Fic: Splashes of Purple Paint
Title: Splashes of Purple Paint
Summary: Gold and Belle are decorating their bedroom. Smut ensues.
Calonari prompted: Lazy lover
Marchionessofblackadder prompted: “They have sex while she’s painting.”
He started this.
Yes, definitely, no doubt about it: he started this little war when he decided that her face was pretty the way it was, but could definitely be more… purple.
She has a massive streak of paint across her cheek, and he’d looked all too smug when he caught her unawares and swiped his brush over her face. Belle likes when Rum smiles - she really, really does: loves it, in fact, and is adamant that he should never do anything else - but that particular smile, that ‘I win’ smile, is one of her least favourites.
Mainly because it makes her to crazy things.
Like tip half a bucket of the paint over his head.
Which she does right now, because it isn’t like they’ll need three leftover cans, and maybe she did go a little overboard in the store.
They can spare enough to douse him in enough purple that he resembles Barney the Dinosaur’s smaller, sexier, human cousin. He doesn’t make a sound when she does it, just freezes in a funny position, hands held out at a strange angle away from his body, face fixed in an absolutely stunned ‘o’ shape.
Overall, it’s nothing short of hilarious.
And so Belle finds no reason not to laugh and laugh, and point, and come close to collapsing in a tangle of giggles at the complete astonishment of his expression.
“What in the name of all the Gods was that for?” he asks, when he’s finally registered what just happened and picked an emotion to run with. Annoyance: to be expected, but far less fun than helpless laughter or sly amusement.
“I don’t know!” she gasps, around helpless little bursts of laughter, “I just - you look good in purple!” her ribs hurt, she’s laughing so hard, and he’s just staring at her like she’s gone round the bend.
“As do you,” he murmurs, still staring at her, and she has an idea.
Well, truth be told, she has a paint-y mutation of the idea she always has when she’s around him and doesn’t have to be focusing on other things: he looks amazing in his suit, but he’d look even better without it.
Reason number seventy-two why they’re married.
She stands up properly, still choking back insane little giggles, and pulls him by his soaked shirt toward her, kissing him messily, all tongue and lips and teeth: the kind of kiss that leaves them both breathless and wanting.
“You’re all covered in paint.” she says, her laughter finally having subsided, as she pulls back.
And there it is: one of her favourites of his smiles, his ‘oh, you’re batshit insane but I love you anyway, precious little thing’ smile.
“And whose fault would that be?” he replies, with the same low tone as she, his hands on her near-naked hips and begging to go lower.
“Hmm,” she hums against his lips, “Mine.” she kisses him again, a little kiss, just enough to adle his brain, which is surprisingly easy to do all things considered, “But it’s a plan.”
“Oh?” his hands shift around to her lace-clad ass, “And what plan would that be?”
“You’re soaked,” she murmurs, in between little butterfly-kisses to his lips, “Better take your clothes off before you catch cold.”
He laughs, leans back a little, squeezes his hands so she makes an embarrassing little squeaky noise, “Machiavellian, dear, how subtly you planned that.”
“I thought so.” she beams, practically bouncing in her bare feet, her hands reaching for the buttons of his shirt. They get it off of him together, and she starts work on his pants only for him to catch her wrists, and shake his head.
“Ah, ah, not that easily.”
She pouts, “Come on, I’m already in my underwear, it’s only fair!”
“Tit for tat,” he smirks, takes in an eyeful of her cleavage, smirking at his own bad pun.
She’d groan and smack him for that, if he weren’t giving her her favourite look of all: the one that looks almost feral, starving, like he plans to eat her alive. Three years of marriage and over a lifetime of True Love, and he can still reduce her to a quivering, hormonal mess with just a sexy look.
But she does as he asks, and unclasps her bra from the front - when one spends as much time as she does running around one’s house naked or about to become so, one tends to dispense with any clothing that is in any way awkward to remove in a hurry - leaving her bared to his gaze.
He can still make her legs wobble, but she can still shut off all power to his brain with just a flash of her breasts. So perhaps they’re even after all.
Reason one hundred and thirty-six why they’re married.
Then he’s kissing her again, hard and rough and demanding, and she’s moaning into his mouth as he strokes her tongue with his, trips it across the roof of her mouth in that way he knows makes her make that stupid little whimpering noise, the one that makes him smile and do it again.
She doesn’t know how, with his bad leg and all the stuff on the floor, but he manages to maneuver them so they’re lying down, with her spread out beneath him. But then again, the man used to be a demon, a dark sorcerer, so her incredulity bar is set fairly high in his case.
And it’s a good enough outcome, anyway, with him leaning over her and trailing his hand over her belly, whispering fingers causing the muscles of her stomach to shiver and shake under his touch.
He grins, a wicked little grin, a grin that speaks of good ideas and devious plans. She lies and doesn’t move, waits for him when he moves off her for a moment, and grabs something she cannot see. She’s too busy staring at the ceiling, too busy imagining painting whole constellations and flocks of dragons for her to stare at when they make love.
