Genre: Romance, Humour, Fluff, Smut
Summary: One day Mr. Gold shows up on the French’s doorstep to collect his overdue payment. Moe isn’t home yet and Belle asks him to come inside to wait for him.
A/N: Double prompt this time: from the OUAT kinkmeme: ‘One day Mr. Gold shows up on the French’s doorstep to collect his overdue payment. Moe isn’t home yet and Belle asks him to come inside to wait for him. One thing leads to another and sexy times happens.
And from claireymil, who prompted ‘the tea service’. I do hope they don’t mind that it’s smut… if you stop after the kiss it can be made T rated.
The man on the doorstep is slim, smiling and absolutely terrifying.
He’s the man everyone in town fears, and no matter how much Izzy – and Ruby, although she wouldn’t admit it – had admired his suits over the years (and how well they fit him, but that was beside the point) there’s no denying the ominous cloud of Certain Doom that hangs over him.
But Izzy is brave, and she knows who he is, so she puts on a fake smile and chirrups “Hello, Mr Gold, what can I do for you today?”
“Is your father in, Miss French?” he asks, all quiet civility, and a shiver runs down her spine, “We have a little business to discuss.”
“I’m afraid he’s just gone out,” Izzy replies, uneasily, but at least it’s true. The fact that he’s gone for a long walk to avoid this very meeting is neither here nor there.
“Oh, well that’s a pity,” he doesn’t look at all saddened, just resigned, as if this was to be expected “I’m afraid I need to collect some collateral, then. Your van is the one parked outside, correct?”
“Yes… no!” Izzy grabs his arm, stopping him from leaving, and he looks down at her hand on his suit jacket in astonishment for a moment. There’s a strange moment of eye-contact, and a weird little electric current runs up her arm, before she lets go and widens her eyes, pleading “Why don’t you just come inside and wait for him? It won’t be long.”
He nods, stiffly, and she stands aside to allow him inside.
And it’s a strange sight, what happens next: Mr Gold sat on her mama’s old flowery sofa, waiting to financially cripple her father while Izzy tries to offer him tea.
She brings out the old china tea service, and tries to make conversation from the kitchen as she messes with the teapot: “So, how’s business?”
“Good, getting busier as time goes on.”
“Oh, really? What sort of stuff do people bring in?”
“Oh, ordinary things: jewellery, old paintings, hearts of ex-lovers in jars…”
He’s so casual about it that the thought startles her. He’s grinning, and there’s such a wicked gleam in his eyes that for a moment she takes him seriously. Her hand spasms – she’s naturally clumsy, and the shock of his eyes suddenly on her breaks her poise – and her teacup clatters to the ground.
At least it wasn’t his: there’s no need to further anger the hungry loan shark
She puts his cup on the table next to him, and drops to her knees to clean up the mess. She can feel Gold watching her, and glances up with a smile, “Sorry, I’m such a klutz.”
The depth of his gaze, the tilt to his mouth that signals something more than just friendly concern, puzzles her. He’s looking at her like she’s someone else, like she’s someone older and far away.
But she’s a girl with an active imagination, and a wildly inappropriate attraction to a man who can only be described as the town villain, and of course it’s all in her head.
“Shit,” she mutters, when she finds the cup where it’s rolled under the sofa, “It’s chipped!”
“Yes, I can see that.” Gold murmurs.
She takes the broken cup to the kitchen, and returns to take a seat next to Mr Gold. She’s hopeful – she’s always hopeful – that she can do some good here. Maybe she can make a new deal with him, or at least charm him into granting her father more time.
Just until business picks up: her papa can make ends meet, he has all her life and nothing big has changed in the past six months (that’s a lie, and she knows it, but the world is too scary otherwise).
“So, you were saying about hearts in jars?”
“Hmm,” he nods, and leans back, relaxed, “Sometimes ornate wooden boxes. Some people are sentimental.”
“Uh huh.” She doesn’t know how to react to that: she wants to laugh, but this man is her enemy and it seems inappropriate somehow.
“That was a joke, Miss French. There’s no need to be so concerned.”
“Oh, I know, I was just thinking about what I would do in that situation.”
“You seem like a wooden box person, yourself. It’s not breakable.”
She has to laugh, then, and he joins her. It’s a wonderfully free sound, and it doesn’t sit right with the situation. Because he’s here to harass her father, and no matter how good he looks in his red shirt and black tie, or how wonderful his laughter sounds, this can’t end well.
