Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/789782.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Belle/Rumpelstiltskin_|_Mr._Gold
  Character:
      Belle_|_Lacey, Belle_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Rumpelstiltskin_|_Mr._Gold,
      Cinderella_|_Ashley_Boyd, Maurice_|_Moe_French, Victor_Frankenstein_|_Dr.
      Whale, Jiminy_Cricket_|_Archie_Hopper, Huntsman_|_Sheriff_Graham,
      Original_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Golden_Lace
  Series:
      Part 8 of play_on,_give_me_excess
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-08 Words: 3272
****** Fistfight ******
by whereismygarden
Summary
     Lacey's reputation can get her into trouble, and her knight in
     shining armor isn't exactly conventional. Lacey!Belle and cursed
     Gold, in cursed Storybrooke.
Notes
     Heed the underage warning if that might upset you.
See the end of the work for more notes
“Slut!” The shove was enough to send Lacey reeling, but she didn’t fall.
                “You want to say that again?” Cara Vincent was taller than her,
but Lacey was strong from years of digging gardens and carrying trays. She
doubted Cara had ever had to work a day in her life. “Or do you just want to
fight?”
                “Stay away from my boyfriend, you hear me, you bitch?” Lacey
laughed, and pushed the other girl when she attempted another shove. Cara
stumbled but looked ready to continue.
                “Hey, hey, stop!” Ashley Boyd was suddenly in between them,
wrapping her arms around Cara and pulling her back.
                “No, let her try, I’m looking forward to this,” Lacey panted,
following them. “Let her go, Ashley, I’m not scared. I haven’t touched her
boy.”
                “Liar!” Cara spat, and Ashley found herself staggering back,
nearly into a wall, as Cara charged Lacey.
                “You’re paranoi—ow!” Lacey raised a hand to her jaw, then
turned and smashed her own fist into the other girl’s cheek. Their fight was
attracting attention, for all that they were on an infrequently used street:
the one Lacey liked to use as a shortcut between home and her job. Ashley
screamed at the distant figure standing where run-down, brown-lawned Orange
Lane met one of Storybrooke’s main streets.
                “Hey, come help! Guys, stop it!” Lacey wasn’t sure whether she
wanted to simply humiliate Cara or actually beat the living hell out of her for
trying to jump her. The girl was a junior in her psychology class and her
dangly canary-yellow feather earrings were a tempting target. Lacey settled for
gripping her hair and kneeing her in the stomach at the same time, then
punching her again. Cara dragged her manicured, overlong fingernails down the
side of Lacey’s neck, drawing four lines of blood, fisting her hand in Lacey’s
loose curls and rushing her into the side wall of one of Storybrooke’s worse
bars. The sharp, confusing pain from smacking her skull on the brick was
overwhelming, and Lacey only blinked dumbly at the other girl for a second.
Cara kicked her in the shin: the stabbing pain cut through the blurry throbbing
in her skull, and she focused on Cara’s face.
                “I don’t want to see you talking to Charles, you little bitch.
Go spread your legs for someone else, you nasty slut.”
                Lacey smirked and spat to the side—a clot of blood had pooled
in her mouth from her split lip.
                “Next bit goes in your face, you spray-tanned slag.”
                “Goddamn whore!” Cara kicked at Lacey’s shins, but Lacey
managed to kick back a little, still dizzy from the blow to the head.
                “Stop!” Ashley’s voice wavered between terrified and panicked.
“Cara, you’re going to really hurt her!”
                “Good,” Cara hissed, at the same moment Lacey said,
                “In her fucking dreams!” She planted her sneakered foot in
Cara’s stomach, leaned against the wall, and pushed outward. Cara fell so fast
she didn’t have time to properly catch herself with her arms, and her head
struck the ground, though the dead grass outside the Rabbit Hole provided a
little cushion.
                The figure at the end of the street had determined what was
happening, and broke into a run, spurred on by Ashley’s yelling. Lacey leaned
over and braced herself on her knees, blood and spit dripping from her mouth,
head spinning. It was Archie Hopper, Storybrooke’s resident psychiatrist and,
in Lacey’s opinion, the stuffiest man she had ever met, who had heard Ashley.
                He bent over Cara, who did appear worse off due to being flat
on the ground. Lacey pressed a hand to her bleeding neck and wondered if she
should just try and run away, because more people were gathering at the end of
the street and heading towards them. Ashley and her stupid noise! And Cara and
her impulsive bitchery! Dr. Whale and Mr. Gold were the people headed down the
street, she realized, and Ashley was on her cell phone, dialing the sheriff’s
station.
