I think Gold/Ice Cream has become my new OTP. Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme, and for schmoo999 on Tumblr who prompted 'Strawberry wine'.
It must criminal, she thinks, the things he can do with his tongue.
It's just a simple ice cream cone, soft vanilla and chocolate sauce, but he concentrates on it like it's the whole world. His tongue wraps lovingly around the tip, his eyes closed in pleasure.
Belle shivers, imagining for the hundredth time how that skilful tongue could be put to better use.
Then she shakes her head, turns away, because these thoughts are entirely inappropriate. He's Mr Gold: he's made of sharp teeth and wicked smiles, of secrets, lies and everything in-between.
But he's chasing a droplet of melted ice cream down the side of the cone, lapping it up where it meets his knuckle, and she can't help but lick her lips, hungrily.
His long, red velvet tongue is swiping up every last available drop of chocolate, swirling and dipping into the crevice between the ice cream and the side of the cone. When he takes the whole tip into his mouth, closes his lips and smiles, she barely holds back a moan.
Then he looks up, meets her eyes, and she swallows hard.
"Something the matter, dear?" he smirks, and she bushes and hides her head in her hands.
Oh, he knows what he's doing to her.
Tomorrow, she vows, tomorrow he'll pay for that.
Mr Gold never thought he'd find himself jealous of an ice-lolly.
But there it is, sliding between Belle's soft, red lips, and the girl in question seems to have no idea at all what she's doing to him.
Their fifteen-minute snack break has become a daily ritual. They go to the ice cream parlour next door, and she tries a new favour every day, and they eat their treats in the back room.
He never used to indulge like this, but ever since Belle (Isobel French, he has to remember her new name) came back into his life, he actively looks forward to their daily breaks. Everyday she giggles like a delighted child when he presents her with her cone, and his whole world seems brighter.
Like she's ripping down ancient, heavy curtains with every sweeping glance of her gleaming, smiling eyes.
But today, he trusted her with the trip next door, as he was dealing with a customer. When she returned, his usual vanilla cone was in one hand, and she had a bright red ice-lolly in the other.
And now she's practically making love to the damn thing, following every sliding, slippery drop of scarlet sugar with her clever little tongue.
Her lips are stained with the crimson liquid, and she's grinning at him, eyes sparkling. She thrusts her lolly toward him, and giggles, "What's the matter, want some?"
Oh, yes, please. He thinks, and then shakes his head.
That wasn't what she meant. Even though she's sucking off a damned ice-lolly right in front of him, sat on his desk in her little sundress, legs wide and kicking. Even though he knows he caught her staring at him yesterday… she's Belle, and she's here, and he's not going to fuck this up by expecting her to feel more than she does.
She doesn't know what she does to him; how wonderful it makes him feel to just watch her, happy and contented, laughing in the sunlight streaming in through the windows.
She doesn't know how sexy she is.
She's entirely inno-
Wait a second.
She's sucking again, hollowing her cheeks and sliding the lolly in and out of her mouth, and her eyes are glued to his.
The sparkle in her eyes has turned to something else, something darker and more calculated, something so much more than her usual innocent, childlike smile. Something that is most definitely reserved for grown ups.
He hardly registers the magnetic pull she exerts, as he steps closer to her, his own ice cream entirely forgotten.
"Yes?" he replies, distracted by the droplet of melted red ice that has leaked from the corner of her mouth, and traces a long, sticky pink line down her chin. He follows it with his eyes; he wishes his tongue could do the same.
"You've got a little..." she gestures to his fist where it holds his cone, and the little puddle of melted ice cream that has formed there.
"Oh, yes, sorry." He moves the cone to his other hand and glances around for a tissue.
But before he has time to do anything more, his hand is captured in hers, and she's gazing up at him with the wickedest little smile he's ever seen.
Slowly, she pulls his hand up to her lips, and licks the ice cream from his skin. She cleans him like a cat, with long, broad strokes of her velvet tongue, and he tries not to groan at the sensation. He feels the electricity of her touch shoot straight from her mouth on his hand to his cock, and his control snaps.
She's downright seducing him, and she knows it, and this can't continue.
He wants to wipe that filthy little smile from her face, he wants her to cry out his name and forget all about that damned ice-lolly.
He pulls his hand back, and throws the rest of his cone into the bin by his desk.
He takes her by surprise when he leans in, so their faces are almost touching, and his hands cup her waist, massaging her skin with his thumbs through the thin fabric of her dress. He leans down over her so she's spread out on her desk, but slowly, gently, so they're barely touching even as he's looming over her.
He takes the ice-lolly from her hand, and holds it out to the side. He can feel her breath on his face, ghosting over his lips, and he just holds them there. This is an important moment, and he needs to savour it.
This time, he'll kiss her and it will break no spells. This time he'll worship her, and her smile will stay on her face, and the world will keep on turning as it should.
Then his lips are on hers, and he swallows her little gasp of surprise as he sweeps his tongue inside. Her mouth is cold and sweet from her treat, but there's something even better waiting under that, something strong and sharp. Her mouth is strawberry wine, and he could get drunk off the taste.
