the trash and kept in secret for years, the one thing Belle had touched that he could get his hands on. It was worthless except to him, nothing that could have possibly attracted the attention of someone ransacking the house for valuables.

No one knew where he kept the cup, though. Only Belle, of course, who might not remember breaking it as a toddler but had heard the story enough times to repeat it from memory at the drop of a hat. But no one else even knew the cup was of any significance.

‘Regina.’

He turned around, as if expecting someone to materialise behind him. He shook his head, wondering if there was something in the water. First Sheriff Graham seeing wolves in the woods and now he was hearing noises. And there was a nagging feeling, one he couldn’t explain, regarding the mayor. As if some part of him knew she was responsible for it, just like Belle had been sure she was responsible for the good sheriff’s death.

It didn’t matter how the florist knew anyway. Perhaps it was a coincidence. What mattered was getting the cup back intact. Everything else could wait.

He felt off kilter, in a way he could not explain away. Like he had spent half the day on autopilot, doing things without a conscious thought or a good reason. Kidnapping the florist had been a deliberate move, that one he could not excuse. After all the man had touched what was his and needed to know that such actions carried consequences. But what happened later… that he had no reasonable explanation for. The rage that overtook him when he heard Mr French’s pathetic pleas for leniency, his desperate attempts at reasoning with him, he could not explain. It felt like something foreign, something subconscious he could only scratch at, that was dying to push its way out of his body. A voice told him that Maurice had done something awful. Something beyond redemption. That he had taken Belle from him, in a way that was permanent, and that he needed to pay for it.

‘He hurt her,’ the voice told him, over and over until it was howling inside his head, drowning out the desperate cries from the florist and the sound of Sheriff Swan identifying herself on the other side of the door, demanding entry. It wasn’t until she barged in and cuffed him that he snapped out of it, as if awakening suddenly from a dream that felt too real until the last second.

“What the hell were you thinking, Gold? What did he do?”

“He stole.”

He thought about the cup, but somehow other images kept popping into his head instead. Of Belle, dressed in a blue dress he could not recall her ever owning, lounging around in an unfamiliar, palatial place. Of them dancing around each other, the air charged with something he could not describe. And then himself, alone. Devastated. Because Belle was… gone?

“That reaction was about more than taking a few trinkets. You said something about how he hurt "her", what happened to "her"? Who was that? What did he do? If someone needs help, maybe I can help. Unless this is about your sister, in which case I would remind you about the virtues of sharing. She’s a grown woman capable of choosing who she socialises with.”

“No. I'm sorry, Sheriff. I think you heard that wrong.”

He was in no mood to have whatever discussion this was turning into, not with the Sheriff or anyone else. He knew what people thought about him, and his relationship with his sister. But it wasn’t any of their fucking business. They weren’t family, not like-

Except he had called Maurice her father, hadn’t he? Why had he done that? At the moment he hadn’t thought about it. Words had just poured out of his mouth, as if he had always wanted to speak them. As if he had been dying to say them.

“You really don't wanna cooperate.”

He really, really didn’t.

“Look, we're done here.”

He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to have to explain to others what he could not even begin to make sense in his head. He just wanted to go home, to Belle’s relaxing company. Sheriff Swan slapping cuffs on him jarred him out of his little fantasy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The cells back at the sheriff’s station were not known for their comfort, and his headache wasn’t helping matters. His mind felt scattered, as if it was difficult to concentrate. He struggled to make sense of things, to keep it together. Nonsensical images flitted about his mind, of places he had never seen, a life he had never lived. And that voice, that damnable sing-songy voice, kept whispering in his ear, taunting about how he did not remember, how he had forgotten something important.

When the mayor came, it took everything in him not to snap because he realised that whatever was going on wasn’t happening in his head. Regina knew. She knew and he was in the dark, yet for some inexplicable reason she thought the opposite. There was a power struggle happening, and he was on the losing end of it unless he figured out fast what the fuck was going on in his town.

The glee in the mayor’s face when she realised that he did not know what she was talking about was a bitter pill to swallow, but the return of his chipped cup softened the sting. He needed to be out to figure out what was going on and how it connected to everything else wrong around him.

A quick call later, which Sheriff Swan had allowed him only after he had rather mockingly reminded her of his rights, had him out of the station in little time at all. DA Spencer was nothing if not shady, after all, and though he had no expectations of loyalty- he was sure Spencer was dealing with him only because Regina had not come knocking with a better offer- it got him out of his more immediate and pressing problem. He would deal with the charges themselves later.

He hoped, rather foolishly perhaps, that his slightly-rumpled estate would put off whatever inevitable confrontation would eventually happen between himself and his sister but it was a testament to how angry Belle was that she seemed not to notice the way his limp was noticeably more pronounced once he was finally home.

“What the hell has gotten into you? Are you mad?”

He shrugged off his coat and hung it in the rack near the door, unable to help the way his eyes went up and down Belle, making sure she was alright, that no harm had come to her in the time he had been indisposed. She looked healthy. And absolutely furious. Worse than that. She looked betrayed.

“I was merely seeking justice. The good sheriff didn’t seem to be going anywhere with her investigation of the theft in our home, so I took matters into my own hands. Miss Swan clearly did not appreciate me showing her up, so to speak, by finding the culprit and making sure there wouldn’t be a repeat offence.”

So what the handle of his cane was covered in a bit of blood? Headwounds bled easily, everyone knew that. 

“Moe French is in the hospital! You should’ve seen him in the hospital bed, covered in bandages, practically unable to move!”

“You went to visit him?”

It felt like a betrayal, knowing that while he had been seething in prison, dealing with Regina and getting his precious cup back, his sister had been visiting the person who had violated their home and taken things of untold value to him. Hadn’t she thought about visiting him? About his comfort? He had done all he had to protect her, after all. To protect them.

“I had to! I had to see for myself, apologise on your behalf and make sure he knew we would cover all medical expenses.”

“Like hell we are.” He had never raised his voice to his sister before, not that he ever recalled, and yet something about their current dynamic felt so strangely familiar. “Not an ounce of my money is going to that snivelling little leech.”

“So it’s your money now? That’s how this is? Your money, your power, your reputation. That’s what you were protecting when you were beating a defenceless Moe French, wasn’t it?”

“He doesn’t deserve your fierce defence of him. He never has. He’s beneath your notice, and yet you’ve insisted on paying attention to him. Of spending time with him. Of course he was going to take advantage of it eventually, of your kindness and your bleeding heart.”

He stalked off towards the wet bar in the corner of their living-room, serving himself a generous three fingers of 30-year-old Macallan, trying not to remember it had been a gift of Belle’s for his last birthday. 

“I’m not some idiot that someone can easily take advantage of! And you don’t get to dictate who I spend time with! I keep quiet about your social life, don’t I? Meeting with the major in the woods at night, having questionable encounters with the sheriff. Things any other person might have questioned you about. But I kept silent, I’ve not complained about how much less time we spend together, how you’ve become more secretive, more cagey. You have no right to dictate to me in return.”

Rabbie scoffed, downing his drink and contemplating pouring himself another. It wasn’t the first time his sister implied he was paying too much attention to either the mayor or the sheriff, and he was sick of it. It wasn’t true, for one, and he disliked that his sister kept both pushing him towards the two women and then acting strange when she perceived he was spending too much time with either of them. He disliked how they had wormed their way into their home. For him, both women were… business connections, which he cultivated and utilised for his own benefit, to maintain and grow his hold over the town and make things go the way he wanted them to. But all that stopped mattering as soon as he crossed his front door. Their house was their private sanctuary, a world of their own. That’s why he had taken such a dislike to the mere idea of Moe French violating their space. And it rankled that she didn’t seem to hold the same sentiment.

“Stop it! Stop whatever weird little thing you’ve been imagining it’s happening between me and the sheriff or, God forbid, the mayor. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, you’ve completely lost-”

He stopped himself, the enormity of what he was about to say hitting him a second before he did. But he could see from the way that Belle’s eyes suddenly filled with tears that it was too little, too late.

“My mind? Say it. It’s what everyone thinks, after all. The truth is you’ve never cared about my social life before because I had none. Because everyone in this town keeps their distance from me, like I’m some sort of wild animal that’ll attack them unprovoked at any moment. And they’re not necessarily wrong, are there? I… I have these dreams, sometimes. So vivid they feel more real than my life here sometimes. And I have these inappropriate-”

This time she was the one that stopped herself, her eyes suddenly not meeting his as she side-stepped him to head towards the stairs. He knew her well enough to know she was planning to go up to the library to read herself to sleep. The library was her personal space, like the basement workshop was his, and they had a tacit agreement not to step into each other’s rooms without express permission, making them places where they could take a break from each other. He would have let her go, only he felt like she had been about to say something important. Monumental. As if she had been about to give voice to something that had, for the longest time, been unspoken between them. He grabbed her by the arm, gentle in spite of the tone and charged air in the room.

“What were you going to say?” 

“Nothing.”

He could see her folding into herself, escaping into that bit of her mind he could not touch and it infuriated him. She never did that with him, not on purpose. She was always an open book where he was concerned, the one person he didn’t have to worry would have ulterior motives.

“It’s not nothing. Why are you lying to me? You’ve never done that before.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that he only ever lied to her for her protection. There were things she was better off not knowing, things he was happier if she could safely deny having knowledge of. Things she might find unseemly or unpalatable and would struggle to reconcile with her values. Belle was a much better person than he was, than most people were. He didn’t want her to have to pit her love for him against her sense of right and wrong. 

But saying that suddenly sounded incredibly condescending.

“Don’t change the subject. This isn’t about me, it’s about you. And when it comes to us I’m always honest with you. And until now you’ve done the same. But there’s something you’re keeping from me.”

The way she wouldn’t meet his eyes told him that he was right.

“Can you really say that? You think I don’t realise you’ve been different these past few months? Ever since Emma Swan showed up, as a matter of fact.”

She was right, of course, but not in the way she seemed to be implying. Something had indeed changed the day Henry Mills had dragged his very reluctant biological mother across the townline months ago. He could not pinpoint what, or when he had first noticed it. When things he had kept mostly buried beneath layers of denial, started to surface. When he began to hear a niggling voice in the back of his head that told him there was something wrong with the way he felt about his sister. In the ways his eyes and hands lingered on her at times, in the way he felt when other people- other men- took her from him, even if it was only for a little while. It was the only part of what made beating Moe French make sense, this notion that this man was there to take Belle away from him and needed to be stopped. The other part of it, the blind, consuming rage, that remained a mystery to him.

 “Stop this obsession with the bloody sheriff. Who cares about her? Why do you insist on bringing her up between us? Acting like-” Like a jealous girlfriend. “-like you’re insecure. Like you’re afraid we’re drifting apart.”

“Aren’t we? When was the last time we had lunch together when I wasn’t the one taking the trouble of going to the pawnshop to make it happen. When was the last time we went a week without something making you skip dinner? The last time we sat down to watch a movie?” Belle’s eyes welled up, her face a mixture of anger and sadness that made him want to wrap his arms around her, even though he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it. He still held on to her, both hands on her arms now, his cane dropped. He trusted her to keep him upright.

“Sometimes… sometimes I think I love you more than you love me.”

“No one could love anyone more than I love you.” He felt his hands tighten around her upper arms and though a part of him knew he must be hurting her he could not make himself pull away. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. It’s the only thing I’ve ever felt sure about in this world. The only thing that feels right.”

“Does it? Because it hasn’t felt right for me lately. Like I’ve woken up and realised that the way we are is not… It’s not good for us. It’s not healthy. It’s not normal.”

