Fic: Saturday Morning
Title: Saturday Morning (Time of Day ‘verse)
Rating: NC-17 and NSFW
Summary: The morning after their escapades at the bar, Gold makes the mistake of challenging Belle, and Belle proves her point with enthusiasm.
Marchie prompted: Mr Gold used to smoke
She has become entirely too bold, Gold decides, when goes out to the back courtyard to fetch some piece of junk or other, and finds Belle leaned against his wall, smoking a cigarette and watching him with surprise.
“Oh,” she smiles, but she still seems more alarmed than seems entirely necessary, “You’re… you’re here.”
“Well it is my shop,” he replies, dryly, frowning, “What’re you doing here, pet?” It’s a Saturday, and she herself specified only the night before that they must not meet except on Sundays and Wednesdays, when her father goes out to his supplier or out with his friends and she won’t be missed.
And yet here she is, leaned against his wall in her jeans and pink checked blouse, her blonde hair lying in messy waves, smoking and watching him, “I was…” she coughs, looks a little embarrassed, and oh, blushing looks fine on her, “I was trying…” She giggles, bows her head as if she’s ashamed of herself, “I wanted to see you.
“And yet you were surprised to see me?” he frowns, looks at her oddly, “Well thought out plan, that, dear.”
“Well you weren’t supposed to know you were being seen!” She leans forward – when did he get so close to her? – and swats his arm with her free hand.
“Ah,” he nods, “So you were spying on me.” It isn’t a question.
She looks him dead in the eyes, and she is so Belle it hurts his soul to look, so fierce and brave and wonderful. The scent of smoke in the air makes his lungs burn for a roll-up of his own, even though – curse memories notwithstanding – he has never smoked one of the damn things in his life
He remembers a youth rolling strips of white paper around clumps of tobacco, remembers peace and calm being restored with a simple inhalation of the fumes.
He is addicted to a substance he’s never even tasted.
Mr Gold used to smoke; Rumpelstiltskin never did, not even a pipe. He leans down to her, catches her by surprise as he kisses her deep, tastes he smoke on her breath. He is hooked with one stroke of his tongue on hers, but he’s not sure which he is more addicted to: the tobacco or the mouth that holds it.
“You, dear,” he murmurs, “Are the worst spy I’ve ever seen.”
She giggles, kisses him light and tender, and his knees shake, “Maybe I do this all the time, and I just let you catch me today.” She suggests.
“You couldn’t do anything under the radar, dearie,” he smirks “You’re too innocent; too honest. One secret is enough for you.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” She looks up at him and her eyes are so bright and blue that he can’t really breathe.
“An observation.” He counters, and kisses her again.
He hears the bell ring somewhere far within, and the obnoxious voice of the Mayor cuts through the silence, “Gold?”
He sighs, and pulls away from Belle, “Business to attend to.” He explains, “Better run along before someone starts asking questions.”
She sticks her tongue out at him, and he leans in for one more dizzying kiss before moving back inside, and greeting the Mayor.
He hasn’t seen her since the old world, it seems, and he is struck by the difference. For the first time in years he feels he can talk to his one-time apprentice without speaking to a pair of breasts with a ridiculous hair-do lumped on top: she is neat, conservative, elegant.
And she, of course, knowing nothing of his awakening the night before, believes herself still the only waking woman in a town of coma patients. She walks with a confident kind of swagger; the one-eyed man is king in a land of blind men.
“Ah, there you are.” She smiles her poison-apple smile as he limps into the shop, and takes his place behind the counter, “I was beginning to worry, Mr Gold.”
“No need at all, dear,” he assures her, and then smiles, deciding it’s time for just a little bit of payback for the past thirty years, “I’ll always be right here, whenever you feel like talking.”
Her lips twist a little, bit her smile is still in place, “Indeed.”
“Something you wanted?”
“Oh, I was just hoping I could browse; allow inspiration to strike, you know.
“Of course.” He nods, gestures to the shelves of his deceptively large shop, to the wealth of his dragon’s horde, “Feel free to browse at your leisure.”
She nods, her smile wider, and he wonders how long he will have to be Mr Gold before she sees through the façade and spies the telltale hint of sickly green-gold skin and scales, of leather and magic.
Her back is turned, disappeared among the shelves but for a sighting of her beige trench coat, and he is distracted from watching her by a scuffling noise behind him.
Belle is stood in his doorway, and she looks positively wicked.
He steps toward her, puts himself between her and the shop, and gestures wildly for her to vanish back into the back room – Regina, of all people, must not know a thing – but she just smirks wider. Regina makes a movement, something clatters or shifts, and in moments Belle has darted past him and ducked under the counter.
“What’re you doing?” he hisses, as Regina clatters something else and hides his voice.
Belle just presses a finger to her lips, and is prevented from saying anything more by the Mayor’s voice, “Is everything alright, Mr Gold?”
“Of course, dear,” he lies, smoothly, as if he doesn’t have an entirely wicked young girl curled under his desk, running her hot little hands up and down his legs. “Any closer to inspiration?”
