Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3582045.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Lacey/Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr._Gold
  Character:
      Lacey_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr._Gold
  Additional Tags:
      Golden_Lace, teenage!lacey
  Series:
      Part 4 of Reckless_Abandon
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-21 Words: 1647
****** feeling the heat (even when the sun goes down) ******
by rufeepeach
Summary
     Lacey has a tattoo, hidden and secret, but Mr Gold is good at
     unearthing hidden things
Notes
     Yep, Lacey's still seventeen, and this isn't sunshine and rainbows.
     If that upsets you, please don't continue cause it only gets worse
Lacey has a tattoo.
It’s only small, a little rose on her hip, and no one but Ruby and the tattoo
artist himself has ever seen it. Moe’d flip his shit, but Moe will never know,
and the boys Lacey has in her room or behind Granny’s or in the back of Ruby’s
car never get enough of her clothes off to see. It’s private, precious, a
secret. Another hidden little piece of Lacey’s soul, kept quiet and out of
sight.
But then, Gold’s good at finding hidden and precious things, isn’t he? He
spends his life among the stolen secrets of this town, and he knows every
artefact and piece in his collection as well as his own name. And what is
Lacey, but another glittery bauble to add to his hoard?
"Take your clothes off," he says, and she shivers. It’s not cold in his front
room, especially with the fire burning and the curtains drawn, and she’s stood
before him in a cotton dress and woolly tights, heeled boots and a leather
jacket. She’s not cold, in fact she’s far too warm, but still she shivers.
She could leave now, she thinks, even as she knows she won’t. He’s daring her,
pushing her limits, seeing how far she’ll take this. She’ll be eighteen in six
months, but for now she’s still underage, still off-limits, still a girl
trapped in a monster’s lair. She can suck him off in the park or be fucked in
the hot summer sun of her back garden no problem, but it’s different out of
doors, different when it’s quick, different when one can argue that it just
sort of… happened.
But now, with Gold’s eyes gleaming like a wolf, reclined in his armchair like a
king with his scotch in his hand and his suit pristine, Lacey has two choices.
She can do as he asks and strip off, exposing herself and lowering her defences
while he remains clothed, or leave with her dignity and know that she can’t
come back.
Her jacket hits the floor first. Her boots clatter as she unzips them and kicks
them to the side, and then her tights, pulled off one foot and then the other.
For a moment she feels like Pippi Longstocking, like a child hopping on one
foot, unable to get free, and she - she, Lacey French, the town troublemaker,
the school slut - feels almost too young and too childlike to be here, doing
this, with a man so clearly and utterly a grown-up.
Then she meets his eyes, sees the regard and interest, the flickering warmth
she didn’t expect and the hunger she did, and her confidence returns. She
throws the tights to join her boots, and pulls down the zipper of her dress,
slipping it off her shoulders and letting it puddle at her feet.
Her underwear matches, at least, for all that it’s simple, pale blue with pink
roses, girlish and sweet. Cheap. All they can afford with the peanuts her dad
makes. She wishes she could afford lace and silk, something sexy and mature and
expensive, and look classy for him. But she looks like a poor teenage girl, and
for the first time when he looks at her she doesn’t feel like his equal. She
feels like the school slut, out of her depth and overwhelmed, and she can’t
keep her hands daringly on her hips, crossing them instead over her small chest
and hoping he’ll stop looking soon, for his scrutiny is making her
uncomfortable.
"You’re very beautiful," he notes, his voice low and husky, "And uncomfortable,
now. Is it cold in here?"
"No," she shook her head, "I… it’s not fair for you to stare like that."
"You took your own clothes off, Lacey," he reminded her, reasonably, "And I
didn’t command you to remain planted to that spot. You can do what you need to
feel comfortable."
She breathes a sigh of relief at this release from that odd hold he’d had on
her, but doesn’t know where to go from there. She’d feel ridiculous sat on the
sofa in her bra and knickers while he lounged in a suit, but she doesn’t want
to stay standing, either.
What would Ruby do? What would the town expect her to do next?
She crosses to stand before him, and carefully sits down in his lap, one knee
on either side of his hips. He inhales a little quickly, his hands coming to
bracket her hips automatically, and the scotch sits on the table beside him,
forgotten.