“Fuck normal. No part of our lives has been normal. What we have is not normal, it’s better. Better than what most people will ever have. It feels good, doesn’t it?” He let one of his hands wrap around the back of her neck, the other going around her waist to pull her closer to appease the blind panic welling up in him at the idea that Belle might pull away. “You feel this? Whatever this is, it can’t be bad. Not between us.”

They never knew what happened first, whether it was Belle looking up or Gold looking down. One moment they were simply close, foreheads touching, the air charged between them, and the next their lips grazed, tentatively at first, the pressure increasing as something sparked between them. Belle sighed, her hands pressing against his shoulders to be able to stand on her toes and lean into the kiss and it was all that was needed for Gold’s carefully-curated self-restraint to snap. Suddenly he was hauling her close, his mouth pressing insistently against hers, coaxing her lips to open so he could slip his tongue into the warm heaven that was her. He growled, feeling exhilaration course through him as he kissed her frantically, with a desperation he had never felt before. Something sizzled between them, something that felt a bit like electricity travelling all over his body but he pushed that feeling aside, concentrating instead on the feeling of his sister’s hands sliding to the back of his neck, one taking a lock of his hair and tugging on it, urging him closer. She was soft and warm and wonderful in his arms, and he could not shake the feeling that this was right. It was what they had always meant to be doing, what their entire lives had led to. Why he had always been resentful of men sniffing around Belle, why he had always compared women to her. The few women who he had dated had all closely reassembled her, but he had never noticed. All a pale imitation of her, he could see now as he fisted the back of her shirt, his hand seeking the warmth of her skin. She was perfect, and she was his. His beautiful little sister, his true love.

‘That means it’s true love!’

There was a bright flash of something and next thing he knew Gold was on the floor on the other side of the living-room, a searing pain in his forehead and a deluge of confusing memories hammering into his brain. A spinning wheel. A dagger.

Baelfire. His son.

A curse to become reunited with him. And just as he was about to accomplish it… a flicker of light. One that had been snuffed out.

Dead.

He looked across the room, at his sister sprawled next to the couch, her eyes wide as she looked at him.

“R-Rumple?”

“Belle.” He had said her name a thousand times as Mr Gold, but it felt different, like he was talking about a different person. And, in a way, he was. Not Belle French, but Lady Belle. Except she was supposed to be dead. Regina had told him-

Fuck. How could he have been so stupid?

“You’re real. You’re alive.”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #ties of blood #thestraggletag fanfiction

[nadiiselsil]

Ships

I know I'm very late to the party but I'm gonna do this now.

Ship you wish had been canon

Swan Queen (Once Upon a Time) Listen I will be mad about this till the day I die. Queerbaiting at it's highest. We could have had the most beautiful love story.

2. Newest Ship

Daniel x Vala (Stargate SG-1) I have been watching this show all my life (so for 25 years basically) and then my 2023 rewatch whacked me over the head with these two idiots. Daniel was always my fave and then I met Vala and now I am obsessed with both of them. Together and on their own.

3. Favourite Ship

Ten x Rose (Doctor Who) Since I can't just put SwanQueen or Daniel x Vala here again, I am choosing TenRose. They were everything. I still cry to this day when I hear the doomsday theme playing.

4. Ship you want to be canon

Isaac x Nigel (Ghosts cbs) Okay I am kinda cheating here because it is canon. But I barely watch shows anymore that are not already finished or cancelled. So this is the closest thing I could find. Let's just say I hope they will be endgame!

5. First Ship you were crazy for

Shamy (The Big Bang Theory) Fifteen year old me was all over this. They were my introduction to shipping, tumblr and fanfiction. Now, ten years later and I'm asking myself: why? I mean I do still get it. But I guess they don't give me the feels anymore.

6. Ship you wish had more screentime

Rumbelle (Once Upon a Time) I know they have plenty of screentime later on. I just wish they had gotten more before the writers went and completely ruined both their characters as well as this ship. I might have a thing for problematic ships but at some point even I draw the line.

7. First Ship

Jake x Rose (American Dragon) I don't know if this is really my first ship but it's the earliest one I can remember right now. God their story was heartbreaking. Made ten year old me cry.

8. Honorable Mention

Caskett (Castle) I don't know how much of me shipping this was just me projecting cause I had a crush on Beckett but fact is they occupied my shipping heart for quite a while and they are one of the few ships I actually read fanfic about. I should rewatch this some time in the future.

#ships #swan queen #daniel x vala #ten rose #isaac x nigel #shamy #rumbelle #jake x rose #.caskett

[deliriumsdelight7]

Top 5 or Top 10 vidya games!! (whichever is easier for you to do)

Top 10 is easier because then I don’t have to narrow down my picks. In no particular order:

1.) Odin Sphere: Leifthrasir. A completely unhinged soppy anime fairy tale retelling of the myth of Ragnarok. With bunny people who cook you tasty food, and a death goddess with tits bigger than my head.

2.) Journey. Gorgeous visuals, quick playtime, a whole story told without using a single word.

3.) Persona 5: Royal Edition. This game features well-fleshed-out characters and a Pokémon style battle system where the “monsters” are mythological creatures who represent your innermost self. The gameplay is fun, the soundtrack bangs, and the themes of rebellion and being true to oneself are hilarious when juxtaposed with the pressure to fit in at school.

4.) Final Fantasy VI. This game features just the right blend of fantasy and steampunk. The cast of playable characters is… maybe too big… but most of them are fleshed out so you really care about their struggles. Having to learn to navigate the world all over again because of Kefka’s shenanigans with the Warring Triad was a brilliant move, and the endgame side quests honestly make the whole game.

5.) Heavy Rain. Not quite video game, not quite visual novel, Heavy Rain tells the story of Ethan Mars, a man who lost one son to an accident and faces the very real possibility of losing his other son to a serial killer. I definitely didn’t see the killer’s identity coming!

6.) Undertale. Listen. I still tear up any time “His Theme” comes on. Enough said.

7.) Transistor. Basically a loose retelling of the Little Mermaid fairy tale using a sort of cyberpunk-esque setting which may or may not just be a computer program. Never did I expect to fall in love with a sword with a voice and a woman with none, but here we are. I wonder if there’s good Red/B fic out there…

8.) Pyre. The closest I will ever get to playing a sports game. A story of an idealistic justice system gone wrong, of overcoming the odds stacked against you… or failing. I still kinda wanna Rumbelle this game but that would be a TASK.

(Fans of Supergiant Games will notice that I included two entries by them, but not their most popular one. This is simply because I haven’t gotten around to playing Hades yet.)

9.) The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. Is it the biggest Zelda game? No. The best? Debatable. But it’s the most atmospheric, with the one “assistant character” in the series who I didn’t want to strangle by the end of the game. Plus… shipping.

10.) Chrono Trigger. Time travel shenanigans that cover everything from cavemen to the end of the world and beyond. Characters given the opportunity to right their mistakes (or those of others) through side quests. A broody mage-dude with a skin condition and dark affiliations. I like what I like.

[kelyon]

TMI Tuesday

Hello Tumblr!

You know, there just might be something to this whole “take medication that helps you feel better” thing. It is December 6th. It is cold, it is dark, I am being compelled to engage in social activities--and I’m still writing up a storm! 

Over the weekend I wrote about 4200 words of my Rumbelle Secret Santa fic. I’m at the halfway point on my haphazard outline, but not sure where that will end up being in the story itself. I have it written that our heroes bang at the end of the fic, but I’m opening up to the possibility of them banging sooner. We’ll see how it goes. 

For Dark Mistress, I wrote 2200 words just tonight! Normally, I force myself to write 500 words in a session, usually end up with 800 and occasionally surprise myself with a 1000+ day. It really helps that this chapter (Confession) is 100% backstory. That is, Belle sharing her backstory with Rumple--who asks helpful questions to keep things moving along. Originally, the backstory was supposed to have one big bombshell, but somewhere in writing this fic, I decided that a second bombshell was also in Belle’s past. Because I like piling my characters with layer after layer of angst, like the world’s saddest baklava.      

So yeah, things are going well on the writing front. Hopefully I’ll be able to start up on Solstice pretty soon here. When I’m working on two fics, I think the way to go is to work on one on the weekends and one on the weekdays. Not sure how that’s going to translate to working on three fics at the same time. But at the rate I’m going, I might finish something very soon! 

(Cut to some natural disaster or emotional crisis or physical ailment or family emergency that keeps me from writing for more than a week.) 

But until that happens, my inbox is open! Hit me up, ask me anything, just come say hi. I’ve got some asks that I didn’t get to last week (which is a shame because they were really good questions). I can’t wait to answer what I can!

Have a great day out there everyone.

Dark Mistress is here

My inbox is here

#tmi tuesday #Dark Mistress

[peacehopeandrats]

Fic questions challenge

Day 22: Have you ever participated in a fest or a Big Bang? If so, write about your favorite experience in relation to one. If not, are there any you've thought about doing? And if not, why not? Sure, I've done all kinds of Rumbelle events. That's the only reason I joined tumblr and AO3. I wanted more prompts and motivation to tell stories and that's where the action was. It was a fellow writer who convinced me to join and I get out of it exactly what I need to for myself. I have fun doing what I do, that's the most important thing.

[rumbellebigbang]

Rumbelle Big Bang: Masterlist

This is it. The big one. The one we’ve all been waiting for ... the wrap-up, the one-stop shopping for all your Big Bang goodness. There’s a lot of awesome fic and art on this list. Please don’t stay up until 3am reading :p although I know it’ll be tempting. Do enjoy, although I know you will :)

Team Fic

This is Us - by @worryinglyinnocent: Sold into a sideshow by his father on account of his strange appearance, Rumpelstiltskin has resigned himself to a life confined to a cage, being gawked at by a morbidly curious public. When Belle French arrives at the travelling show, abandoned by her own father, she gives him the new lease of life and determination that he needs to break them both free of their cages and find a new life where their differences will be celebrated, not jeered. [Art by @novaliane-san]

What Needs Mending - by @theoneandonlylittlebird: As soon as his son turns eighteen, Mr. Gold will be able to resume contact without his ex’s interference. When he fails to make a good impression on the new librarian, Gold begins to fear something he has never bothered to care about in the past, his reputation, may be insurmountable. This could cost him not only the favor of the new librarian, but ultimately his son. [Art by @avatoh]

Take Me Away - by @nerdcafeolatra: The faeries were tricksters, powerful beings not to be messed with, and Belle knew that. but the peculiar being that she found inside the fairy circle didn’t make her feel threatened by him at all. In fact, as she became closer and closer to him, not only did she find a friend, she found out more about herself than she ever thought she could. [Art by @nropay-gallery]

Finding Stars, Not Counting Scars - by @fangirlgeeksstuff: Belle French, new girl at school, is immediately drawn to the notorious Rumpelstiltskin, a troubled, closed off guy who has a bad reputation with criminal tendencies. Will Belle be able to get him to open up, or will he carry on in the footsteps of his parents? [Art by @leni-ba]

The Missing Piece - by @ethereal-wishes: Belle French has been raising her estranged stepsister, Milah’s son, since she dropped him on her stoop at two weeks old. Belle is the only maternal figure, eight year old Neal has ever known. Life is simple and it’s good, but matters become complicated when a wealthy businessman, sweeps into Storybrooke, claiming to be the boy’s father. [Art by @virgidearie]

Fine Print - by @prissyhalliwell: A mid-life crisis can be Hell, especially if you’re running the place. When his son falls in love with a mortal, Rumplestiltskin is forced to leave his throne in the Underworld and journey to Storybrooke to break the couple up. Little does he know that this will bring him face-to-face with his ex-girlfriend, the woman he’d run from years ago but had never been able to forget. [Art by @bisexualbelle]