                “Excuse me,” Whale hurried Hopper out of the way and took his
place next to Cara, who appeared to be crying. Lacey was torn between sneering
and being impressed at her bullshitting. The only thing wrong with her was a
sore cheekbone and the shock of getting the wind knocked out of her. And a
horrible disposition, but there was no cure for that.
                “I’m the one fucking bleeding everywhere over here,” she
panted, trying to straighten and realizing she couldn’t, she was too dizzy. She
knelt down instead, shaking her head to try and clear it. Dr. Hopper pressed a
hand to her back.
                “Lacey, look at me.” She blinked up at him. “How many fingers
am I holding up, please?”
                “Two,” she snapped. “I’m fine, just dizzy.”
                “Um, you should probably put your head between your knees,” he
continued, blushing a little. Lacey realized she was wearing a very short,
tight skirt—it was comfortable purple cotton, one of her favorites—and the
nervous doctor no doubt didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by pointing out
that it would be indecent to do as he bid. It was sweet, in a pathetic kind of
way.
                She heard Gold’s cane click to her left and he crouched down
next to her as best as he was able. He wouldn’t have any reservations about her
skirt length, at least, though if he thought he was a comforting presence, he
was wrong. Something rattled next to her, and she glanced over at him. He had
pulled a small white bottle out of his coat pocket.
                “Painkillers, Miss French,” he said. “Very convenient, as
they’re easy to swallow without water.” He shook one into her palm. She
swallowed it cautiously: it was easy, though an odd feeling, and nodded to him.
                “I’m good at swallowing,” she said in a whisper, and he rolled
his eyes.
                “You aren’t that injured, I see,” he said irritably, and got
back to his feet. Lacey had to admire the fact that he determinedly avoiding
using her shoulder, sticking to the wall and his cane. The same kind of stupid
pride that got her into fights down side streets with jealous girls, she
thought.
                “Well,” she returned, turning and lifting her hair out of the
way so that he could see her neck. He said nothing, but she thought that maybe
his eyes tightened at the sight.
                “I think the sheriff’s on his way,” Dr. Whale said from a few
feet away. Cara was sitting up, wincing and holding her stomach. At his words,
she stiffened and sprang to her feet, looking fearful. “Hey, you need to stay
sitting, you’ve hit your head!” the doctor protested.
                “Not as hard as she hit mine,” Lacey interjected, and the
doctor finally seemed to notice her, turning around.
                “You better mind what I said, slut,” Cara said warningly to
Lacey, making Dr. Hopper twitch his head at her words. Lacey bared her teeth,
hoping they were bloody.
                “You better watch your mouth, rumor-spreading hag,” Lacey
replied, adding an upraised middle finger for emphasis. Cara sniffed and
practically sprinted down the street, not eager for an encounter with
Storybrooke’s finest, and only.
                “I would ignore her language—perhaps it’s not best to respond
in kind?” Dr. Hopper said gingerly. Lacey raised her eyebrows.
                “Well, if everyone could just ignore what they didn’t like to
hear, that would be nice.” Maybe if Cara hadn’t listened to her precious
Charles’s story that he’d fucked her at the creek, this wouldn’t have happened.
No doubt he had intended it only for his male friends—according to the lot of
them, they’d been with half the town—but due to the story involving her,
someone had believed it and told Cara. “How about we call off the sheriff,
since she’s gone. I’m certainly not going to press any charges.”
                In the end, Sheriff Graham had showed up, tsked over her
bruises and cut lip, and written down some notes. Lacey wondered if any report
would really be filed.
                “No names, since you’re both minors,” he assured her. “Since
you seem fine, and she’s not here.” Lacey had tossed her hair back over her
neck, and neither the doctors nor the sheriff had noticed the cuts.
                “Are you okay?” Ashley squeaked beside her. “Ruby’s going to
kill me for letting you into trouble!” Lacey waved her off.
                “I can drive you back to your house, if you like,” Sheriff
Graham offered. Lacey shook her head. A walk home in the dimming light would
clear her head.
                “Let me,” Gold cut in smoothly. “I’m sure you’re quite busy,
sheriff.” The man in question looked a little shocked at Gold’s generosity, but
raised his hands in surrender.
                “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble,” he agreed. Lacey scowled
and shrugged off Whale’s arm around her shoulders.
                “I can walk fine, and I don’t need a ride,” she snapped. She
wanted to put ice on her head and lie down for the rest of the evening.
