
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1319743.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Belle/Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr._Gold, Lacey/Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr._Gold,
      rumplestiltskin_|_mr_gold/belle_|_lacey
  Character:
      Belle_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Lacey_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr.
      Gold
  Additional Tags:
      Golden_Lace
  Series:
      Part 3 of Reckless_Abandon
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-16 Words: 2534
****** Summer's In The Air (and baby, heaven's in your eyes) ******
by rufeepeach
Summary
     Mr Gold steals little Lacey French away from Homecoming; they have
     their own celebration
Notes
     This is for my lovely friend Wonder who has been waiting forever for
     this. This one's based on 'National Anthem', again by Lana del Rey. I
     feel this is becoming a habit, or maybe just another chronologically
     out-of-order explicit series. I seem to be good at that.
     Fair warning, as always: Lacey is 17 in this.
It was early September, and the sun was setting like fire on the horizon. Gold
felt that the sheer romanticism of the moment, the late summer heat in the air,
could excuse a little impropriety.
She’d sung the national anthem at the high school’s Homecoming, as if she were
an innocent, a sweet little girl without a care in the world. She’d stood
primly in the center of the field, all auburn hair with red highlights and
white sundress, and sung The Star-Spangled Banner in that alto moan that had
always caused him trouble.
Little Lacey French was one of Storybrooke’s resident rebels, not just in deed
but in thought. She was an expressive little chit who refused to be
categorized, and even more so to be predictable.
Another part of his misbehavior could be pinned on that: the girl was
changeable as the sea, and just as intriguing.
She sang the national anthem in a sweet white summer dress, the vision of
patriotic purity despite her Australian drawl, but he knew there’d be liquor
and cigarettes on her warm breath, were one to get close enough to tell. She
hung out by the lake with half the senior class, and took boys off into the
woods alone, but no one ever spoke of her having a boyfriend. She was an
intellectual with a tattoo on her left hip, and a penchant for cheap rum in a
hipflask.
She read a lot, did Lacey. He wondered who else in town knew that.
He shouldn’t have noticed, of course: men in their fifties shouldn’t notice the
habits of pretty little teenage girls, no matter how sultry their looks or
inviting their smiles. But notice he had, and it had been the start of his
troubles.
He’d come to the game to threaten the Mayor. She was always in attendance at
events like this, trying to act as if she gave a damn about the family values
that had gotten her elected. He’d finished his legitimate business before the
pre-game trappings had even gotten underway: he’d stayed to hear Lacey sing.
That sundress was a menace unto itself, the twin of one he knew well. It had
been red, its counterpart, poppy-red and just as enticing, just as addictive.
The summer heat had been his excuse then, and the clear want and invitation in
her eyes. She’d practically begged him to corrupt her, to ruin her on the
grass. It had been amusing, to see how far he could push her until she broke,
and sent him away: she was a game he could win any time he liked, and Gold did
like a foregone conclusion.
She was only seventeen, he thought, as she finished the last line and held the
note. She was only seventeen, but she walked through town like a wronged queen,
all fearless strut and silent dare. The town called her a slut, a troublemaker,
a little harlot. She challenged everyone she saw to put their money where their
loathsome mouths were, and yet she was such a wispy little thing, uncertain and
young, flighty as a moth beneath that hard exterior.
She was temptation itself, the dual urges to shatter and to keep her forcing
him to linger, to watch from the shadows beside the bleachers, as she
curtseyed, giggled, waved, and left.
She caught his eye as she walked down a different path, and winked. He inclined
his head, smirked right back, conspiratorial as a thief and just as cruel. He
should let her get back to her little teenaged life, but he knew she’d not go
willingly. Lacey French was made for something else, something both better and
worse, and he knew that better than anyone.
She stopped to watch him, and he slunk back into the shadows as he turned on
his heel, and returned to his car.
He lingered to watch the sunset.
He stayed to see what she would do.
His passenger door was flung open, and he was assailed by the scent of cheap
body-spray and cigarette smoke. She was already smoking as she threw herself
into the seat, and slammed the door shut, popping her feet onto the dashboard,
her floaty white skirt pooling around her hips.
She didn’t try to straighten it, just took a drag of her cigarette and eyed
him. “Where’re you going?” she asked, coyly. Playing the adult. Lacey always
tried to surprise him: perhaps she hoped that if she played the part long
enough, one day he’d look at her and see someone twice her age, and worthy of
respect.