Fragments of the Past, Glimpses of Tomorrow - by @wierdogal: Pan’s cursed had failed. Rumple was dead and the people of Storybrooke are left to pick up the pieces. Eleven months of peace and quiet…that is until people from the Enchanted Forest start popping up in Storybrooke. [Art by @fangirlgeeksstuff]

In a Dreaming Place - by @sieben9: Belle’s mother disappeared eight years ago, and now Belle has returned to sell the old family home in Storybrooke and finally move on with her life. However, she meets Rumplestiltskin, a member of the Fae Courts, who not only seems connected to Colette’s disappearance, but brings his own host of problems into Belle’s life. As reluctant partners (though increasingly attracted to each other), they have to navigate both smalltown life in Storybrooke, as well as the intrigues and mind-bending oddities of the Fae Court to find what they are looking for. [Art by @jackabelle73]

Much Ado About Lacey - by @thatravenclawbitch: Detective Weaver wakes up to find himself in bed with a beautiful brunette named Lacey. Life would be good, if not for the fact that he’d been introduced to Lacey just the day before as the longtime girlfriend of his partner, Detective Rogers. [Art by @desperatemurph]

The Demon Earl’s Deal - by @b-does-the-write-thing: With the fate of Avonlea in the balance, Belle French will do anything to save her village, including making a deal with the Demon Earl of Lonsdale himself. [Art by @rumpledspinster]

Opening Lines - by @emospritelet: After years on the streets, Lacey French is used to taking care of herself, but witnessing a violent crime leads to her bumping into Detective Weaver - quite literally.  He never thought that he needed someone in his life. Until she came hurtling into it. [Art by @evilsnowswan]

A Long Way From Home - by @mrs-stiltskin: Former Britpop musician, Lachlan MacAldonich is hiding from his past on a California farm when his life takes an unexpected turn. Finding himself facing deportation and his own past mistakes, Lachlan meets Belle French, a restless spirit looking for adventure and meaning in a wider world. Maybe they’ll find a way to help each other, and reunite Lachlan with an important figure from his hard-living, partying past. [Art by @virgidearie]

Coleslaw and Daggers - by @darcyfarrow2005: Pink. The mansion of the richest man in town, the fortress of the world’s most powerful sorcerer, the lair of the dark beast, is pink. [Art by @mrs-stiltskin]

Holding On and Letting Go - by @sarashouldbestudying: On a night like any other, Belle French comes home tired from work, and wants nothing more than a good night of rest. Someone, however, shows up at her door: it’s Gideon, the son she gave up for adoption thirteen years before. Shocked but also overjoyed, Belle hopes to finally get a place in her estranged son’s life. His adoptive father, however, is incredibly protective of him; will she manage to convince Mr Gold that she’s not a threat, just a mother that had to make a terrible choice? [Art by @desperatemurph]

Begin Again - by @rufeepeach: Facing a midlife crisis, Mr Gold moves into a Manhattan apartment seeking a new beginning. Downstairs lives Lacey Rose, a beautiful young woman with a mysterious income, a hidden past, and a nose for trouble. Young, brash, and insisting upon belonging to no one, Lacey’s brassy exterior hides a whole different person beneath. A person who, just maybe, is also seeking a happy beginning. Fifty is far too old to begin anew alone, but maybe possible together. Rumbelle Breakfast at Tiffany’s AU. [Art by @ifishouldvanish]

How Do You Sleep - by @ifishouldvanish: When retired Brit rocker Lachlan MacAldonich is threatened with deportation after a DUI, he turns to his estranged wife for help– a groupie named Lacey he married one drunken night several years ago. [Art by @moonlight91]

The Sapphire Queen - by @moonlight91: Forced to live as a hostage after the death of her father, Princess Belle of Avonlea must marry the hidden son of the despotic King Malcolm of Aurum who has some secrets of his own.

Cupcakes and Magical Mishaps - by @idesignedthefjords: Belle’s new baking hobby is halted when she runs out of a special ingredient and accidentally doses her sweets with a potion that the two of them end up ingesting. [Art by @galactic-pirates]

Team Art

This is Us illustrated by @novaliane-san. [Fic by @worryinglyinnocent]

What Needs Mending illustrated by @avatoh [Fic by @theoneandonlylittlebird]

Take Me Away illustrated by @nropay-gallery [Fic by @nerdcafeolatra]

Finding Stars, Not Counting Scars moodboards by @leni-ba [Fic by @fangirlgeeksstuff]

The Missing Piece manip by @virgidearie [Fic by @ethereal-wishes]

A Twist in the Story illustrated by @galactic-pirates

Fine Print gifset by @bisexualbelle [Fic by @prissyhalliwell]

Fragments of the Past, Glimpses of Tomorrow video by @fangirlgeeksstuff [Fic by @wierdogal]

In a Dreaming Place gifset by @jackabelle73 [Fic by @sieben9]

Much Ado About Lacey gifset by @desperatemurph [Fic by @thatravenclawbitch]

The Demon Earl’s Deal illustrated by @rumpledspinster [Fic by @b-does-the-write-thing]

Opening Lines covers by @evilsnowswan [Fic by @emospritelet]

A Long Way From Home manip by @virgidearie [Fic by @mrs-stilrskin]

Coleslaw and Daggers art by @mrs-stiltskin [Fic by @darcyfarrow2005]

Holding On and Letting Go gifset by @desperatemurph [Fic by @sarashouldbestudying]

Begin Again art by @ifishouldvanish [Fic by @rufeepeach]

How Do You Sleep art by @moonlight91 [Fic by @ifishouldvanish]

Cupcakes and Magical Mishaps aesthetic by @galactic-pirates [Fic by @idesignedthefjords]

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle art #rumbelle big bang #masterlist #long post

[desperatemurph]

This is my gifset for @rumbellebigbang for the masterpiece created by fantastic @thatravenclawbitch! Much Ado About Lacey

#rumbelle big bang #rumbellebigbang #thatravenclawbitch #woven lace #wovenlaceedit #rumbelle #rumbelleedit #detective weaver #detectiveweaveredit #lacey french #laceyfrenchedit #detective rogers #detectiverogersedit #ouat #ouatedit #rumbelle au #my stuff #my gifs

[ifishouldvanish]

How Do You Sleep?

for @rumbellebigbang​. Artwork by the lovely @moonlight91​ :)

When retired Brit rocker Lachlan MacAldonich is threatened with deportation after a DUI, he turns to his estranged wife for help– a groupie named Lacey he married one drunken night several years ago. 

Rated M for the language and alcoholism. 50k bc I don’t know why.

[READ ON AO3]

PROLOGUE

The first few times you were taken to a rockstar's hotel room, the sight was a little jarring.

Instead of a pristine room with a freshly made bed, you were greeted by a mess. Bottles and cans on the floor, sheets bunched around the foot of the bed, a foul smell of unknown origin.

But then again, Lachlan MacAldonich wasn't a rockstar. Not really, not anymore.

His hand dropped from where it had been resting on the small of Lacey's back as they reached the door of room 318. He swiped the card though the reader and thrust the door open, revealing a room with nothing more than a slept-in bed and a single worn outfit strewn across it.

“You ever like, totally trash one of these places?” Lacey asked as she stepped inside.

He headed straight for a brown bag on the otherwise pristine desk, next to one list of TV channels, and another of restaurants in the area that deliver. “Who do I look like?” he scoffed, “Bloody Axl Rose?”

“Eh,” she shrugged. “Axl’s got a cuter nose than you.”

Lachlan swatted a hand through the air. “Fuck 'im.” he said, and there was the crinkling of paper before he spun around with a bottle of whisky in hand. “Pricks, all of them.”

He unscrewed the cap and took a quick swig straight from the bottle before setting it back down on the desk.

“We ah… we met… him, once, in ah… fuck,” he laughed. “I don’t remember where, but– anyway, you uh… you… wanna drink?” he asked, eyelids drooped and his mouth slack. “There's ah… whisky, and… whisky?” he boasted with a lopsided grin, swaying a little before finding his balance against the desk.

Lacey nibbled her lip, taking in the state of him. He was more than halfway drunk, but so was she. Besides, he was cute, and she'd already set out this evening fully prepared to make a lot of bad decisions.

“Perfect.” She licked her lips. “Because I uh… happen to be a whisky girl.”

It was the fantasy, after all. Had been since the tenth grade, when she'd spend her nights locked up in her room listening to Bank Street Waltz while poring over lyrics and smiling at one of the moody faces on the album's back cover.

The face she was looking at now.

It was older and more tired, of course. Hair a little longer and greyer. The man a little thinner and weaker. But she didn't mind that.

If being a groupie was just about fucking only the hottest guys, surely there were other, younger, more virile options.

If being a groupie was just about fucking only the most famous ones, she wouldn't still have her heart set on the guitarist-turned-solo act of a now-defunct nineties alt-rock outfit.

If being a groupie was about fucking only the most talented ones, there's no way the man in front of her would qualify.

No. Being a groupie was about love.

Not the sappy bullshit kind, of course. Lacey knew better than to fantasize about that trite shit.

But loyalty. Dedication. Reciprocity.

People liked to call groupies sluts; starfuckers looking for a taste of the glitz and glamour to appropriate for themselves. But that wasn't it at all. The one true thing in this life was rock and roll. Not a sound or a song, mind. But a gut feeling.

A gut feeling that a scrawny little shit from Scotland had given her back in 1996, and that she'd been dedicated to giving back to him ever since.

It would be a shame to back down now.

“So,” Lachlan slid a glass of whisky toward her, “you from around here?”

Lacey picked up the glass, hiding her snort behind it. She knew her accent was impossible to miss, nevermind what a cliche line it was. “No, uh… family's from Melbourne,” she said. “…Australia?”

His eyes widened at that. “Right, right.” he acknowledged, hiding his ignorance behind his own glass with a swig.

“Family moved to the states in ninety-five. They're in Maine. I moved to LA on my own in ‘01.”

“What ah…” he gestured in the air, “what brought you–”

“Same shit as everybody else, I guess.” she shrugged. “Have you ever been to fuckin’ Maine?”

“Aye.” Lachlan smiled, nodded. “Don't remember it,” he laughed, “but I'm sure I was there at some point.”

“Try Portland.” she said. “Ninety-seven.”

“Ah.” he nodded. Furrowed his brows. “Do– Have we… already–”

“I didn't get to go.” she answered. “Overbearing father and lack of funds.”

He smiled and leaned a little closer, giving her a once-over and licking his lips. “No such thing as lack of funds when you got legs like that, darlin’.”

Lacey huffed a little laugh though her nose. He was a leg guy? She could work with that.

“Yeah, well... I was seventeen, so.”

He backed away and took another swig. “Well, ah wis just saying, like… now you know. For uh, next time, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll remember that,” she wet her lips, leaning on the dresser and lifting her leg up off the carpet so she could rub her ankle along his.

“You're… very beautiful.” he said, smiling dopily at her.

“Yeah? Is this the part where you tell me I’m not like all those other women who were also waiting in line to suck your dick?”

“Aye,” he smiled. “You see, you simply had–” he took a swig of his whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “the best blowjob lips.”

“That's... almost sweet.” Lacey smiled. “And here I thought it was because I was the only one still shorter than you in heels.”

“That… may have been a contributing factor,” Lachlan scoffed and leaned against the counter, finishing his drink and setting the glass down with a heavy thud. He reached an arm out to her, tucking his fingers inside the short sleeve of her dress before letting it drop to her waist.