"Comfortable, now?" he asks, a little huskier than before, and she smiles her
old smile, her confident smile, knowing she’s somewhat levelled the playing
field.
"Almost," she replies, and tugs on his tie, pulling him in for a kiss. The tie
is gone before his tongue reaches her mouth; his shirt is unbuttoned before he
pulls away. She’s breathless from his kisses, from his demanding, possessive
mouth and his grasping hands, and she sweeps her hands over his pale chest,
revelling in having him so undone. His blazer is still on, but it’s still more
skin than he’s ever shown her, and she leans down to bite and nip at the base
of his throat, and the top of his sternum.
"Turnabout is fair play," she murmurs into his skin, and his hand grasps her
curls, and hauls her up to kiss him again. She grinds down against his hard
cock through his slacks, and swallows his groan, chasing it with a whimper as
her damp panties press against her aching clit.
"Get on the floor," he growls, between kisses, "And spread your legs."
Lacey swallows, the command going straight to her cunt, soaking her knickers in
seconds. She nods, and stands up, kneeling down onto the rug by the fire and
lying back. She tries to focus on how much she needs him, how wet she was, how
much more intense this is than anything she’d ever done before. She slides a
hand into her panties and strokes herself, trying to keep from feeling exposed
again, young and inexperienced, afraid.
He is awkward with his ankle, but soon he is between her knees, unhooking her
bra and rolling her panties down her legs. He sucks her nipples, hardens them
with his teeth, and Lacey all but screams, the sensation sending sharp spikes
of pleasure down between her legs. He grins against her skin, and bites her,
making her cry out in shock. She wants him to eat her alive.
His fingers trace her tattoo - the first of her lovers ever to see it - and he
grins, handsome and wicked and warm in the firelight. “Not a butterfly or a
dolphin, then?” he teases. She shakes her head.
"My favourite flower," she explains. "It’s pretty, smells good, has sharp
thorns, and it’s a total fucking cliche," she grins, and pulls him down, loving
the chance to give the explanation she’d been so proud of coming up with. "See
why I relate?"
"You’re not a cliche, dear," he tells her, and presses his fingers to her cunt,
making her toes curl and a cry fall from her lips, "You’re unique."
"Special," she jokes, hoarsely, as his fingers breach her, fill her, and he ca
surely feel how wet she is, how ready for him, as she all but drips down onto
his hand. "Touched in the head."
"Beautiful," he counters, as he pulls his fingers out of her and licks her
juices from his hands. She watches as he sucks his own fingers, cleaning her
off every inch of his skin, and her mouth goes dry, because it’s the single
sexiest thing she’s ever seen in her life. Her folds clench, drip onto the
carpet, and she needs his cock inside her like she’s never needed anything
before. "Delicious." He fiddles with his belt and flies, and finally takes his
cock in his hand and lines them up. He thrusts inside her in one wonderfully
hard stroke that has her throwing her head back and keening as he growls,
"Wanton."
"That I’ll accept," she panting, as he sets up a driving, punishing rhythm, and
his fingers finally resume their good work on her clit, "I want you."
"I want you too, Lacey," he promises, slamming back home again as he braces one
hand beside her head, and encourages her to wrap her legs about his waist. "My
perfect, filthy girl."
She moans at his words, how it feels like an accolade for all that it’s almost
slander, and then whimpers as he sucks her nipple again. There are no more
words now, as he fucks her mercilessly on the carpet by the fire, and she
swoons and cries out with every thrust, toes curling where her feet cross at
the small of his back, nails raking down his back and scoring his skin. She’s
going to come, hard, no doubt about it, and Lacey lets go at last. She throws
her head back and fell into it, letting the waves crest and crash over her, and
screams without shame as he works her through it, pulling out at the very last
moment to spill over her bare stomach.
"I’m on the Pill," she pants, as he stares at his seed pooled on her stomach,
obscene and unbearably erotic all at once. He nods.
"I knew that," he breathes, as if he can’t believe what he’s done either. "I’m…
I’m sorry." He fumbles for some tissues from the coffee table and sets to work
cleaning them up, cleaning his seed from her skin. She lets him, not knowing
whether to thank him or to protest and so remaining silent. Finally he
collapses beside her, and she rolls over instinctively, pressing her head to
his shoulder. His fingers stroke her tattoo almost affectionately, soothingly,
as she slips into satiated sleep.
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