He pulls back, and she's gasping for air, her expression stunned, "Kiss me again." She breathes, and it's somewhere between a command and a desperate plea. There's an echo in the mess of his mind, of a kiss that was softer, and impossible, and magical, and ended in tears. Of the last time she asked that of him, with her hands in his hair and her mouth wide and smiling, and the nightmare that ensued.
But they are thousands of miles from that wretched castle, and here he can correct his past mistakes. Here he can press his mouth to hers once more, and feel her sigh and give in to him, her hands cupped against his face, skin warm and soft.
Her kisses are addictive, and he's drunk on the taste.
"We should… we should probably move…" he gasps against her skin, biting down on the skin of her neck and eliciting that breathy, crying scream that has become his drug.
"No," she shakes her head, and he pulls back a little to look into her eyes, warm and liquid sapphire; "If we move, we'll find a reason not to do this."
She's right. Somewhere, in a draw in this very desk, there sits a yellow legal pad full of Reasons Not To Fuck Belle.
Because he's already killed her once.
Because he destroys everything he touches.
Because she's young, and brave, and pure and perfect, and he's a gnarled old sorcerer with a battered, damaged, darkened soul.
But here and now, he's having a hard time remembering any of that.
Now she smiles at him, and licks her lips, and brushes every worry away.
He is already hell-bound, and Belle is spread out like the most erotic angel he's ever laid eyes on, and what's one more sin to add to the list?
He pushes her dress up over her hips, and lets his fingers linger on the soft, smooth skin of her thighs. He's waited thirty years to do this, to kiss her and make love to her, to brand her as his own.
There's something perverse and beautiful about the whole tableau: Belle is laid bare on his desk, in his shop, surrounded by an entire world, reduced to the fragile things litter his shelves. She is the centre of the universe, and every trinket, every memory of lives long lived and lost, every ancient land stored in a genie's bottle, orbits around her.
He's still holding her ice-lolly, and he traces the inside of her thigh with it, making her squeal and writhe against him, eyes wide and bright, staring into his. He follows the sticky red line with his tongue, and laps at her pussy through her soaked underwear.
He's probably biased, considering how he's loved her for three decades now, but she's more delicious than any ice cream the world could create.
He holds the lolly against the fabric, and she screams and bucks up, her thighs clamping closed even as he holds them apart with his free hand. He glances at the door to the shop, belatedly realising that – although they're technically closed – her screams might attract the wrong kind of attention.
He doesn't need Sheriff Swan busting in here and finding him eating out his shop assistant.
He pulls himself up, leans in close to Belle's ear as he presses two fingers against her dripping core, and murmurs, "Keep quiet, dear, or I'll have to shut you up myself."
Her eyes widen, and he'd think her scared if he couldn't also feel how much wetter that command had made her. She nods, silently, and he kisses her as a reward.
He'd love to tease and torture her for hours, to have her lie completely naked before him and mark her properly, to use the ice to write his name – his true name – across her skin, and allow her to scream as she came again and again.
But they're supposed to reopen in five minutes, and his cock is aching and straining against his trousers, and the desk isn't the most comfortable place in the world.
So he strips off her soaked panties and pockets them, and throws the lolly to join his discarded cone in the trashcan so he has both hands free.
He frees himself, and looks down at her wide eyes and stained red mouth.
"Alright?" he asks, as he positions his cock at her entrance, and she nods, biting her lip to obey his command and keep silent.
He pushes up inside her, slowly, giving her time to adjust to the feeling. He holds her hips with one hand, and reaches up with the other to hold it against her cheek, simultaneously erotic and comforting.
Soon, he's fucking her hard and fast against the desk, her legs wrapped around his middle and her head on his shoulder, his hand supporting her arched lower back so she can push herself down on him as hard as possible as he surges up to meet her.
And the feeling is incredible, her mouth like candied ice, her pussy wet and tight and burning hot around him.
She whimpers his name into the side of his neck, as quiet as she can, and he can feel his control slipping. It's hard to hold it in, after thirty years of wanting, needing, and missing her. But this is their first time together, and he needs her to come first.
He needs her to explode around him, needs the image of her face lost in ecstasy to hold in his mind forever.
So he reaches down between them and rubs hard against her clit, his rhythm matching the pace of his cock thrusting deep inside her.
Her eyes squeeze shut, and she seals her lips to his as she comes, so he can swallow her scream as his reward and hold her as she fells apart.
He follows soon after, her walls contracting around him too much for his fragile control to bear. His orgasm is blinding, and he can't contain a long, low groan, buried in the sweat-slick side of her neck.
They curl against each other, still shuddering, and he can barely stand. He has to hold onto the desk, their exertions having taken their toll on his leg, and for a second he's struck by the horror of what he's just done. He's a lame, broken old dragon, and he just defiled a beautiful young girl in his den.
Some monsters never change.
She sees his face, and brings her palm to his cheek, her smile warm and tender and reassuring: she's okay; they're okay; the world is still spinning and everything is sunshine and golden light.
How could it not be, when she tastes like strawberry wine, and her smile is filled with happy-ever-afters?