“You get… more selective, ye know?” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Used to be you take all the girls back with you.”

“What happened? You not exactly have the stamina for that anymore?” she teased.

He smiled, closed his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. “No…” he said slowly. “I’s just… too much, ye know? They're always… so… excited? And really ye just… well, ye don't want to party after a while. Just… have a drink and… have someone around to make sure you dinny have too much and choke on your vomit like that… that–”

“Bon Scott?” she finished for him.

“Yeah.” he nodded. “Yeah, that cunt. Anyway, it's like... I get that it's exciting to them, ye know? But… it's hard to keep up with that after a while. Pretend you're as into it as they are, like?”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“So I just… liked your energy, ah suppose.”

Lacey rolled her eyes and laughed. “My energy?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “S’like… calm an���all.”

“Not sure I've uh… ever been told that one before,” she laughed.

“Well. Now ye have, yeah?”

“You always sweet talk the women you sleep with first?”

“No.” he frowned. “Usually they've got some speech about how important the music is to them and shite, so it's like you fuck 'em soon as you can get them through the door so they can shut the fuck up.”

Lacey snorted into her glass.

“I know it sounds like a cock thing tae do, and it's not that I'm no’ flattered– but after the twentieth speech, you’ve really heard them all, ye know?”

Lacey grinned and nibbled her lip. “...I’ve got a speech for you,” she said.

He tilted his head.

Lacey took a swig of her drink and leaned into his ear. “Rock ‘n’ roll makes me really horny,” she whispered.

“Oh.” he said, blinking as though she'd caught caught him off guard. A smile crept across his face.

Lacey slid her hand over his, holding it in place where it sat on her hip. “You wanna fuck me now?”

He looked away and scoffed again, cheeks rounding as he smiled. “Aye,” he said, looking back at her legs. “I… would love to fuck you right now.”

[READ ON AO3]

#rumbelle big bang #moonlight91 #rumbelle fic #anyelle #anyem #Lachlan x Lacey

[abovethemists]

Much Ado About Lacey

A/N: This is my entry for the @rumbellebigbang. Please check out the amazing gifset by @desperatemurph who not only made amazing art for this fic, but also helped talk me through the plotty bits. You were an amazing partner in this!

Summary: Detective Weaver wakes up to find himself in bed with a beautiful brunette named Lacey. Life would be good, if not for the fact that he'd been introduced to Lacey just the day before as the longtime girlfriend of his partner, Detective Rogers.

This wasn’t his bed.

That was the first thought Jim Weaver had upon opening his eyes on a Saturday morning in March. The second thought was to slam his eyes closed again at the pounding in his head.

It had been ages since he’d drank enough to have a hangover. He’d thought he’d worked up an immunity over the years, a steady diet of whisky and coffee leaving him perpetually waterlogged, caffeine and alcohol battling for dominance within his ravaged system. What had he done last night to drink so much?

He risked cracking his eyes open again to assess where exactly he was. The bed was softer than his own, the pillow behind his head far more plush than he was used to. His eyes watered a bit at the slice of sunlight coming in through a crack in the drapes, but it did illuminate the room enough to tell that he was in some kind of hotel, moderately priced by the looks of it.

There was a sniffle behind him and Weaver became aware of a warm presence beside him in the bed.

He shut his eyes, trying to remember just what had happened, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach. A one-night stand he couldn’t remember was certainly not a good way to start the day.

He glanced over his shoulder to be met with the sight of a creamy expanse of pale, flawless skin. The bedcovers were bunched around the woman’s waist, the top of her right buttock just visible from beneath. She had long dark hair, curling at the ends that had spilled across her face, blocking it from view. Weaver didn’t need to see her face to know who she was though.

Shit, he thought, his teeth grinding together. He was the biggest bloody fuckup in the universe and this only drove the point home.

He inched to the edge of the bed, doing his best not to disturb his bed partner as images from the night before started to catch up with him.

Sparkling blue eyes over the rim of a martini glass. Ruby red lips pulled back in a flirtatious smile. Those same lips wrapped around his cock.

Fuck!

There was no denying that he’d woken up in bed with Lacey French, the longtime girlfriend of his partner and the closest thing he had to a friend. A man he sat across from at his desk every day. A man he pounded the pavement with until all hours of the night chasing down leads. A man who had specifically invited him to meet Lacey because he considered him a friend.

Weaver dragged a hand through his hair, pulling at it and relishing the sting. He deserved his hangover. He deserved worse.

[Read the rest on AO3]

#rumbelle fic #raven's fic #woven lace #rumbelle #rumbelle big bang #desperatemurph #fic: much ado about lacey

[emospritelet]

This is my offering for the Rumbelle Big Bang!  It’s Woven Lace, a prequel to my fic Things Left Unsaid, detailing Weaver and Lacey’s first meeting and their friends to lovers journey.  My RBB buddy @evilsnowswan did gorgeous artwork to accompany it.  There are 5 chapters, and this is the first.  Read all 5 chapters on AO3 

Whatever the time of year, it was always fucking raining in Seattle.

Detective Weaver turned up the collar of his jacket as he stepped out of the humid warmth of Roni’s bar, scowling as rain began to pummel the top of his head.  He zipped the jacket, the brown leather already slippery beneath his fingers, and headed off in the direction of his apartment, shoulders hunched to keep out the wind that was trying to cut him in two.  Raindrops danced on the sidewalks, glittering in the light from bars and late-night diners, soaking into the hems of his jeans and spreading up his calves. At ten-thirty, it was early to be heading home, but he liked to keep a clear head on the streets.  There were too many people out there with a grudge against him, with a score to settle. Besides, there was a decent bottle of whisky in his kitchen, and he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone in order to get a glass.

He turned into an alleyway, which cut off most of the bitter wind, and walked past the dark metal fire escapes, the rain beating out a dull, clanging tune on their steel treads.  It was not far to his apartment, and this was the quickest route from Roni’s, but he moved quickly, hands loose at his sides, alert to any potential threat. Distant shouts made his eyes narrow, and then there was the rhythmic sound of running feet.  Weaver flexed his fingers, glancing around, but could see no one, and the noise died.

He walked on, quickening his pace, and turned into the final alleyway before his street, a narrow rat-run between apartment blocks, dumpsters wedged at angles beside rotting cardboard boxes of discarded flyers, coffee cups rolled into the gutters.  That rhythmic sound was there again, the patter of running feet, and Weaver skirted one of the dumpsters, towards the sound. Immediately a body slammed into him, almost knocking the breath from him, and instinctively he grasped at his assailant’s arms, turning and shoving them against the alley wall.

“Get off me!”

A woman’s frantic voice burst out, and he loosened his grip as he found himself gazing into a pair of wide eyes above a short, rain-slicked black coat. Weaver released her arms immediately, but didn’t step back, merely reaching for his badge to identify himself.

“Detective Weaver, Seattle P.D,” he said.  “Who’s chasing you?”

She was small and pale, her hair dark and tied up in a messy bun, stray wet curls sticking to her smooth cheeks and the straps of a backpack over her shoulders.  Young: late teens or early twenties. And terrified, although she was trying not to show it, her jaw protruding as she glared at him.

“You have to let me go!” she insisted, and made to push past.

“I can help,” he said firmly.  “Who’s after you?”

The sound of running feet was approaching again, this time heavy, uneven. Two people, he thought. Two men. The girl’s eyes had gone very round, and she shook her head frantically, glancing from left to right as though looking for a place to hide.

“She has to be down one of these fucking streets!” grated a voice from the end of the alleyway.  “What the fuck were you playing at, letting her get away?”

“Bitch fucking bit my hand!” complained the other.

“You’re a pussy!” snapped his companion.  “Can’t even handle one little girl? You’ll be lucky if you’ve still got your balls by the time the boss is done with you.”

“Just help me fucking find her, okay?”  Footsteps came nearer, splashing in the puddles. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.  She can’t be far.”

Weaver shifted position, his hand coming to rest on his gun, his body tense, and the girl shook her head.

“If they find me, they’ll kill us both!” she whispered.  “You have to let me go! I’m faster than they are, fucking lumbering wankers!”

Her accent was Australian, and he wondered what had brought her to an alley in Seattle, of all places.  He put a finger to his lips and she bounced on her toes, chewing her lip as though she was wrestling with a decision, before grabbing his face in her hands.

“Sorry about this!” she breathed.  “It doesn’t mean anything, okay?”

She pressed her mouth to his, and Weaver’s eyes flew wide, his body freezing.  Rain coursed over their faces, making their lips wet, and the girl slid her arms around his back, moving them down to his rear and tugging him hard against her so that her back hit the wet bricks behind.  He was vaguely aware of rapid footsteps approaching, slowing as they did so, and just as he was about to pull back and spin around her tongue pushed between his lips, causing a groan to erupt from deep within him.  

“Hey, have you—”  The man who had spoken earlier cut off with a muffled curse.  “Fuck!”

The sound of footsteps quickened and then faded, growing faint as he headed off down the alley.  She broke the kiss with a wet, sucking sound, pushing Weaver back and glancing over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she said, almost to herself.

He stared at her, eyes wide with shock, his heart thumping.  Her lips were very red, her chest heaving with exertion, and she fixed him with a firm gaze, raising her chin.

“Zero-two-one-nine, okay?” she said, and in a trice she was gone, slipping past him and running into the night.

Weaver was about to call after her, and swallowed the words down with the taste of her, wary of the two men hearing him, and tracing her presence.  Rainwater was trickling down inside his collar, and he shivered, turning on his heel and striding along the alleyway to the street where his apartment was located.  Almost immediately he stopped, feeling something in the back pocket of his jeans. Frowning to himself, he reached in, pulling out a slim cell phone. He figured that the girl must have slipped it in while she was kissing him, and he tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket; he needed to look at the thing more closely, but that would be best done back at his apartment.  Shaking his head, he set off once more, leaving the alley and trotting up the steps of his apartment building. This was turning into one of his weirder evenings.

He locked the door behind him when he got inside, tossing his keys onto the hall table and shrugging off his jacket.  Rain began to drip from it as he hung it up, falling with dull, wet splatters on the tiled floor. He rolled his shoulders, going to his kitchen and fetching some of the latex gloves that he kept around for use in collecting evidence.  Tugging on a pair, he went to retrieve the phone from his jacket pocket and carried it into the kitchen. The strip light in the ceiling cast a pale, harsh glow across the work surfaces, and he squinted at the brightness after the dark of the alleyway.  He went to pour himself a glass of whisky, taking a sip and relishing the burn in his throat before setting the glass down on the table and taking a seat.

The phone lay in front of him, a slim model in shining silver with a finger-smudged screen showing the date and time on its face, so he pressed the button at the bottom.  Immediately a phone keyboard flashed up, wanting a code. Weaver sighed to himself. He was going to have to remove one of the gloves to get anywhere with the thing, and so he peeled one off.  What was it she said?  Zero-two-one-nine. He tapped the numbers, and the screen flared to life, rows of applications appearing.  Weaver nodded to himself. Step one, at least.

He checked the telephone directory, which had around a dozen numbers, none of which had full names next to them, instead a series of initials.  There was nothing that suggested a family member, or the identity of the phone’s owner. He went back to the applications, and checked the photo gallery.  The last entry was a video taken earlier that evening, and he sucked his teeth before clicking on the play button.

The video was unsteady, the quality a little unfocused, and he suspected it had been taken surreptitiously due to the strange angle.  The picture was of what seemed to be the inside of a building, its walls bare brick with exposed wiring and ducting. A warehouse? A cellar? Three men were in the picture, one in a suit with short dark hair, and the other two in dark pants and bulky black coats, shown from behind a pillar of some sort that kept cutting across the figure on the far left.  The man in the suit had his hands up, a wide, false smile on his face, as though he knew what he was about to say was bullshit but that it was the only chance he had.