An outward expression of how he makes her feel: like she’s flying and floating through deep space, like the world could end and she wouldn’t feel a thing as long as he was still touching her.
Then there are lips on the inside of her thigh, and she’s quivering but trying to stay still, and he’s moving up and up, smiling into her skin as she runs her fingers through his hair.
They’re lazy lovers, the pair of them: the kind who have had an eternity to waste and know the value of time.
Who needs desperation when history and Evil Queens and curses can’t tear you apart?
Still, he is taking an abnormally long time about removing her knickers, and spending much longer than usual swirling old patterns with the tip of his tongue, ancient runes and spell-circles from the old world, a charm for health and beauty, an enchantment filled with love and safety, and the comforts of the here and now.
Then he slides her panties down her legs, slowly, and then suddenly nips with his teeth right in her centre, eliciting a surprised little cry and a buck of her hips. He grins against her thigh, runs his tongue up just once, right through the wetness between her legs, right where she needs him more than anything else in the world, and she makes this little mewling noise that makes him groan like he’s being strangled.
She can affect him even while lying still, even when he’s doing all the work and she’s just concentrating on holding her mind together.
Reason three hundred and fifty-seven why they’re married.
Then there is something cool and wet on her belly, something that is not him, and she glances down to see him holding a paintbrush over her pale skin, the paint dripping into little purple splashes, cool and strange on her flesh.
“What are you doing?” she asks, smiling down at his concentrated face, and he glances up at her.
“Hush,” he smiles, “just lie back and give me a minute.” He reaches up with his free hand and gently pushes her head back, and she sighs, flopping back on the floor.
She tries not to shiver, as her skin gets used to the cool feeling of the paint, as he tortures her with occasional little flicks of his fingers, so close and yet so far from her core. Finally, he’s done, and she sits up again and looks down at his work.
She’s so in love with him right now it physically hurts.
Because right there, across her stomach in Fabulous Grape paint, he’s written ‘MINE’.
She laughs, reaches down and hauls him up to her for a long, deep, giggling kiss, rolls them over and over, a tangle of limbs and smudged paint.
When they stop, they’re side-by-side, and he doesn’t protest, this time, when she slides his trousers off his legs. He even kicks his feet, helping her remove them entirely.
Of course it’s only seconds before his underwear is halfway across the room, and of course they’re beaming the entire time. He’ll be sore tomorrow, aching joints and bad leg and all, and she’ll be bruised all down her back, and yet she doesn’t have it in her to care even just a little bit.
She wraps her legs around his hips, and he lines them up, giving her just a little nod, a little sign to ask if she’s ready.
Three years of marriage, and he always checks.
Reason one hundred and twenty-two why they’re married.
And she smiles, and kisses him, and he swallows her gasp as he slides inside her, and she clenches hard around him.
They move slowly, rocking against each other, with the intuition and fluidity of old, old lovers. But then she shifts a little, and suddenly the angle is that much deeper and he’s hitting a spot deep inside her with every inward thrust, and she’s seeing stars, head reeling as he kisses her, keeps her grounded.
She circles her hips, and smirks against his skin when his breath hitches, when he growls “Fuck,” into her ear and thrusts harder into her, a sudden snap of his hips that has her crying out.
She rolls them over so she’s on top of him, so she can push herself down hard onto him, so she can set a faster pace, so she can lean down and scrape her fingers across his chest, catching his nipples with her nails and smirking when he groans.
They land someplace between slow, tender lovemaking and a fast, desperate fuck: someplace where she’s riding him hard with her hips and he’s sucking her breast into his mouth, and they’re kissing without a hint of grace or thought, lips and tongue and laughter caught between them and swallowed whole. Where her hands cradle his head, and her hair falls all around them like a curtain, blocking everything but the darkness of his eyes from view.
Someplace where they’re beaming, and the pleasure in her belly is coiling tight, hot and slow like burning velvet, and she’s so close, and desperate for him to fall with her.
When she comes it’s not an explosion, not a sudden firework display: it’s something deeper than that, flames stoked into inferno and setting fire to every nerve in her body. She burns for him, moans his name low and long, and the sound and the sensation of her coming apart around him triggers his own release.
They cling to each other, trembling and grinning, and she sighs deeply as he slips out of her and they curl up together, a tangle of paint-splattered limbs and pink and purple skin. With the pigment covering them both, neither can tell where the other begins.
Belle finds she rather likes it that way.
They drift off to sleep with an old tarpaulin covering them for warmth, with her head over his heart and the knowledge that yes, she made the right choice: purple suited them both.
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- calonari said: I’m (re)reading for the third time. Yap, no shame on that.
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- ddagent said: Such a good fic! Loved the smut, that was brilliant - and the last line was so sweet! Great job, as always!
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