The Mayor hums, distractedly, and Gold sighs. He needs her to leave now, as soon as possible, so he can flush Belle out from under his desk and see to her somewhere where there are no evil queens-turned-elected officials to see.
Belle, for her part, is snickering silently and moving her palms up higher, to stroke the insides of his thighs, the very tips of her fingers scraping his crotch.
Soon he will be unable to walk properly; he can already feel himself getting hard. Thirty years of fantasies and dirty dreams cannot be dispelled with one night spent against a pool table, and Belle’s smile – when he glances down to her – only makes things worse.
“Do you have anything in the way of a knife?” Regina calls, and Gold holds his breath as Belle’s hand finally reaches his growing hard-on, and rubs him slowly as he tries to speak.
“Maybe over there,” he replies, and gestures loosely to the farthest corner of the shop, “Buried under the clothing.”
“Hmmm,” Regina sounds distracted, and so much the better. He sighs, softly; Belle rubs a few more times as her other hand comes to fiddle with his zipper.
He knows what she plans to do moments before she does it, and he’s not sure if she’s an angel or the worst kind of demon when she frees him and instantly takes him into the warm wetness of her mouth.
He grits his teeth around a moan, gripping the sides of the desk with white knuckles to prevent himself from burying them in the soft golden waves of her hair.
She slides him out slowly, and flattens her tongue as she does. She presses hot, open-mouthed a kiss to the tip that makes his knees almost buckle, the pleasure radiating from his cock in her mouth and the sight of her, on her knees and trying not to laugh, sucking him off, is almost too much to bear.
She takes him inside again, scrapes her teeth along the underside just enough to make him shiver, and he wonders if she’s honestly trying to kill him.
She increases the pace of her movements, moving fast on the intake and sucking hard as she pulls back, her cheeks hollowed every time. She is trying to make him desperate, he realises, trying to make sure he is aching and ready to explode while Regina is still in the shop.
She is flying under the radar, taking his challenge.
And she is so good at this, her mouth so hot and soft and her tongue doing marvellous, wondrous and probably illegal things to him, her teeth employed sparingly and to great effect. He is almost whimpering in pleasure and pain, trying not to buck his hips toward her, trying not to give himself away.
“Ah!” Regina crows, and he stands stock-still. Belle pauses too, but her hand reaches up his leg again to cradle his balls. She gives them a soft, experimental squeeze, and he makes a soft little groaning noise.
She is playing with fire, with pure danger, and she seems to love every moment of it.
Regina appears with a large wicker basket, and his eyes narrow even as Belle rolls her fingers and flicks her tongue at exactly the same moment.
“Inspiration?” he manages, and his voice is almost steady.
“Indeed,” she smiles, “How much?”
He considers, but at that moment Belle does this simply marvelous new thing with the very tip of her tongue and he is so close to coming he is seeing stars. He hides it well – one does not reach 300 years of age without a certain amount of skill at holding a straight face – but Regina is still frowning, “Is it that hard to calculate a price, Gold?”
“No, no,” he says, almost mildly, “Ten dollars, please.”
She hands it over immediately, but she doesn’t betray the magic he just pulled. He needs her gone, now, before he comes into Belle’s mouth and makes a very loud noise, neither of which are good prospects.
Even if she did start this: he won’t make her do that.
“Now, would you leave, please?” he asks, and its worth the break in civility to see her leave immediately, the door slamming shut behind her.
His hands are in Belle’s hair in a moment, and he pulls her away from him, frowns, “What in God’s name-”
“Under the radar,” she giggles, kisses the head of his cock, and he is so close it hurts to think, “I win.”
Gold doesn’t think too hard about it, but he pulls himself out of her hands and reaches for a tissue from his desk. He pumps himself just a few times, roughly, the sight of her smiling at him, her hair a little mussed and her mouth red and glistening bringing him off in moments.
He makes an embarrassing groan - “Fuck,”- when he does, his orgasm racing through him as he jerks his hips into his fist, his whole world dark and light and Belle’s cherry lips.
Then the tremors die down, and he sighs, head hung, and throws the tissue – balled up in three more – into the trashcan.
He zips up his flies – one day, he swears, they will have sex and clothing will be more than partially removed – and grabs her wicked hands, hauling her to her feet.
“Why’d you do that?” she asks, “I would’ve-“
He cuts her off with a slow, deep kiss, tastes himself on her tongue and smiles when she moans into his lips. He breaks away and smiles at her, almost tenderly, as softly as he can without giving any truths away, “You shouldn’t have to, and I didn’t ask.”
“Next time?” she smiles, hopefully, and this Belle, this new blonde kitten-Belle, is such a sweet, spicy little thing.
He nods, unable to believe she could want such a thing, “Next time.”
She nods, appeased, and straightens her shirt over her jeans, fluffs out her hair, “See you Sunday?” she asks, as she heads around the counter as if she’s an innocent customer, as if she didn’t spend the last five minutes on her knees with his cock in her mouth, smiling like a demon.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He promises, and her smile is so bright he wants to tell her then and there that he loves her and that he always will; that he’d marry her on the spot if he could.
Then she breezes out of his shop, and leaves him in peace.
She will be the death of him, and it will be the most wonderful way to go.
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