Fic: Sunday Evening
Title: Sunday Evening (Time of Day)
Rating: Oh, so NC-17
Summary: Belle mentions an old Halloween outfit to Gold, and he requests a live demonstration.
For Marchie, who wanted Belle dressed as a french maid, and Gold speaking French, and basically any other sexy pun you can make from Belle French’s last name. So here it is.
Set between ‘Saturday Morning’ and ‘Monday Morning’, for anyone who wants canon. They’ve only been hooking up a few weeks at this point.
“You know,” Belle says, with a look in her eyes that’d be worrying if she weren’t naked and smiling at him, “Your house is massive.
Okay, perhaps not the exact words Gold had expected, considering how the last time she looked at him like that he’d ended up bound by his own neckties to the bedposts in the spare room, but he doesn’t comment.
“I was aware, dear,” he says, conversationally, “I do live here.”
She’s perched on the sofa by his knees, bare feet on the cool wood floor, but she makes no moves to grab her dress from the coffee table or her tights from the armchair. He has a good arm, he thinks, almost proudly, when he wants to, and there is no better use than throwing Belle’s clothing far out of reach. He stretches, arms above his head, settling back on the sofa, legs spread out out to touch the end.
“And you clean it all yourself?”
“I vacuum sometimes,” he says, noncommittally, because of course his house never needed cleaning - dirt does not accumulate when time doesn’t move - and so lately he’s been getting by on dusting the places he inhabits most and leaving the rest.
“Hm,” she purses her lips, looks around, and he frowns at her.
“Something the matter, Miss French?” he asks, “Displeased with my housekeeping?”
“You could use a maid,” she giggles, as he sits up and catches her about the waist, blonde hair flying around her as he hauls her back down against him. She is flighty and smiley and blonde, and so much not his quiet, intuitive, brunette little housekeeper that he can set aside the irony of the sentence, and focus on the sentiment.
Gods help him, he thinks, if she were to say such a thing thoughtfully, with dark curls bouncing around her shoulders.
But they’ve only been doing this for a few weeks, and this is only her second time in his home, so he doesn’t need to worry. Isabelle French is still the bouncy young woman Mr Gold met in a bar, and the Curse isn’t weak enough - or the Saviour strong enough - to allow Belle herself to bleed through quite yet.
“Are you volunteering, Miss French?” he teases, because he likes how she shivers when he calls her by that more formal name.
She mock gasps as she wriggles more firmly onto his lap, her bare thigh against his crotch, legs horizontal across his. They’re both entirely naked, and it’s only two pm on a Sunday afternoon, but this is the time they bargained for and so this is what he’ll make the most of. Clothing, modesty, even just blankets and sheets, get in the way of his skin against hers.
“Mr Gold!” she opens her mouth wide, one hand pressed to her bare chest in pearl-clutching horror, “Is it possible that you have an actual dirty fantasy to share?”
In truth, he has very few fantasies when it comes to this lighter version of his Belle. Just having her alive and in his arms is more than enough for him, regardless of the quality of the sex - it is spectacular, and he puts that down to true love having its way more than anything else, but that matters little in the grand scheme of things - and he has very few scenarios in this world that would make sense to her.
He can hardly ask her to dye her hair back to its old chestnut brown, and sit in his study in the armchair she used to occupy in his library, reading as he watches her. He can’t request that she allow him to dress her in a periwinkle dress, and fuck her from behind with her on his lap, as she tries to keep focussed on the book in her hands.
For all that the idea had plagued him more than once in the old world - it had been his strongest recurring fantasy, that and spreading her out like a three-course dinner on the dining table and proceeding to devour her whole, strip that ridiculous golden dress from her body and… - yes, much has he might have enjoyed that, it’s not what she meant.
So he tries to push aside Rumpelstiltskin, and grasp at his curse memories, the fantasies of Cameron Gold, who had had far more appropriate ideas for how to dream about beautiful young women.