He respected her mind, and a few years of experience would make her a force to
be reckoned with. And he couldn’t help but recognise the force she was up
against, growing up in this poisonous little town.
“Nowhere in particular,” he told her. She raised an eyebrow.
“Sounds good to me,” she shrugged, leaning back in the seat as if he’d invited
her along.
He put his hand on her extended leg, brazen, on the exposed flesh of her thigh.
“You sure?”
“When am I not?” she sighed, her eyes still closed.
He laughed, and removed the hand to start the car. It was an automatic,
thankfully, and once he’d put it in drive and gotten them out on the road, he
moved his right hand from the wheel and put it on her shoulder.
He didn’t hold her close, arm around her back like a boyfriend, instead he just
let his fingers stroke the soft skin of her neck, the smooth unblemished curve
there and higher, where her hair was pinned back in a waterfall down her spine,
exposing her throat.
He shifted his palm, so it rested across the back of her neck, under that
curtain of dark curls. She sighed, and shifted; he held on a little tighter.
Gold was a connoisseur of broken and beautiful things; Lacey French was both.
“Why’d they have you singing?” he asked, after a long silent moment. Her
breathing had grown heavier, since he started to touch her; he wondered if she
could feel the possession implicit in his grip on her neck.
“Why not?” she asked, as if the whole subject were beneath her. He laughed.
“You’re hardly Miss America, pet.”
“What gave it away?” she said, drolly, finally putting her legs down. She
stretched, catlike and relaxed. He wondered if he’d erred somewhere, in
allowing her to feel so comfortable in his car, trapped with him here when he’d
made his intentions clear. “The accent or the many, many letters of concern to
my father?”
“Now, I’d know nothing about that, would I?” he made the picture of honest
denial, were it not for the wink he threw her at the end.
“Oh please,” she snorted, “as if you don’t go through Moe’s mail whenever
you’re in the house.”
“Only if it has your name on it, pet,” he muttered. She blushed. She was
pretty, he thought, when she looked honestly innocent and girlish. Soft and
vulnerable: someone who shouldn’t be in the car with the town monster, on her
way to god-knew-where to do god-knew-what.
She sighed to break the odd tension that had settled, and explained. “Miss
Merriweather – I told you about her, the bitchy guidance counsellor who thinks
I’m going to fail life and become a hooker?”
“Oh yes, you mentioned her, with half a dozen other epithets.”
Lacey snickered, “Well, she said she’d get off my back if I engaged in school
activities once in a while. So I sang at Homecoming. The national anthem’s not
hard, anyway, and no one else wanted to. You can’t be Queen if you have other
duties, and even Ruby’s going out for that.”
“You don’t want to be a Queen?” he asked, amused. He was always amused by her,
among other, less reputable things.
“Oh yeah, I want to be Queen of Storybrooke High. Maybe they’d even give me a
plaque and the key to the city!”
“Have to get past the Mayor for that, first.”
“Oh yeah,” Lacey sniffed, derisively, “Sour-faced cow.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” he grinned.
They kept driving, and Lacey rolled the windows down so that the air whipped
through the car, her hair ran rampant around her face. She threw her cigarette
out of the window, and popped a stick of pink bubblegum into her mouth.
“Don’t get that on my seats,” he scolded, mildly. She rolled her eyes, and blew
a bubble right in his face.
He drove them up through the woods, past the convent, and Lacey snickered,
“This where you drop me off to take my vows and mend my ways?”
He leered at her, “You would look fetching in a wimple. And think about how
many commandments you could break then!”
She giggled, a charming little sound. “That would be fun,” she conceded. “And
think of how it’d piss off the Mother Superior if you fucked one of her own
nuns in the chapel.”
“It’d be worth it just for that,” he agreed. No one mentioned the assumption
that he’d bother to come inside at all, that she would be worth the effort.
They kept on past the convent, up the hill. They finally pulled in on the crest
of the hill, looking over the rest of town from high above. Apart. Two
outsiders, in the dark and apart from the rest of the world, and all of a
sudden he felt a twinge of remorse for dragging her off here with him.
He got out of the car, and leaned on the hood. She got out to join him, and
leaned beside him with her arms folded, watching the stars expectantly.
“Ah, Gold, no offence but this is kinda boring,” she said, after a long
silence. He rolled his eyes.
“And sitting on that bench of yours with an old paperback is the life and soul
of the party?”