“Look, I told you, I can get it,” he was saying.  “I just need a little more time, that’s all.”

“You’ve had all the time you’re getting,” growled one of the men.

Weaver recognised the voice he had heard in the alley.  The man was stocky and somewhat heavy-jowled, his hair swept back off a high forehead.  His partner was a little taller, but with the same stocky build, his face turned away from the camera a little.  Distortion cut out whatever was said next, a crackle obliterating their words as the picture wobbled. When it focused again, he could hear rapid breathing, and imagined it was the girl, out of sight of the three men on video.  The first man raised a gun, and the girl’s breathing cut off with a harsh catch in the throat. There was the crack of a gunshot, a muffled squeak from the girl and a spray of crimson as the body fell.

“The fuck?” shouted the second man.  “You weren’t supposed to fucking kill him, what the hell were you thinking?”

“It was an accident!” yelled the other.

“Great, we’re fucking dead men!”

The picture became jumbled, a loud clattering noise sounding, and Weaver suspected the girl had dropped the phone.

“Hey!” came a shout, and the screen went dark, the play arrow appearing as the end of the video was reached.

Weaver frowned, using a finger to rewind the footage, and watched the murder again.  He didn’t recognise the man killed, or the two assailants, but it looked as though he had a reason for the girl’s flight and their pursuit.  He wondered what she had been doing in there, and whether she knew the victim or his killers.

He sat back in his chair, taking a sip of whisky, fingers tapping on the glass.  It was evidence of a murder, even if he didn’t yet have all the pieces, and he needed more information to get the full picture.  Sitting forward again, he opened up the photo gallery to see what else was in there. Random photographs and selfies, the girl grinning into the camera against the backdrop of a bar, a coffee shop, a deserted beach with a forbidding grey sky.  The pictures told him nothing except that she was extremely pretty, with very blue eyes and white teeth, and that she seemed to be alone. None of the pictures was older than a few weeks, and he briefly wondered what her life had been like before that, and how it had led her to a murder scene.

Weaver put down the phone, and pushed away his whisky glass, pinching the bridge of his nose to clear tired eyes.  He would be more effective at solving mysteries if he actually got some bloody sleep for a change, but given that he had evidence of a murder, it was best to get to the precinct to see if anyone else knew the victim or the shooters.  With any luck, Dunbroch would be on duty and would have made some of her excellent coffee. It looked as though it was going to be another all-nighter.

Officer Merida Dunbroch was a fellow Scot, a no-nonsense woman with a shock of bright red curls, who had told him to fuck off within the first two sentences they had shared.  Three years down the line, she appeared to have assigned herself the role of his big sister, despite being twenty years his junior, and would make disparaging comments on his sleep schedule, nutrition and lack of romantic entanglements until he snapped at her to go and do something fucking useful.  She was foul-mouthed, hot-tempered and dedicated to her work, and he liked her very much.  He had a sneaking suspicion that she and Detective Fa had a thing for each other, but neither of them seemed willing to act on it, and he wasn’t sure that playing Cupid was his strong suit, given his own non-existent love life.  Merida raised an eyebrow as he wandered into the office, putting her hands on her hips as he slouched into his chair and tapped out a login on the computer.

“I didn’t know you were on the graveyard shift,” she said suspiciously.

“Left at eight thirty,” he replied.

“So what the bloody hell are you doing here, then?  Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“What I have is work to be done,” he said tersely.  “No doubt you can say the same.”

“You pulling double shifts or something?” she asked.  “Because I’m almost certain that Lieutenant Drake told us all to rat you out if you started doing that again.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m busy!” he snapped.  “Did you make any coffee?”

She stomped off with a long-suffering sigh, returning with the coffee pot.

“It’s probably bloody sludge by now.”

“Perfect,” he said absently, and she poured him a cup, black and bitter.

“What’s the big emergency?”

Weaver sat back in his chair as he let the computer complete its login sequence, and reached into his pocket for the phone.

“I received evidence of a murder,” he said.  “I need to know who these people are.”

He played her the video, and Merida peered at it, not batting an eye when the fatal shot rang out.

“Never seen them before.”

“Thanks, that’s a big fucking help.”

“Fa might know,” she suggested.  “Or Nolan. They’ll both be in after lunch.  By which time I’m expecting you to be at home sleeping.”

“Yeah, that’s looking unlikely,” he said.  “Okay, I’ll see what I can find out before then.”

“Give me the phone, then,” she said.  “I’ll get it checked, see if we can run some prints off it.”

“Mine are on there,” he said, and she nodded.

“Where did you find it, anyway?”

Weaver hesitated.

“A girl,” he said.  “I think she was a witness to the murder.”

“And she just handed it over?”

“Not exactly,” he said, turning his attention to the computer so he wouldn’t have to see her expression.  “She came across me in an alley, running from two men who I think are the ones in that footage. She - uh - slipped it in my pocket.  Didn’t notice until she’d gone.”

“Must be good to get past you,” said Merida, with a snort, and he shrugged.

“She kissed me,” he muttered.

“What?”

She was almost giggling, and he sighed.

“She kissed me,” he said flatly.  “Slipped it into my pocket while she did it.”

“So she’s running for her life and she stops to snog you?”  Merida snorted in amusement. “Must have been fucking desperate.”

“Don’t you have prints to run?” he snapped, and she wandered off, chuckling to herself.

He took a slurp of the coffee and logged into the computer, opening up a new file and writing up his report of the encounter with the girl, interspersed with sips of coffee.  Merida refilled his cup when she passed his desk, and he murmured thanks, reaching out to take a drink. It was lukewarm, but he didn’t care. He wrote down everything he could recall about the men on the video.  It wasn’t enough to give him much of a steer, but he flicked through the database of known violent offenders, on the chance he might see one of them. His search was fruitless, and so he went through some of his other cases, writing up two of them and going through evidence on the rest. His eyes were grainy by the time he had finished, and it was getting light outside, so he thought perhaps he should get some sleep. At least until the prints arrived.

“Weaver,” called Merida.  “Message for you.”

“Whoever it is, they can fuck off,” he growled, and she shot him a look, bright red curls bouncing around her shoulders as she stomped over.

“Go home and get some bloody sleep, you miserable bastard,” she said, and he curled his lip at her, making her grin.  She dropped an envelope on his keyboard. “This was handed in at the front desk just now.”

“Really?”

He picked up the envelope, ripping it open.  A matchbook dropped out, turning end over end on his desk before falling flat.  It showed the name of a local diner - Granny’s - a place he had been in once or twice. Turning it over, there was a figure scrawled on the back. 7:15.

“Who brought this?” he asked, holding it up, and she shrugged.

“One of your street kids, I thought,” she said.  “Short. Dark hair and blue eyes. Hoodie. Not seen her before.”

Weaver nodded to himself, and checked his watch.  Almost seven. He had time to get to the diner. He shrugged on his jacket, trying to shake off his tiredness.

“Could be her,” he said.

“Her?”

“The murder witness.”

“The one that stuck her tongue down your throat?”  Merida’s eyes had widened. “Bloody hell, she was barely twenty!  I take it back, she’s not desperate. She’s blind and desperate.”

Weaver shot her a look.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“No you won’t,” she said, in a flat tone.  “See your source and bugger off home. You’re bloody useless on day two of insomnia.”

“Who are you, my mother?” he groused, and she sniffed.

“Thank fucking Christ I’m not, you’re too big to spank.”

“Is this personal abuse just to piss me off or does it have a higher purpose?” he demanded, and she flashed him a smile.

“Get some sleep and I promise to make you an entire pot of coffee to yourself tomorrow,” she said.  “Won’t even spit in it, how about that?”

“Fine,” he sighed.  “Tell Drake where I’ve gone, would you?”

“She’ll probably say ‘good riddance’...”

“And if Nolan knows any of the people in that clip, tell him to call me.”

“Will do,” she said.  “Try not to snog this mystery girl again.”

“You’re fucking hilarious,” he said dryly, and she cackled as he left.

The rain was just starting to spit as he left the building, and he turned up his collar, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked quickly.  Drizzle had turned to a downpour by the time he reached the diner in question, and he ducked in through the door with relief, brushing the rain from his hair as he glanced around.  The diner was busy, its tables filled with construction workers in heavy boots and guys in nondescript suits and ties loading up on coffee, eggs and pancakes. Weaver took a table by the window, keeping a sharp eye out as the door opened and closed.  The rain was drumming against the road, making those outside run for cover or cower beneath their umbrellas.

“What can I get you?”

He looked up to see a waitress smiling at him, long dark hair with two red streaks held back from her face by a red headband.  A pencil was poised on the little pad she carried.

“Just coffee for the moment, thanks,” he said.  “Black.”

“Sure thing,” she said brightly, jotting it down.  “If you want anything from the menu, just holler.”

Weaver nodded absently, and she hurried off, dark hair bouncing.  He turned his attention back to the street outside, and his eyes narrowed as a small, slender figure hurried past, swathed in a black coat with a hood over her head.  The diner door opened, the sound of the rain outside like radio static, and then the door swung shut, the girl looking around nervously. It was her, he was sure of it.  Pale oval of a face, high cheekbones and full lips, her eyes startlingly blue. She spotted him, and seemed to sag a little in relief, hurrying over, the rain dripping from the sleeves of her coat.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, slipping into the seat opposite.

“Well, you left me with some rather interesting evidence,” he said, threading his fingers together.  “Do you want some coffee?”

She nodded, and he turned to catch the eye of the waitress, who stopped to snatch up a second cup along with the coffee pot.  She poured for them both, and Weaver watched as the girl shrugged out of her coat. Thin black hooded sweater above thick tights, a tiny skirt and sturdy boots.  She must be bloody freezing.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.  “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

She looked up at him slowly, mouth flattening.

“Oh yeah?” she said suspiciously.  “And you think that gets you what, exactly?”

Weaver’s eyes narrowed.

“I think it gets you fed,” he said, his tone even.  “You look as though you could do with a few decent meals inside you, but maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe you spend every day eating caviar and fucking oysters. You want the bloody breakfast, or not?”

She eyed him cautiously, but nodded, and he gestured to the waitress again.

“Give her the works, please,” he said.

“Eggs over well,” added the girl, and the waitress nodded, scribbling on the pad.

“You want cream for that coffee?”

“God, please!” said the girl fervently, and the waitress smiled, going to fetch one of the small jugs.

Weaver watched as the girl added sugar and cream to her coffee and stirred it, folding her hands around the cup as she hunched forward a little, as though she was afraid of taking up too much space.  Her nails were painted dark red, the lacquer a little chipped at the edges. Her knuckles were white with cold, and he wondered how far she had travelled to get to the diner. Or where she had spent the night.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and she hesitated.

“Lacey,” she said, a little reluctantly.

“Got a last name?”

“No, I’m a pretentious musician who only goes by one word,” she said witheringly, and he felt one corner of his mouth pull upwards.  She had spirit.

“So can I have it?”

“Last name’s on a need-to-know basis,” she said.  “Right now you don’t need to know. It’s just Lacey.”

“Alright, Lacey No-Name,” he said.  “I’m Detective Weaver.”

“I remember.”

She was still cupping the mug of coffee, restless in her seat, her eyes flicking around the diner, and he nodded to himself.  He’d seen kids like her many times: uncomfortable at having to sit in one place for too long and nervous of those around them.  He wondered how long she had been on the streets, and what corner of Seattle she called home. If indeed she slept in the same place two nights running.