“Perhaps…” he allows, cautiously, because he’s certain she expects a particular answer and he’s not sure which to give.
He smirks at her, all wickedness and sin, and she giggles.
“I have a French Maid costume from a few Halloweens back, you know,” she muses, and suddenly the very small part of him that is still truly Mr Gold floods his mind with images.
Tiny black minidress; black stockings; little apron and feather duster. Her legs had been miles long in her ridiculous stilettos.
“I remember,” he nods, holding her a little closer on his lap, and kisses her mouth, soft and teasingly chaste. She gasps when the penny drops.
“You remember?” her eyebrows are raised in utter surprise, although he can’t understand why.
“Of course. You tottered past the diner to some party or other while I was carrying hot coffee. I nearly spilt it all over myself.” He confesses, for of course Mr Gold had noticed Isabelle French, even if he’d been unwilling to actually approach her. That outfit had, now that the memory had been sparked by the mention and the Curse, featured in many a dream of his.
She leans down to him, presses a nibbling kiss to his lower lip, and whispers, “I could run home and get it.”
She waits for him by his dining table, the old Halloween costume wrapped around her. She bought it a few years ago, and so it’s a little smaller than she remembered, the bust pushing her breasts up higher than she’d expected, the satin pulled tight around her hips. It also dips low on the back, in a V that splits from her shoulder-blades down to just above her tailbone. She’d worn a jacket over it last time: she’d forgotten.
At least Gold will be pleased, she thinks, because she has elected to go braless rather than mess around with something more elaborate.
She perches on the table, and waits, feather duster in hand.
She doesn’t wait long: Gold appears back in his full suit and tie - the deep blue shirt and purple tie, one of her favourite combinations on him - although thankfully minus his shoes and jacket, and his eyes are dark as he takes her in.
She almost blushes and squirms away under his scrutiny, but since this plan was hatched with her spread naked across his lap, she thinks that ridiculous. So she holds her head high, and waits for his move.
“Miss French,” he says, sternly, and a shiver of delight runs through her. She does like when he decides to be a little stern, “What’ve we discussed about breaks between cleaning?”
“Um,” she thinks, wondering what an appropriate response would be, “That they should be frequent and enjoyable?” she suggests, smiling, eyebrows raised.
His dark chuckle answers no questions: she doesn’t know if her answer was wrong or right, but if he’s approaching her, eyes sweeping lasciviously over her curves, past the bared lace of her stockings and up to her breasts, pressed tight against straining satin, to the little collar around her neck, then she’s done well either way.
“No…” he drawls, his cane tapping as he comes closer, stands in front of her, “Not quite.”
“Then what?” she asks, and bites her lip for good measure. She can practically hear his breath quicken.
“That you are not to stop cleaning, nor to sit your pretty little arse on my furniture.” He growls, and she shivers, “On your feet, dearie, if you please.”
She remains seated, directly disobeys him, and waits for his next move. He’s always more fun when he’s riled up, when they’re battling for control rather than one of them handing it over right away.
He’s right in her face in a moment, and she’s tempted to break their game and just kiss him. But she just breathes against his lips, “Or what?”
He smiles, a proper smile, and she giggles, the tension broken for a moment, “You’re a tempting little thing,” he says, softly, shaking his head, “And where did you get this lovely costume from?”
She snickers, “Ruby made the connection between my last name and the country itself. She said that it was either French Maid or Artiste, you know, a beret and turtleneck and things. And I don’t speak French, so I went with this.”
“Wise choice,” he mutters, “Although I could teach you some French, if you so wished.”
“I failed languages in high school,” she confides, “Too busy with English for anything else.”
“Alors, tu a raté beaucoup de choses.” He says, and she can’t help but whimper. How he can sound so good, his Scottish accent moulding itself lovingly around the French syllables, she cannot tell, but it’s wonderful.
“What?” she asks, her voice a little high and wavering.