“Fine, jeez,” she held up her hands, “What’re we doing here?”
He pointed out at the bare night sky. A moment later, it was alive with
fireworks, red white and blue, bursting high above them. “Fireworks,” he said.
“Thought it’d be easier to see them up here.”
“Homecoming,” she sighed, nodding, finally understanding. Then she laughed, and
shook her head.
“Something funny, dear?”
“It’s just a bit romantic, isn’t it?” she snickered. “Bringing me up here to
watch the fireworks.”
She had a point.
He silenced her with a long, hot kiss to her red lips, and dragged her around
so he was crowding her; so she had to watch the fireworks bursting above them
over his shoulder as she sat on the bonnet, slim legs wrapped around his hips.
“Still romantic, dearie?” he hissed into her ear, as his fingers dug
punishingly into the soft flesh of her thighs.
“Stop talking,” she whispered back, and ground up against him, surprisingly wet
against his suit trousers. He slid curious hands up to her hips, and found what
he should have expected.
“No knickers?” he raised a surprised eyebrow, “In front of people?”
“Call it optimism,” she grinned, and bit down on his lower lip, hard, tugging
him down to her so she was sprawled like a sacrifice on his car bonnet, and he
was braced over her, held in place only by her bare legs, her skirt around her
stomach. “Someone would have taken me up on it.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” he grunted, as she pressed herself harder against
him, rutting her bare cunt against his clothed crotch, and she was like the
fireworks, and the bubblegum he could taste on her tongue: transient, burning
hot and bursting fast. It was all too good to last, running too hot, burning on
impact; she was too much for anyone to handle, too much to be contained.
Her hot little hands worked at his flies, and drew him out to lie hard and
heavy in her palm. They’d never done this, he realised, not properly: they were
always all hands and mouths, favors and reciprocation, two halves of a deal.
They’d never actually fucked, not properly. And he was not stupid enough to get
a silly little teenager pregnant, no matter how tempting she made abject
foolishness appear.
But she was already fumbling in her cleavage, and he gaped as she fished out a
little foil square, and grinned, always pleased to outsmart him.
“You can’t remember underwear, but you can remember that?” he sneered, to cover
his surprise.
“Two sides of one coin, Gold,” she said, airily, refusing to rise to the bait.
“Can’t do one without the other. Well, not easily.”
She slid it on with the practiced skill of a dab hand, and he didn’t comment,
didn’t pursue the line of thought that whispered, traitorously he wished she
weren’t so quick, so eager, so easy to please, and so practiced in getting what
she wanted.
It was utter nonsense, that innate jealousy: a virgin, blushing and sweet,
would bore him in minutes, and he’d leave feeling guilty, restless and
unsatisfied. And he hadn’t the patience or the goodness of soul to claim he’d
enjoy being responsible to anyone, even pretty little Lacey French
It was more fun to debauch the wicked, anyway. Lacey could appreciate and
admire the work he did on her, the wreckage and the ruin. She was a connoisseur
too.
He grinned down at her, leered at her breasts, eyed her candy apple lips. He
saw her chest rise with her sudden intake of breath, her soft little gasp. Her
sweet little body was never quite prepared, it seemed, for the kind of trouble
her sharp red mouth could cause.
He took her by surprise, sheathing himself in one firm thrust without apparent
care for her comfort. There’d been a little too much care this evening, after
all, and he was not ignorant nor naïve enough to think he was even close to
being her first. Lacey was young but she wasn't a child: she could more than
look after herself. If she objected, she’d say so. She was the one lying back
like a banquet, like a sacrifice all wrapped in white, begging to be taken
advantage of.
As it was, she swooned and bucked against him, arms slung around his neck
tightening to pull him closer. She was tight as sin and hotter than hell around
his cock, and he buried an embarrassing moan in the side of her neck, biting
down hard on the soft flesh to keep from saying something better left unheard.
One hand kept him braced, while the other moved to brush over her breast. He
found a tight nipple through the fabric of her dress and pinched, hard: he was
pleased when she didn’t feign a moan. She didn’t even make a sound as he
fondled her chest and fucked her tight little cunt; she just shuddered
uncontrollably, all over, her little white teeth clamped down hard on her lower
lip.
“How’re the fireworks?” he growled into her ear, nipping at her neck when she
didn’t immediately reply.
“Breathtaking,” she panted back, and exploded around him, burning up and
breaking into a thousand pieces.
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