                “I insist,” Gold said tightly, opening the passenger door for
her.
                “You shouldn’t walk,” Dr. Whale agreed. “You need to rest.”
Lacey bit back an unkind comment and sat ungraciously in Gold’s car. He shut
the door for her, like the perfect gentleman he wasn’t, and walked around to
the other door.
                “I don’t want a ride,” Lacey said, the second he sat down. He
smiled thinly, handing her his cane and starting the engine.
                “I am aware of how wary you seem to be of accepting rides from
me.” Lacey wrinkled her nose at him.
                “It’s not you, Mr. Gold. I just hate cars.” Indeed, despite the
comfortable seats in his, she could barely settle enough to fasten the belt.
The ceiling was pressing down on her, and she stared straight ahead, focusing
on what she could see of Storybrooke through the front windshield.
                “You ride with your friend Ruby,” he commented.
                “We keep the windows all the way down when I ride with her,”
she said softly, and gritted her teeth for the rest of the ride back to her
father’s apartment. The windows were dark: he usually went straight from the
shop to the sports bar for several rounds and a dinner of peanuts and cheap
chips.
                Gold followed her inside, not waiting for her invitation, and
walked down the hall to her bathroom.
                “Come on, Miss French,” he said. Lacey blinked, flabbergasted.
                “What the hell are you doing?”
                “I’m going to clean your neck, since you didn’t want the good
doctor doing it.” Lacey shook her head, smiling slightly. He was an odd man.
                “I can clean my own neck,” she told him, seated on the counter
while he sponged at her cuts with a warm washcloth.
                “Of course,” he said, sounding some blend of focused and tired.
“It’s a crime to help you.” She hissed as he spread some white cream he had
found under their sink over the cuts. “It’s just an antibiotic cream, dearie,
don’t panic.” It was probably years out of date, because she’d never bought
any, and she’s done the shopping for years.
                His hands were gentle, though, as he taped some bandages to her
neck and fetched ice for her skull, and Lacey felt something stir in her at the
almost-kind look in his eyes. Clutching the ice to the back of her head, she
circled the tiny, messy living room, where Gold sat comfortably on the couch,
watching her, and flicked the radio on. Apparently she couldn’t be alone with
him without thinking about how damn good he had been. Music would be a good
distraction. Something rhythmic and rocky was playing. The first line she heard
was lose your cool in public, and she almost burst out laughing there and then.
                “So you didn’t start the fight?” Gold asked, voice half a purr,
half a growl.
                I want you to be crazy ‘cause you’re boring baby when you’re
straight, I want you to be crazy ‘cause you’re stupid baby when you’re sane
                “Nope,” she said, trying to study his eyes, but she was
distracted by the way he was sitting wide-legged and comfortable on her couch.
His suits really did flatter him—oh, she would be damned if she was going to
notice things like that. “Do you want to fuck me?” He raised his eyebrows,
smirking a little.
                “Do you want to fuck me?” he asked, studying the handle of his
cane easily. “You’ve just been in a fight.”
                “It gets my blood up,” she said, and wondered if it was true,
if that was to blame rather than just his presence.
                “Oho, does it now?” He was truly smirking at this, a filthy
grin that went straight to her groin. “Well then, I can’t leave you wanting.”
He stood and walked up to her, running his hand down her side and curling his
fingers around her hip. “Fetch us some protection, won’t you? I know you have
some on hand.” Lacey sucked her breath in as he squeezed her buttock through
her skirt and pressed his hips against hers, then pulled away and hurried into
her bedroom. She had a box tucked away in her nightstand, nominally hidden from
her father, though the day he cared about her sexual habits would be an
interesting day indeed. Then again, coming home to find her fucking Gold would
try even his willful blindness.
                He was holding the two pillows from the couch in his free hand
when she returned, holding up the foil condom package between two fingers. He
tossed both of them onto the table in the kitchen and Lacey felt her mouth curl
into a hungry smile. Gold might be an infuriating prick, with his smugness and
eerily calm air, but he wasn’t boring.
                “What’s the plan?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and glancing
at the table, then looking him over. He was getting hard, she was glad to see,
because even if he was probably fifty, if he wasn’t getting off from all this,
she would be embarrassed. He was only acting calm, as usual.
                “You’ve hit your head, remember?” He motioned for her to walk
over to the table, then dragged her close to him, so that she was pressed
against him, her back to his chest, and, oh, now she could feel his arousal.