He smirks, “You missed a lot then, dearie.”
“Oh.” She nods, blushing, “Okay.”
He shakes his head, “Tu es tres mignonne.” He smiles, and she’s tempted to just forget their game and crush her mouth to his then and there.
“What does that mean?” she asks, instead, and he laughs that dark, melting little laugh that turns her bones to liquid.
“You are so cute.” He smirks, and somehow turns it to the highest compliment she could imagine. “I should have come after you the first time I saw you like this. I should have known then.”
Her heart stops a little - he does this, sometimes, says things that betray something just a little deeper than lust he feels for her - but she doesn’t show it. She wouldn’t want to lead him on, after all, and for all that he’s fantastic in bed and fun to be around, she doesn’t feel anything more than that.
Not yet, anyway, and not ever if she has her way.
Sometimes it would be far too easy to fall in love with him, but she’ll get out before it gets that far. Before it stops being fun.
“You should have,” she murmurs back, “I must have walked past the diner three times trying to get your attention.”
It’s not like he’s the only one who thought about this before that night in the bar. She approached him, after all, and she’d spent long enough before that night trying to get him to approach her.
“Tu es trop belle…” he says, and he watches her - he knows what this does to her - as her breathing goes shallow. He sighs, and she assumes a rough translation when he says, “You’re too sexy for your own good, or mine. And I’m not having that around my house.” He continues, slipping back into character and standing straighter, “The hired help is to be obedient and unobtrusive.”
“But everything around here is clean,” she pouts, presses a finger to her lips in a parody of thought as she glances around, “Was I in your way, sir?”
“I’d say so.” He practically growls it, “And more of that, please.” He whispers, coming in close enough that his warm breath brushes her earlobe.
“More of what?” she asks, her voice wavering a little. His proximity does that to her: perhaps it always will.
“Sir.” He breathes, “I like that.”
“Yes, sir.” She says, and hears him swallow hard. Well, that’s a kink she hadn’t discovered until now.
“Good girl.” He praises, and she feels a little tremor run through her. Apparently that particular kink has a twin in her.
He pulls back again, glares at her, “Now, on your feet, girl. Don’t make me ask you again.”
She obeys, this time, and her heels make a sharp clack as they hit his wood flooring, “May I go back to my duties now, sir?” she asks, holding the feather duster in her hands so it tickles her chin.
“You’re insolent,” he snaps, “A disobedient little servant girl. You need to be taught manners.”
She shivers: she’d known essentially where this was headed, but it is still exciting to have him so dark and promising, and right in front of her.
“I know my manners, sir,” she argues, coming close and fiddling with his tie, “I know the rules.”
“Hmm,” he looks down at her, smirks, “I don’t know, girl, I remember nothing about rubbing yourself all over your employer, or dirtying the tables by refusing to stop seating yourself on them.”
“I dirtied nothing, sir.” She denies, “My uniform is clean.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He snarls, and catches her by surprise as he spins her around, so she has to totter on her heels not to fall and trust his hands on her shoulders to keep her upright. “You’re downright filthy, dear.” He purrs into her ear, and her knees almost buckle.
“What now?” she asks, her voice high and breathy.
“Hands flat on the table, dear,” he says, softly, “And I’ll be taking this.” He plucks the feather duster from her hands, and watches as she leans over and places her hands as he instructed, flat on the table.
She’ll play along for now: there’ll be time to turn the tables on him later.
She shivers when she feels the feathers brush over the exposed skin of her back, sweeping between her shoulders and then down along her spine, “How anyone could call this uniform clean…” he mutters, and she bites back a giggle.
The urge to laugh fades as the duster dips down and brushes over the lace of her stockings. The heels hold her legs long and straight, and the muscles tense still further and quiver under the sensation.
The feathers brush next up between her legs, as his hand comes to hold her stomach, helping to keep her upright.