“You slipped your phone into my pocket,” he said, and she looked up, alarm on her face.

“You don’t have it, do you?”

“Of course not,” he said.  “It’s evidence.”

Lacey sagged with relief.

“Thought it might have a tracker on it,” she explained.  “Figured that if they wanted to track it to the police department, they could knock themselves out.”

He nodded slowly.

“And ‘they’ are...?”

Lacey seemed to shrink in on herself, shoulders rising up, and she buried her head in her cup, blowing on the coffee to cool it.

“Alright,” he said, feeling weary.  “Let’s try something less complicated.  I watched the video. Where was the footage taken?”

She was silent, and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, shaking loose some of the raindrops that clung to it and scattering them across the table top.

“Fine,” he said, half-wondering whether she had been sent by the murderers to distract him.  “In that case, why don’t you talk me through what led you to be in that alleyway?”

“Look, I just wanted a bloody job!” she blurted, suddenly animated.  “I answered an ad on the wall of the shelter and some dude gave me the phone and a backpack and I was a bloody dispatch rider, that’s it!  And then all of a sudden I’m dropping off a package and I can’t find anyone to fucking sign for the damn thing and before you know it—”

She made finger guns and mimed shots being fired, and then sat back, looking aggrieved.

“I didn’t sign up for this shit!” she went on.  “And I’m sure as hell not going back to base ever, which means I won’t get bloody paid!”

Weaver pulled a notepad and pencil from his pocket, but she shook her head, glancing around worriedly, pale hands reaching up to tug her hood forward again.

“Don’t,” she said.  “I don’t know who I can trust, and if the wrong person sees me sitting here with you taking notes, it’s gonna be pretty obvious why, you knows?”

“You do realise that sitting here with your hood up and your shoulders hunched makes you look like you’ve got something to hide, right?” he remarked.  “If I was looking for someone on the run I’d spot you a fucking mile away.”

Lacey opened and closed her mouth, but sat back a little, reaching up to lower the hood.  Her hair was a dark chestnut, split into braids over her ears, reddish strands gleaming in the harsh lights of the diner.  He nodded.

“Better.”

“So you think this won’t look suspicious?” she said wryly, gesturing between them.  “You buy a lot of girls breakfast?”

“Actually yes,” he said.  “I have a number of informants to take care of.”

“I’m not an informant,” she said immediately.  “I just - you’re a cop, and I thought you could use the information, that’s all.”

“And your definition of an informant is what exactly?”

She looked frustrated, tugging at her lip with her teeth as she glanced out at the street.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” she muttered.  “If the wrong person sees me here with you…”

“You could always come to the police department,” he suggested, tapping his pencil on the notebook.

“Same issue.”

“You came earlier.”

“Yeah, for like a minute,” she said scornfully.  “I dropped off the matchbook and took off again. No one could accuse me of hanging around to give a bloody statement, could they?  Just put your damn notebook away.”

He slipped the notepad and pencil back in his pocket with a sigh.

“Memory it is, then,” he said.  “Which company did you work for?”

“Black Knights,” she said immediately.  “Money wasn’t bad, either. Fifteen bucks an hour plus tips. Should have known it was too good to last.”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

Lacey shook her head.

“Bike,” she said.  “Easier to get around, and you can go more places.”

“How long did you work there?”

“Just over a month.”

“Any problems up to this point?”

She wrinkled her nose, but shook her head.

“You don’t seem so sure,” he said, and she shrugged.

“Few sleazy clients and a creepy boss, but honestly I’m pretty used to that.  Mostly it was fine.”

“Who were the clients?”

“Mixture,” she said.  “Lawyers, businesses, restaurants, private addresses - you name it.”

“And what sort of things were you delivering?”

Lacey shrugged.

“Never asked.  Turned up at base, got a route and the packages, and off I went.  No time to hang around poking into other people’s business.”

“Anything illegal?” he asked, and she shifted in her seat.

“Like I said.  Never asked.”

Weaver nodded slowly.  It was possible that at least some of the packages would interest the police, but he believed her when she said she didn’t know.  The desperate asked few questions.

“Were the packages signed for?”

“Sometimes,” she said.  “It was a more expensive service, so for most stuff we just went by address. Sometimes there’d be a named person we’d need a signature from, though. It varied. Instructions were on the itinerary.”

“Don’t suppose you still have that?”

She shook her head, and Weaver took a sip of his coffee.

“Alright,” he said.  “So tell me about this last drop you made.  Pretty late to be making deliveries.”

Lacey fidgeted a little, plucking at the sleeve of her coat.

“Yeah,” she said.  “I mean that’s not unusual - they ran a twenty-four-seven service for the right price.  Got the call around nine when I was on my last run. Special delivery, which means the guy paid to have it hand-delivered to a specific person.  So I rode back to base, picked up the package, got the name and address, and turned right around.”

“What was the address?”

“Warehouse on Misthaven Avenue,” she said.

“And the name?”

“Perry Mason.”

Weaver let out a tiny grunt of annoyance, running a hand over his face.

“So,” he said.  “A lawyer.”

She pulled a face, lifting the coffee cup.

“How should I know?”

“No, it’s - it’s a false name,” he explained patiently.  “He was a fictional character. A lawyer on a TV show.”

“Oh.”  Lacey took a slurp of coffee and sat back.  “Before my time, I guess.”

“So what happened then?”

“Locked up my bike outside the side door,” she said.  “It was open, so I went in.”

“Did you see anyone outside?” he asked.  “Any vehicles you remember?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“No one outside,” she said.  “Big black car. Couldn’t tell you the make - I wasn’t really looking.”

“And then?”

“Place seemed deserted,” she said.  “Empty office, but the lights were on.  There was a set of stairs next to it, so I took ‘em.  Went up to a corridor that opened out on the warehouse.  That was when I heard voices. Saw the two big bastards and thought they looked like trouble, so I hung back.”

Weaver nodded.

“Go on.”

“The guy in the suit looked like he was trying to convince them of something,” she said slowly, rolling her mug between the palms of her hands.  “I dunno - something made me take my phone out and start recording. I figured if I couldn’t get a signature the boss would wanna know why, you know?”

“Do you remember anything they said to each other before you started recording?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“Something like ‘out of patience’?” she said, looking uncertain.  “They looked like hired muscle.  Or maybe regular-paycheck-muscle, I guess. Working for someone not so nice. Seemed like they wanted something from Suit Guy and he didn’t have it, huh?”

“Maybe,” said Weaver.  “Then what happened?”

“They blew the guy’s brains out,” said Lacey, shuddering a little.  “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen anyone get shot before, but…”

She shrugged, shrinking in on herself again, and Weaver nodded.

“Then you ran.”

“I - I kind of squeaked when he was shot,” she admitted.  “I couldn’t help it, it was - it was a lot of blood.  And I dropped the phone.  That’s when they saw me, so I scooped it up and ran for it.  One of them grabbed me, but I bit him as hard as I could and he let me go.  I managed to beat them out of the warehouse, but I didn’t have time to unlock my bike.  I just ran as fast as I could for the nearest alley and kept fucking going. Then I bumped into you.”

Weaver took a slurp of his coffee, nodding.

“And what happened to the package?”

“Still got it.”

“Can I see it?”

“I don’t have it with me,” she said, as though he were stupid.  “It’s hidden.”

“So can you get it to me?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

The waitress returned, setting a large plate in front of Lacey with eggs, bacon, hash browns and a short stack of pancakes.  She set down a glass of orange juice, along with a plate of toast and a dish containing packets of butter and grape jelly.

“That looks awesome, thank you!” said Lacey, reaching for the ketchup, and the waitress smiled and hurried off.

There was silence for a few minutes as Lacey began working her way through the breakfast.  Weaver finished his coffee, nodding his thanks to the waitress when she refilled it, and Lacey folded a slice of bacon in half, stabbing a piece of fried egg and shoving it in her mouth.  She was watching him as she chewed, and he wondered what was going through her mind.

“I assume there’s something you want in exchange for this package, and the breakfast’s not gonna cut it,” he said.  “What about twenty bucks?”

Lacey shrugged, setting down her knife and holding up four fingers.

“Forty, then,” he agreed.  “But promise me you’ll at least spend it on food or a place to stay, hmm?”

She frowned at him, as though she didn’t like the implication that she might do otherwise.  He didn’t much care if she was pissed at him; he’d had more than one of his network of informants die young from drink and drugs, and he didn’t want her to be the next.  He held her gaze for a moment, and eventually she nodded, before turning back to her breakfast. She was eating more slowly now, the eggs and bacon gone, and the pancakes about half done.  He watched as she spread butter on the toast and followed it with grape jelly, and she flicked her eyes up to meet his, a sudden spark of mischief in them, as though the food had restored her spirit.

“You didn’t say anything about me kissing you,” she said, and he shrugged.

“Was I supposed to?”

Lacey’s brow crinkled a little, blue eyes sweeping back and forth across his face, as though searching for something.

“Not every day a strange girl decides to corner you in an alley and suck face, right?” she said, with a grin.

“I presumed you had your reasons.”

“Yeah.”

She seemed surprised by his response, and it appeared to make her almost uncomfortable, as though it was not what she had expected.  He wondered if she had kissed other strange men, with different, perhaps more predictable results.

“I was - well, I guess I was trying one of those things in the movies?” she explained awkwardly.  “You know - where they make out to hide from the bad guys? Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out or - or make you think I was maybe offering something else.”

“I didn’t,” he said, in a wry tone.  “You said it didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t.”

“Well then,” he said.  “Since I very much doubt you want to kiss me again, we’ll say no more about it.”

Lacey stabbed a piece of pancake with her fork, watching him curiously.

“Okay.  Cool.”

She turned back to her breakfast, mopping syrup with the piece of pancake, and he took a sip of his coffee.

“So,” he said.  “The package.”

Lacey gestured at him with her fork.

“Let’s see the forty bucks first.”

“I’m not gonna bloody rip you off,” he snapped.  “And you seem to think I came down in the last fucking shower!  The package first, then you get the cash, deal?”

She eyed him for a moment, her gaze cautious, but finally nodded.

“Deal.”

“Okay,” he said.  “So when are you handing it over?”

Lacey ate her final piece of pancake, setting down her knife and fork and picking up a piece of toast.  She took a bite, dropping it back onto the plate and sucking crumbs from her thumb.

“I’ll find you,” she said decidedly.  “Not here. Expect to see me sometime within the next day or so.  Try not to shove me against a wall this time. You know, unless it’s for something more exciting.”

She grinned at him, wiggling her eyebrows, and Weaver frowned.

“You can stop that right now,” he said severely.  “This is about the package, nothing more, got it?”

Lacey rolled her eyes.

“That’s usually the line I have to use,” she remarked.  “Anyone ever tell you you’re weird for a guy?”

“Constantly,” he said dryly.

He drained his cup, digging in his pocket for some cash and tucking it under his cup, and Lacey’s eyes followed it.

“I guess I’ll see you when I see you,” he said.  “And this cash is to pay the nice young lady that brought your breakfast, by the way.”

“I wasn’t gonna take it!” she said indignantly.

“Just making sure,” he said, pushing back his chair.  “Until we meet again, Lacey No-Name.”

“Go fuck yourself, Detective.”

He grinned at that, turning up his jacket collar and striding out into the driving rain again.

#rumbelle big bang #rumbelle fic #fic: opening lines #woven lace fic #my fic #woven lace #rumbelle

[worryinglyinnocent]

This is Us - A Rumbelle Big Bang Fic

Welcome one and all to Worry’s fic for @rumbellebigbang!