She smiled and rocked back against him, and heard him take in a sharp breath.
“I don’t want you to strain yourself.” He pushed her forward, so that she was
bent over the table, belly and face pressed against the pillows, and pushed her
skirt up, bunching it around her waist.
                “Same to you,” she returned, then bit her lip and pressed the
side of her face into the pillow as his clever fingers found her clit through
her knickers, pressing against it lightly, while he rocked his hips against
her.
                It was nice, resting her head and elbows on the table, while
Gold teased at her, dipping his fingers into her occasionally, spreading the
slick moisture over her clit.
                “You don’t have to be quiet this time, Lacey,” he growled in
her ear, rubbing himself against her, one hand between her legs, one bracing
his body over hers. It was almost an embrace, his weight not touching her, but
his heat still palpable over her. “I think I’d like to hear you screaming.”
                “Would you?” she gasped, as he dragged her underwear over her
hips and let it drop to the floor, and she heard him undo his belt and trousers
as he pulled away from her for a second.
                “Very much,” and for a moment, she was left without his touch
and heard the wrapper ripping. Then his wet fingers and the blunt head of his
cock were pushing at her entrance, and he was bent over her, breathing hard.
                “You first,” she said, and he eased himself inside her,
returning his fingers to her little bud of hungry nerves, groaning as he sunk
fully inside. “You can scream too.” She had never done it like this, though
Ruby’s jokes about doggy-style usually made her laugh.
                Gold’s fingers pressed at her more insistently, and he pulled
half out and slammed into her, with a muted growl.
                “Oh, oh,” she gasped, toes curling as he pushed her up the
slope to her release. He hummed over her, sounding smug even through the
cresting waves of pleasure.
                “Come on, Lacey, come for me,” Gold whispered, pushing faster
and harder, and she groaned into her pillow, fingers scratching at the wood of
the table as her vision darkened and legs twitched, as the shivery pleasure
spread through her body. “There you are.” She shrieked at the climax, his
fingers still rubbing at her, his breath at her neck.
                He finished a minute or so after her—she wasn’t exactly
sure—grunting with every thrust, one hand still next to her, the other gripping
her hip. His thrusting turned erratic at the end, harder, and he ended with a
moan pressed to the back of her neck.
                “You’re okay?” he asked, pulling out slowly, and Lacey giggled.
There was softness underneath all his cold smugness and superior air that she
liked all the more because it was hard to see.
                “Skull intact,” she assured him, and stood up languidly. He was
removing the condom unabashedly, half-hard, and he looked little like the
frightening landlord of Storybrooke’s nightmares with his trousers around his
ankles. Of course, she was a picture of trashiness too: her knickers on the
floor, skirt dragged up, bruised face. “Don’t we make a pretty picture?”
                He was dressed and neat in a minute, the condom wrapped in
paper and tossed in the wastebasket. Lacey sank down onto the couch, decent
again, regarding him with sleepy eyes.
                “You’re good,” she admitted. She never said things like
that—well, once she had teased him, but that was teasing. She didn’t say it
softly or earnestly, and she regretted the words the moment they left her lips.
Gold would never let her live it down. He only smiled, an odd half-quirk of his
lips, and shook his head.
                “You’re a little dizzy still,” he said, not gloating over her
moment of weakness, and touched her hair almost affectionately as he picked up
his cane and walked out.
                Her father came home a few hours later, when she had showered
off Gold’s scent—leather and forest and spicy tea—and put some less obvious
bandages on her neck, to find her with ice pressed to her head and the scent of
cigarettes heavy in the air.
                “What the hell happened to you?” he asked, managing, barely, to
sound concerned. Lacey just shook her head and adjusted the ice pack, eyes
resting on the ashtray on the newspaper- and magazine-piled coffee table. The
apartment was dirty and cluttered with stupid trinkets, and she wondered, for a
second, if she was just another trinket that Gold wanted to collect. And what
if she was? She was fine—except when it led to being jumped down side
streets—with people from school acting like she was a prize to claim, for a
night.
                Because he had walked into her home and washed her cuts, then
fucked her while refusing to look her in the eye, then hastened to check if she
was alright when he finished, then hardly said a word when he left.
                She pressed the ice harder into her aching skull, reasoning
that she was still a little dizzy from the blow, and that explained her being
out of sorts.
End Notes
     The song on the radio is "Cheap and Cheerful" by the Kills: one of
     the first songs that I wanted to include in this series, so I'm glad
     it finally got in.
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