“I’m… I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” (Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow) “is there any way that you could just… could you maybe give my dad, like, one more month to get the money together? Business is really struggling, right now, and-“
“I’m sorry, Miss French,” he answers, “But if he can’t pay, I’m within my rights to collect collateral.”
An idea, wonderful and awful and perfect, springs into her mind, “Collateral?”
“Yes. An item or service of equal value to the outstanding debt, as a form of payment.”
“Yes, I went to high school, I know what collateral is.” She snaps, but doesn’t mean to. She’s intelligent, she reads more than anyone she knows, and she can’t stand being spoken to like a child.
Especially by him: for reasons she’s not comfortable listing, she definitely doesn’t want him seeing her as a child.
“I’m sorry, you sounded confused.”
“I was just… wondering. About the nature of this collateral… does it have to be the van?”
“It was a worthy incentive in the past. Why, did you have another idea?”
“I – no.” she’s too scared. At the last moment, she’s too fucking scared to just ask. Because she would, she definitely would. She would be the collateral, if he let her. “Well, yes. Actually.” She sits up, trying to be brave, spine straight, “I would be happy work it off. I’d be collateral.”
He stares at her a moment, and there’s that look again. The deep, dark, melancholic look that she doesn’t understand. But then it’s gone, and he’s laughing, “Oh, no dear. I couldn’t ask that.”
“Why not?” she’s offended, of course she is.
“Because I’m not in the habit of breaking the 13th. There will be no involuntary servitude today.”
“It’s not involuntary if it was my idea!” she protests, “We need the van, and this is decent payment.”
“I don’t think you have the right experience, love.” He smiles, almost letting her down gently, and her eyes blaze at the challenge.
“You wanna bet?” she murmurs, as she steels herself. For just one moment, she doesn’t think she’ll do it. However perfect the solution is, or terrible the situation, or desperate her body has become at the very idea, she almost wimps out.
But then she’s lunging forward, throwing doubt to the wind and pressing her lips against his. He’s startled for a moment, completely still, and Izzy is terrified she’s made a mistake.
What if he doesn’t want her? What if she just angered him further, and he’ll add the insult to her father’s debt?
Her doubts vanish moments later, when he starts to respond. His hand is in her hair, his other is cupping her waist, and he’s kissing her harder than she’s ever been kissed before. He pulls her over, to sit on his lap as his tongue invades her mouth, battling her into submission and turning her into a puddle of goo in his arms.
If they were standing, she would have fallen by now. His kisses make her knees weak.
And, just as suddenly as it began, it’s over. And he’s staring at her in horror, and she’s trying to resist the urge to shrink away and hide in a corner, and oh, God, what has she done?
“What… I’m sorry, what was that all about?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
“Proving that I have experience.” She doesn’t hide from his gaze: she meets it. He’s the enemy – even if he is a completely amazing kisser, and she’d barter her soul just to have his mouth on hers again – and she’s not one to back down from a fight.
“I meant as a shop assistant, love.” He’s smiling.
“Oh.” Now she’s blushing, and burying her face in her hands in sheer humiliation.
But he’d kissed her back: that counted for something.
She shifts slightly, still sprawled on his lap, and feels something beneath her: something hard, and growing, and oh.
She smirks, and holds their eye contact as she deliberately wriggles down, and watches as his eyes close and he groans. She can see him trying to hold back, trying to get together whatever kind of resistance or control a man in this position is supposed to have.
She leans in, and kisses him again, and feels that control start to break.
They break away, and she’s beaming at him, daring him to finish what she started. She can see that he wants to – she can feel how much – but something’s stopping him. “I will, you know,” she murmurs into his ear, as she shifts so she’s straddling him. He just needs a little push, some reassurance that he’s not taking advantage: if anything, he’s being taken advantage of. “I’d happily be collateral.”
“This- ah” she shifts, placing her knees on either side of his hips, and she can see the friction of her centre against his cock – even through their clothes – is driving him mad. “This isn’t how I usually do business.”
“It should be,” she whispers, “I’m asking for one month’s grace, just so we can get back on our feet. Take me or leave it.”
He laughs, and it’s strained and hoarse, his breath ghosting over her skin so she shivers. He smells so good, and she doesn’t know why she only just noticed. Like something sweet and cool, like nothing she’s ever smelt before. It’s perfect. “That was some clever wordplay there, love.”