I was partnered with the awesome @novaliane-san and their artwork for this piece can be viewed here. 

Enjoy!

======

Summary: Sold into a sideshow by his father on account of his strange appearance, Rumpelstiltskin has resigned himself to a life confined to a cage, being gawked at by a morbidly curious public. When Belle French arrives at the travelling show, abandoned by her own father, she gives him the new lease of life and determination that he needs to break them both free of their cages and find a new life where their differences will be celebrated, not jeered.

Very, very loosely inspired by The Greatest Showman, it is absolutely not necessary to have seen that to understand this.

Warnings: Genre-typical ableism, implied child abuse (past, off-screen), described facial disfigurement, arson (past, off-screen).

Rated: T

====

This Is Us

Part One

Rumpelstiltskin woke with a jolt as the wagon came to a stop, and he immediately closed his eyes again, trying to recapture the dream that he had been so rudely pulled from.

It had been a good dream. Rumpel liked to think that he had always been blessed with good dreams because his waking life was such a nightmare, but the dreams weren’t exactly all that much of a consolation. In the dream, he’d been working in a shop that repaired furniture and his Aunt Elvira had been there in the back room, sitting at her spinning wheel like she always had done.

It was no use, the dream was showing no signs of returning, so he heaved himself out of bed with a groan and rolled up his blankets into a bundle that would serve as a somewhat comfortable chair for the rest of the day. Creeping over to the corner of the wagon, he slid a hand through the bars and tweaked back the canvas that covered his cage whilst the show was on the road, taking a peek at the place they had arrived in this morning.

The sky was dull and grey, threatening rain at any moment, and Rumpel couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse. Grey skies and rain meant less patrons braving the elements and coming to the show, and that meant less people gawking and him and his fellow oddities. Unfortunately, less people gawking meant less people paying good money, and that meant that Zoso was going to be in a very bad mood; a bad mood that was usually taken out on his unfortunate exhibits. Today was going to be a day of walking on eggshells, it seemed.

Aside from the weather, everything else about the place seemed to be much the same as the last place that they had stopped in, and the place before that. Rumpelstiltskin had long since given up taking much notice of his surroundings. Back when he had been young, and Aunt Elvira had managed, in her wisdom, to preserve some of his innocence by making everything into an adventure for him. He had been excited to wake up every morning in a new place, and to track their travels on the worn-out little map that Elvira had always carried with her. He had no idea if his random pinpointing of places on the map was anywhere near accurate, but it had brought him comfort at the time.

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#rumbelle fic #Rumbelle Big Bang #rumbellebigbang #rumbelle #novaliane-san #Rumpelstiltskin #Belle French #AU #Fic: This is Us

[theoneandonlylittlebird]

What Needs Mending

Amazing Art by: @avatoh​

One beautiful collaboration later, we present our submission to the @rumbellebigbang​ event! It has been an absolute pleasure working together on this. It has been wonderful getting to know you and I feel I’ve got a new friend! Would like to thank you, deeply, for the love and effort you put into this project and I have SO MUCH respect for your talent and vision. Couldn’t have asked for a better partner! 

Would also like to thank the mods for the RumbelleBigBang because this event has been so much fun and has kept me writing when I might otherwise have wandered off somewhere. I appreciate and respect how much effort is required to run an event, never mind the patience! You event mods and creators make such joy in this fandom and you keep writers like me writing.

Without further ado:

What Needs Mending

Summary: 

As soon as his son turns eighteen, Mr. Gold will be able to resume contact without his ex's interference. When he fails to make a good impression on the new librarian, Gold begins to fear something he has never bothered to care about in the past, his reputation, may be insurmountable. This could cost him not only the favor of the new librarian, but ultimately his son.

Note: the first chapter of this was my submission for the Finish This! Rumbelle event in 2018 entitled Unexpected but don't fret! There's ish 34k more words you haven't read yet.

Chapter 1:

It had been a perfect morning.

Early fall light slanted through the shop’s windows illuminating everything in gold and that suited him. Still nearly warm enough to be called summer, he had been working away the morning in just his shirt and waistcoat, sleeve garters keeping his cuffs out of his way neatly as ever. The newly minted gear for the antique pocket watch had arrived yesterday and he had high hopes that this would be the last thing this exquisite piece would need to resume its life as a treasure, no longer relegated to the role of useless relic of a bygone era: junk.

Each layer of his dissection sat precisely in order to ensure accurate reassembly when he had finished. He had dusted meticulously before beginning and freshly cleaned tools gleamed in the soft and soothing sun-glow. With his mind truly settled into the task, Gold had felt as close to what passed for contentment in his life as he ever did.

But, inevitably, the shop door had rung, startling him into dropping the tiny gear so delicately clasped in his repurposed medical forceps. It bounced gracefully off the edge of the table to the abyss of the floor.

“Hello?” The source of his ire, the cause of a placement of a new order to the jeweler, and destroyer of his perfect morning was apparently female, and by the sniffing sounds, crying.

Just what he didn’t need. Another literal sob story over how someone couldn’t pay her rent and would he make an exception just this once?

“Yes, yes! Just a moment!” Gold snapped irritably as he searched the floor for the minuscule part. Miracle of miracles, he found it, but now he had to get down to the floor to retrieve it, if he should even bother. Undoubtedly the fall to the floor would have distorted it beyond use, but, he reasoned, he would need to send it to the jeweler for exact replication if he had any hope of salvaging the beautiful watch. Old things needed care, patience and precision, but the reward was always worth the trouble.

Precious, rare, valuable and in working order, this watch would be a prize for a worthy collector.

Even Gold had succumbed to hosting an online mercantile. And, like everything else he tended with care and diligence, it returned his investments. His world would run so smoothly if not for the messy throng of humanity gumming up the works constantly.

Getting down to the floor wasn’t so bad, he even retrieved the tiny errant part with little difficulty, placing it securely on the table, but getting back up was never other than painful.

No matter how he tried to prevent it, rebalancing always required him to put too much weight on his warped foot and the pain always lasted too long.

He put on a face to match before going out to greet the customer. He settled his jacket back into place.

“How can I help you?” he snarled before he even made it through the curtain separating the shop from his work room.

On the other side of the fabric, a blotchy and damp face looked up at him with brilliant tear-filled blue eyes, clearly taken aback by his rudeness.

The new librarian.

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#Rumbelle #Rumbelle Big Bang #avatoh #Rumbelle Art

[deliriumsdelight7]

Sorry to shock you, but I have a lot of questions lol.

😅🥺🤡😈🛒💋⛔️🍦🌞💖💌❌🎃👀🧠 (for Chrissy!) 🤩🤲🏼🥰?

I am SHOCKED! lol. I'll skip the ones I've already answered.

😅 What's a story or scene you've created that you're a smidge embarrassed exists?

Uhhhh... Cursed Ties, for the Rumbelle fandom. It's, uh, gonna deal with a kink that's squicky for some. If I can ever get them to the point where they stop angsting and just bang.

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

Ooh, yes. When Character A has had to rely on themselves all their life, and Character B helps them to realize that it's okay to need to lean on someone now and then? That's the good stuff.

🤡 What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?

I can't think of anything offhand. If I do, I'll come back to this.

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.

"Eyes slamming shut like a portcullis" probably makes its way into half the fics I write. As well as the phrase "screwing their courage to some manner of sticking place." I read it somewhere - no clue where - and I've blatantly stolen it. Apart from that, though, I like to think I mix things up a lot.

💋 First kiss fics. Love em or hate em?

Don't mind reading 'em. Not interested in writing 'em. I prefer angst and smut.

⛔ Do you have a fic you started, but scrapped?

Probably somewhere, yeah.

🌞 Do you have a preferred time of day to write?

Not really. Any time of day works for me.

💖 What made you start writing?

What made me start writing after a 15 year hiatus was the 12th episode of Once Upon a Time, "Skin Deep." UNREAL chemistry between the actors. Seems to be my catnip.

💌 How do you feel about comments and feedback?

I feel like they're not just welcome, but absolutely necessary. Fic writers cannot make money off of their work, which means anything they write is unpaid labor. This can be hours upon hours of blood, sweat, and tears being poured into something that is then posted for people to enjoy for free. Having participated in a dying fandom where I'm lucky to get a comment or two, and now having moved to one where my fic chapters get tons of engagement, I can tell you that getting little to no feedback on fic is incredibly demoralizing. I view commenting on fic similarly to how tipping is viewed in American restaurants. In an ideal world, the person whose services you enjoyed would be compensated fairly for their labor. But in that absence, it is up to the consumer to make up the difference. If you don't have the money to tip, you don't have the money to eat out. If you don't have the spoons to take thirty seconds to comment on fic, you don't have the spoons to read it.

🎃 Do you write fics for certain holidays? Which is your favorite holiday inspired fic?

I only have one so far, and it was basically a retelling of "The Holiday" with Once Upon a Time characters.

🤩 Who is your favorite character to write?

I don't think I could pick just one. Chances are if I'm writing a pairing, it's because I adore both characters in said pairing.

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

Here's a snippet from a oneshot I'm stuck in. It's post season 4, canon-ish where Eddie survives and Chrissy... "survives."

Not for the first time, Chrissy’s throat tightened with guilt. This was the place where it had all started. Where her life ended, and Eddie’s life had started the freefall to the madness that had led him here. If he’d never agreed to sell to her… if he’d met with her anywhere else… his life would be infinitely better. He’d have graduated - she just knew it - and gotten out of Hawkins. Those big dreams of his would’ve brought him to a big city to match - New York, or LA, or somewhere where he and his band would make it big.

Instead, he was here. Trapped in a hellscape with only her for company. The entire world at his fingertips if he crossed over, barred from him by accusations for murders he didn’t commit. Starting with her own.

“Do you ever regret it?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He glanced at her curiously. “Regret what, sunshine?”

She winced. This question had been plaguing her since the moment they’d found each other. But she could never bring herself to ask before now. She dreaded the answer too much.

Still, she had to finish what she’d started. “Do you ever regret… y’know. Meeting me in the woods that day? Selling to me?”

🥰 How do you feel about reader interaction? Are you open to receiving questions about your fics?

I love love love reader interactions! I do TMI Tuesdays to invite exactly that. I love getting questions about fics, or questions directed to my characters. It keeps me motivated to keep writing.

#fanfic emoji asks #ask answered

[b-does-the-write-thing]

The Demon Earl’s Deal, A Rumbelle Big Bang Fic

With the fate of Avonlea in the balance, Belle French will do anything to save her village, including making a deal with the Demon Earl of Lonsdale himself.

This story is part of @rumbellebigbang . A huge thank you to the runners of this great program as well as to my partner @rumpledspinster . She was a wonderful partner throughout the process and continually surprised and delighted me with her scene interpretations, fresh ideas and supported me every step of the journey. You can see her artwork for this story here.

Chapter One

Wales, March 1810

Everyone in Avonlea knew the story of the Demon Earl.

Robert Gold had first appeared at Askham Hall as a young child to everyone’s surprise, including his father, Lord Malcolm Gold, Lord of Lonsdale. There was no use denying the parentage; the young boy was Malcolm’s spitting image.

The surprising series of events was chalked up to youthful indiscretions and the boy was promptly shipped off to boarding schools. Avonlea almost forgot about the Lord of Lonsdale’s bastard son entirely until the day when he had returned to Askham Hall as a wedded man with a bride on his arm.

The Demon Earl lasted less than a year before he decamped back to London. He left his young wife in Wales with her father-in-law and her new mother-in-law, a lady younger than she was.