They trail no higher than her inner thighs, but any relief that might have brought is nullified by his lips on her neck, brushing as gentle as the feathers, but working up, surprising her every now and then with a darting swipe of his tongue, or a scrape of teeth.
The feathers brush her aching pussy just once, and he nips at her throat at the same time.
She gasps, and he pauses. Slowly, the feathers are dragged away, and his hand comes down between her legs, stroking once through the wetness there.
“Miss French,” he rumbles into her ear, “Not wearing underwear to work. That would be strike two, would it not?”
“You aren’t complaining.” She replies, and he smirks.
“Indeed not.” He turns the wooden handle of the feather duster around in his hands, so the smooth end points upward, and even though Belle had known this was a possibility she still feels a rush of excitement, with the most wonderful little thrill of fear, as the cool wood brushes against her inner thighs.
“I won’t be able to clean with that after,” she gasps, as he nibbles on her earlobe and soothes the bites with his tongue, the wood brushing further and further up between her legs.
“The place was filthy to start with, dear,” he replies, “You fit in just fine.”
“Not fair!” she protests, but it turns into a mewling little cry as the wood slips between her folds and teases her clit.
“Says the woman rubbing herself all over her own feather duster,” he teased, “Your argument is less than watertight, I’m afraid.”
She scoffs, “Says the man teasing his maid with a cleaning implement!” he picked that moment to slide the handle down and slip it up inside her, and her voice lurched high and keening as she tensed around it.
He smirks, “Are you alright, dear?”
She nods, hands curled into fists, eyes squeezed shut with the effort not to bounce herself on the handle impaled inside her. He won’t get that victory, no matter how desperate she is to simply beg him to move.
He twists it inside her, slowly, and she whimpers, her knuckles white.
“Whatever is the matter, dear?” he frowns in mock-concern, “Do you need something?”
She nods, her hips shifting of their own accord, and the slight movement inside her is bliss.
One of his long fingers comes from gripping the duster to stroke her clit slowly, just hard enough to tease without satisfying, and she makes an embarrassing moaning noise. “You know.”
“I’m afraid you’ll need to be specific, dear,” he is grinning, a dirty, wicked grin against the side of her neck, the hand splayed on her stomach working lower, brushing against the front of her skirt.
“Please…” she begs, dignity sacrificed in favour of grinding her pussy against his finger and the wood inside her, desperate for friction.
“Please what?” he prompts, “Come on, dear, speak when spoken to, remember your manners.”
“Move it.” She grinds out, “The duster, move it.”
“Oh,” he nods, as if understanding, “Of course, like this?” he pulls it out of her entirely with a wet little noise, and the loss is even worse. And the finger on her clit just keeps on stroking, as she tries desperately to increase the pressure just a little bit more.
“No…” she whines, “Please, sir, please…”
“You’re killing me, dearie,” he murmurs, softly, “Just tell me what to do with this.”
“Fuck me with it.” She demands, finally, the words coming out in a hot rush, “Please, please…”
He chuckles, a wonderfully filthy sound, and says, “I think not.”
She makes a strangled, whimpering noise of protest, as both hands leave her and she is bereft, wondering if it’s worth calling the whole thing off and just having him there and then on the table.
But then she hears his belt jingle, and a zipper being undone, and his hands are on her satin-clad hips, his cock hard and hot and teasing right where the feather duster had been.
“Had a better idea.” He explains, leaning back to her ear, and she makes a breathy little giggle.
“Did you now?”
“Oh yes, dear,” he thrusts just a little way inside, so she clenches around him, trying to draw him in further, but the action only pushes him out again, and she groans in frustration. “Much better this way.”
“Then do it.” She shifts her hips back against him demandingly, and one of his hands comes to brush against her breast through the fabric, teasing the hard nipple between two fingers. “Please.”
“Please what?” he teases, but his voice is shaking, almost as desperate as she is. He presses a hot kiss to the top of her spine, and she nearly melts.