“Hmm, I thought so,” she kisses down his throat, finds a sensitive spot and worries it a little with her teeth before soothing it with her tongue. He’s about to break: his hips are already bucking up involuntarily with every swipe of her tongue, “So what’ll it be?”
She leans back, and stares into his eyes. They’re darker than before, and there’s something almost scarily carnal in there, that hints at unspeakably dirty acts in the dead of night, and filthy promises that could only be whispered against bare skin.
She’s almost at breaking point herself, here, ready to fall apart in his arms and let him fuck her brains out. But she needs him to say it: she needs him to agree.
“Deal.” His voice is quiet, low, almost a growl. Then his hands are on her hips, and she’s flipped onto her back with her skirt up around her knees, and she has no idea how she lost her control of the situation so quickly.
She reaches down to help him with the flies of his trousers, and between them they have him exposed and hard and back where he needs to be within seconds.
She tries to put her hands on his ass, to guide him inside her as fast as humanly possible, but he has other ideas. He takes her wrists in his, and holds them over her head with one hand, “Oh, no, dear. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
He’s smiling down at her, a smile that’s almost a smirk, like an animal that’s cornered its prey and plans to play with his food first.
She shivers, terrified and ecstatic all at once.
He leans down and kisses her, and it’s oddly sweet and tender for this situation. She leans up, tries to deepen their kiss as she arches into him, and all he does is pull away with that same smile, and shake his head.
She moans in frustration, then whimpers as his hand comes up between her legs and moves through her folds, rubbing and pinching at her clit until she’s shaking and arching into his long, clever fingers.
Then, like the bastard everyone knows he is, he removes his hand and admires his work: her flushed face and glazed eyes.
Their eyes meet, and very slowly deliberately, he raises his fingers to his lips and licks the moisture from them. Somehow, it’s the hottest thing she’s witnessed so far.
She struggles a little, wondering if maybe now he’ll let her hands free, let her touch him the way he’s touched her.
But he just smirks at her, and shakes his head, “So eager, love. Maybe I should give you what you want, hm?”
She nods, moans her assent. He chuckles, but it’s low and breathless, and she can tell he’s more affected by this than he lets on. His free hand grasps her hip, and he lines himself up before looking back at her face. “Alright?”
“Yes,” she whispers, and then cries out when he thrusts all the way inside her, “God, yes.”
He smiles down at her, “Now, that’s a title I’ll accept.”
She wants to glare at him, but it is too hard when he’s setting up a deep, hard, slow rhythm that has her bucking and gasping with every thrust of his hips.
She’s so wrapped up in him - in the feeling of him moving inside her, in the pleasure that’s building and coiling in her belly, in the feeling that she’s waited decades for this moment, in the way he’s suddenly looking at her (like a devoted lover, like a lost man coming home), that she doesn’t hear the backdoor open.
“Izzy? I’m home!”
She freezes. She looks up at Gold, who’s also frozen, and let go of her hands in surprise.
And they’re scrambling with their clothes, unable to look at each other, as she hears her papa fumbling about in the conservatory. She’s glad they’re in the front of the house, with a couple of rooms between him and them, but it doesn’t change anything.
She was seconds from getting caught having sex with her father’s enemy in their living room.
There’s something else she was also seconds from, but thinking about that gives her silly, aching, desperate thoughts of jumping back on top of him and…
That’s a bad train of thought.
It’s also inevitable if he keeps looking at her like he was. He’s moved across to the armchair, and her knees are clamped together primly on the edge of the couch, but she can still feel the wetness between her thighs.
He’s staring at her, eyes lust-darkened, smirk filthy and oh, so knowing.
She looks away, face bright red, as her father enters.
“Oh. Hello Gold.” The fear and animosity is clear in his voice, and Belle is torn between guilt and absurd laughter, “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, I was just popping by to offer you a loan extension.” He shoots a smile at Izzy, then stands and faces her father, “How does a month sound?”
“Wh-” He stands with his mouth agape for just a moment, and then pulls himself together, “Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” He shook Gold’s hand, and Gold grinned his most terrifying grin.
Izzy tries not to laugh, and almost fails: he’s strangely adorable when he’s messing with people. There’s something wrong with her.
“Right, wonderful. I’ll ah, see myself out.” Gold holds Izzy’s eyes for just a second as he leaves, and she shivers.
Her papa looks at her, and frowns, “That’s strange, he never grants extensions.”
“Maybe he just got a better offer?” she suggests, and hopes her father doesn’t notice the massive, unstoppable smile forming on her face.
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