Stories leaked out from Askham Hall about the devious debauchery Lord Robert engaged in while he was in London. Servants often noticed the ladies of the house in tears, and the Lord of Lonsdale in fits of rage over the reports in the paper about his son cutting a swath through every boudoir of London.

He ordered his errant son back home but less than a year later...Lord Malcolm Gold and his daughter-in-law were dead. Robert Gold disappeared the very same night and had not been heard from in four years.

Until today.

Standing along the path overlooking the valley, Belle French gazed out at Askham Hall. Smoke curled up from the chimneys which meant the rumors were true; after four years, the Lord of Lonsdale had finally come home.

No one had known where he had gone. There had been no word, no whisper, not even a mention of the errant lord in the society papers. So, of course, in his absence, speculation had run rampant throughout Avonlea.

Some said the new Lord Lonsdale had pledged his soul to the devil and had since been off cavorting with demons. Others whispered he had gone off to profit from Napoleon’s bloody war on the Continent, while the bolder among them insisted he had gone to sell secrets to the dictator himself in exchange for refuge in France.

Rumors varied from source to source but everyone agreed upon one thing: Lord Robert Gold, was capable of anything.

Which was why, despite all the horrific rumors, Belle was on her way to Askham Hall.

--

Gold had been home for less than twenty-four hours and he already felt buried alive. His solicitor, Sidney Glass, had been firm that he could not put this off any longer, so Gold had returned to Askham Hall to put an end to this chapter of his life, once and for all. If he was truly going to be free of his past, he had to sever the last tie, the matter of the estate.

The halls were too quiet. The few remaining servants avoided him, scurrying out of his way less he curse them. He had heard the whispers, he knew the rumors. If he occasionally began to mutter something under his breath in Greek, just to watch a maid hurry away in terror, it was only for a moment’s respite from the eyes following him from room to room.

The head of house was the sole exception. “My lord,” Dove announced as he swung open the bedroom’s door, uninvited and unannounced. “I’ve brought you up the tea you requested.”

Turning from the window, Gold frowned. “I don’t recall requesting anything, Dove.”

The older man bowed. “My apologies,” he said as he left the tray on the table. HIs eyes flickered in disapproval around the guest bedroom. “We’ve finished airing out the state chambers,” he declared. “Perhaps those would be more suitable?”

Gold flinched. He had no interest in using his father’s rooms. He would rather barricade the door entirely then so much as take a step inside. As for his old rooms, it had merely taken one look at his bed for the memories of Milah to return.

These past four years, he had managed to banish her from his mind but her ghost had been awaiting him in their marriage bed. So, he had retreated to a guest room on the other side of the manor.

Let the household gossip about his choice of rooms. It did not matter to him. He was only here long enough to break the trust, to sell these cursed stones and leave the ghosts to some other poor sod.

The head of house lingered, clearly about to make his case on why a lord should not be staying in these lesser rooms. Uninterested in a lecture, Gold brushed past Dove towards the door. “I’ll be in my study,” he grumbled.

Arriving in the study, Gold tried and failed to find something to occupy his time when a flash of amber caught his eye. A bottle of brandy had been left out with a tumbler nearby. He stared at it for a long moment, debating.

Finally, figuring he had nothing else to do, and facing down a long afternoon of boredom and painful memories, he uncapped the brandy and poured himself a tall glass. It may not be the answer, but it was a solution.

--

Despite growing up in Avonlea, Belle had never actually been this close to Askham Hall. The great stone facade sprawled in every direction against the horizon of the sky, the dark stone glistening in the spring sun as if alive.

Belle lingered upon the stairs, mustering her courage. She had no experience with lords or great houses, but there was no helping that now. Steeling her spine, she stepped to the knocker, raised up to indicate the master of the house was at home and knocked.

It reverberated in the inner caverns of the great house. Belle pulled self-consciously on her sleeve and reached up to fix her bonnet. She had taken time to arrange her appearance just so, but now that she was actually here, she felt undressed. It did not take long for the door to open to reveal a somber fellow, whom Belle recognized at once as Askham Hall’s head of house, Dove.

Everyone in Avonlea knew the skeleton staff still employed by the errant lord; they were fortunate compared to the rest of Avonlea, with steady pay and lodgings while the rest of Avonlea had declined in the years that had followed the tragedies.

“Good afternoon,” Belle greeted. “I’m here to speak to Lord Lonsdale.”

The head of house recognized her as well. Being the town’s schoolmistress lent her a certain air of notoriety. “Miss French,” he said, though he did not open the door. “I don’t believe his lordship is receiving anyone today.”

She had not expected to be turned away at the door. She felt a bit silly that she had not considered that possibility. She plastered her best smile upon her face. “It’s a simple matter,” she said, which was not exactly true. “Perhaps Lord Lonsdale has just a moment?”

Dove wavered but with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured for her to follow after him. The hall was as great as Belle had expected. It was white marble with a great chandelier hanging overhead, glistening in the early spring sunlight but there was an unearthly stillness as if the hall was awaiting something.

Dove escorted Belle down a long corridor. Every room they passed showed signs of neglect and age, cluttered and crammed with furnishings. It was a shame to see such a beautiful house brought low but if the rumors were to be believed, this house had seen terrible things and perhaps it was for the best.

Caught up in staring at her surroundings, Belle almost walked straight into Dove when he stopped to open the library door. “Miss Belle French to see you, my lord,” Dove announced without so much as a look back at her.

Belle did not give the earl a chance to refuse to admit her. Seizing her courage, she walked straight past Dove into the library.- only to falter at the sight before her.

She hadn’t known what she expected the Demon Earl to look like, but it was not this. The earl was standing at a window, clad only in his shirt sleeves. The sun cut through the thin fabric to show the planes and lines of his frame beneath the muslin.

He was not a particularly physically intimidating man but there was a stillness about him, an air of power, that proved that this was indeed the man who had spawned so many legends in Avonlea. He was not a typically handsome man but there was something about him that drew the eye, invited one to look closer.

The door closed behind her as Dove departed. Jolted out of her reverie, Belle turned back to the door, rather wishing the head of house had lingered. Belle had never spoken to a member of the peerage before and suddenly felt wrong-footed, uncertain where to start.

When she did not speak, the earl lifted an eyebrow at her. “And who would you be?”

“Belle French, my lord.”

He waved his arm, the glass in his hand catching the sunlight. “Yes, I know that, Miss French, as you were just announced mere seconds ago. I meant who are you to me? It is considered the highest of impropriety for a lady to call upon a lord unaccompanied without so much as an introduction.”

Biting back an angry retort, she managed, “I’m the schoolmistress in Avonlea.”

“Ah.” Gold waved his hand and turned back to the window. “Barely home a day and already they come knocking,” he muttered to himself before saying loudly for her benefit,” I assume you are here seeking funds for a worthy cause. I’d advise you to have your husband or father apply to my steward in the future rather than inconveniencing me. Good day, Miss French.”

At his curt dismissal, Belle’s temper flickered and caught. “I am unwed and my father has been dead and buried ten years this August. Besides, this is not some simple matter for your steward, my lord.”

“It never is,” he said over his shoulder. He strolled over a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled the glass in his hand. “Everyone thinks their matters are too important for a steward. I wonder what I pay him for. ”

“Lord Lonsdale,” Belle said, starting again. ”I’m here because the people of Avonlea are suffering, and you are the only one in a position to help them. It will cost you little in time or money.”

“I don’t care how little it costs,” Gold snapped. “I don’t want anything to do with your village or the people in it. Which includes you.” He gestured toward the door. “So, I suggest you leave before things get uncivil.”

From her perspective, things were already uncivil, so Belle did not see that as a reason to leave. She gave up on any niceties, planting her hands on her hips. “I am not asking for your help, I am demanding it as your role of lord requires of you. Now, shall I explain now or wait for you in the parlor until you are sober?”

Lord Gold lowered his glass. “I wouldn’t speak to me like that if I were you,” he warned as he took a step closer. “Last I checked, you were in my home. Have a care how you speak to me.”

Belle had prepared for a certain level of antagonism and had meant to meet it with a calm, level head but as usual, her temper was starting to get a hold of her. “Your father was a good man,” Belle reminded him. “He did a great deal for the people of Avonlea. The poor fund, the chapel-”

“I am not my father.”

She had touched a nerve. Belle crossed her arms and blustered, “No, it appears the apple has fallen rather far from the tree. Since you have inherited, you haven’t done a thing for the estate or the village.”

“Nor do I intend to,” he picked his drink back up and finished it in one swallow.

He meant it too.

“How can you say such a thing?” she asked him. “No one is that heartless.”

Gold smiled. “Miss French, your innocence is touching.” He leaned against the edge of his table and crossed his arms. “You had best depart before I shatter any of your other dearly beloved illusions.”

She gaped at him. “Don’t you care that people are suffering?”

Gold thought for a moment. “No.”

“What would change your mind?” Belle pressed him. She had not come all this way to just give up

Gold waved his hand. “My help is not available for any price you would be willing to pay.”

“How can I know that unless you name your price?”

This caught his attention. He stilled and the air in the room shifted. “You want to make a deal?” he drawled, taking a step closer to her. He crooked a finger and beckoned her closer. “And what exactly do you have to offer, Miss French?”

Too late, Belle realized what could be insinuated from her reckless words. A flush spread across her face but she tried not to avert her eyes from his smug countenance as he sat upon the desk.

When she could not find her voice, Gold stood, victorious. “I fail to see why I should spend my time and energy when there is nothing in it for me.” He retrieved his glass and poured himself another glass of brandy, returning to the other side of the desk. “Close the door on your way out, Miss French.”

Belle was tempted to do just that, but she had to try one last time, not for her sake but for the sake of Avonlea. “I will not leave until you have named a price for your aid.”

The Demon Earl stared back at her, his face an impassive mask. ‘You will not like my answer.”

No, she rather thought she wouldn’t. Still. “At least name your cost.”

A shadow crossed his face, calculating and triumphant. “I’ll name my price, but it’s one I’m confident that you will refuse to pay.”

“What is it?” she asked warily.

“What I want,” he paused for a deep drink of brandy, “is you.”

Read the rest on A03

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle big bang #rumpledspinister #rumbelle regency

[galactic-pirates]

Belle's new baking hobby is halted when she runs out of a special ingredient and accidentally doses her sweets with a potion that the two of them end up ingesting.

                    Cupcakes and Magical Mishaps by @idesignedthefjords

#Rumbelle Big Bang #idesignedthefjords #rumbelle #rumbelle aesthetic #fic aesthetic #I made a thing #I learnt to make gifs to do this I'd never made them before I like learning #I hope this is ok for you I spent my day off making it

[rufeepeach]

Title: Begin Again Rating: T Summary: Facing a midlife crisis, Mr Gold moves into a Manhattan apartment seeking a new beginning. Downstairs lives Lacey Rose, a beautiful young woman with a mysterious income, a hidden past, and a nose for trouble. Young, brash, and insisting upon belonging to no one, Lacey's brassy exterior hides a whole different person beneath. A person who, just maybe, is also seeking a happy beginning. Fifty is far too old to begin anew alone, but maybe possible together. Rumbelle Breakfast at Tiffany's AU.

AO3 Link

A/N: Written for the @rumbellebigbang with my artist partner @ifishouldvanish! GORGEOUS accompanying artwork here!

A/N 2: This is another Rumbelle fic where Belle is calling herself Lacey, but I wouldn’t really call this a Golden Lace fic? Maybe a bit of both? 

#rumbelle big bang #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #rumplestiltskin #belle french #mr gold #belle gold #fanfiction #fanfic #ouat #once upon a time