“Please sir,” she pants, and gets a wicked little idea as she says it, “fuck me to within an inch of my life.”
He groans and gives in, ramming up inside her hard, and moving his hand down from her breast to her dripping pussy, to circle her clit with three fingers as he pounds in and out of her, drawing breathless, strangled screams from her throat with every thrust inside, and the sweet friction as he withdraws.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, as he continues the assault on her upper back, biting down hard just to the side of her spine, sucking to leave a mark and laving it with his tongue, “This?”
“Yes,” she whimpers, “Oh, God, yes…”
“I can’t hear you,” he pushes hard on her clit and thrusts extra hard and slower inside of her, “Tell me how much you want this.”
“So much!” she is just on the quiet side of screaming, head bowed, blonde hair obscuring her vision but not enough, “Oh, god, Gold, fuck, yes, please please please…” she is pumping herself against the him now, hips moving in time with his powerful thrusts.
“My filthy girl,” he purrs into her ear, “Fucking perfect little housemaid, do you want to come here, now, bent over the kitchen table and screaming?”
She moans, his voice doing terrible things to her insides, “Yes, yes, sir, please, fuck,” her pleas come out as a filthy, begging litany, but he gets the meaning behind it.
“Ma belle fille,” he croons, and the French is doing more to her even than his usual English, “Do you know what the French call it when you come so hard you can hardly see?” his voice is grunting, growling, tense, and she can imagine that his every muscle is tightened. He is close himself, she can just tell, and she clenches around him hard to spur him on.
She makes a loud moaning, grunting sound, so close to the edge, but he has slowed his thrusts, and scaled back to the single finger stroking her. She moans, her legs shaking with the effort not to fold.
“La petite mort.” He whispers in her ear, so low and smooth she can practically taste it on her tongue.
She makes a wordless, throaty moan, and wonders suddenly if it would be possible for him to talk her all the way to orgasm, without even touching her. The idea doesn’t seem so farfetched under the circumstances.
“Go on, Belle,” he whispers, “Come for me, come on, come and shout my name…” he redoubles his efforts, driving in and out, rubbing her clit furiously, as she whimpers and keens, the edge so close, so close to release, “I said come, my naughty little maid.” He commands, sharply, and the voice in her ear and the pleasure roaring through her from his cock, impossibly hard and hot and pounding inside her, and his fingers on her, stroking and swirling and ribbing through the wetness there is all too much. She comes, hard, screaming his name as he instructed, unable to stop.
She rides the him through her orgasm, and feels as she comes down him bite down hard on her shoulder as he follows her. His thrusts become harsh and erratic, rhythm lost as his fingers grip her hips hard enough to probably bruise.
Finally, she collapses against the table, and he follows, face still buried in the crook of her neck. He manoeuvres them - she is boneless, and he is fairly limp as he slips out of her, but he manages even with his knee - to sit side by side on the floor, his back against one of the legs.
“Fucking hell…” she murmurs, resting her head on his shoulder, and he chuckles.
“About right, yeah.” He agrees. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she smiles softly: for all that they’ve done so far, all that he has told her he plans to do and vice versa, she is still surprised by any little show of genuine affection. He is so closed off, he only seems to let go when clothes come off.
“Good thing I’m not really your cleaner,” she mumbles, ready to sleep even with her ass bare against the cool wooden floor, using Gold as her only support, “Never get any work done. Place’d stay filthy.”
“You’d have to wear more clothing, for starters.” He jokes, and there’s something in his voice that’s odd, as he plucks at the tiny black satin strip that is classed as a skirt, “Although the stockings would be compulsory.”
She looks up at him, a wicked smirk on her lips as she confesses, “I can’t stand tights: I only ever wear stockings.” He stares at her, eyes dark, and she giggles, lower lip caught between her teeth, “Usually black. With lace.”
He growls, low in his throat, and hauls her onto his lap so he can plunder her mouth, as she laughs and squirms against him.
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