Cookies, Kisses, & Unmentionables
Snapegirlkmf
"Chocolate" verse 7
A/N: this was inspired by a gif of a deleted scene in S4 where Rumple eats a cookie while Belle is doing some laundry. So I decided to write my own version . . . hope you don't get too hungry, dearies!
Six months after "Chocolate Cravings":
Mr. Gold, proprietor of the antique shop known as Golden Spinner Antiques and Curiosities, had not been having a very good day at work. First he found that some hoodlum had painted graffiti on the brick wall next to his shop, with some foul language in red spray paint. He had managed to remove it with some magic, but it had been difficult to do so without people noticing, because there were people on the streets of New York at all hours. But with some quick gestures and pretending to use some industrial strength paint remover, he managed it. But he was irritable.
The morning had gone by slowly, and Gold would have been more entertained watching paint dry. Then he received a call from one of his suppliers that an antique secretary had been damaged as it was loaded and would he accept a refund? He had agreed, but asked it to be sent anyway, hoping he could still restore it. Then some fussy old lady had come in wanting something he didn't have, and another customer had a harum scarum five-year-old who left dirty handprints on his new glass case, almost knocked down Bae's sculpture of Sorcha becoming a swan, and tangled up all the thread on his demonstration spinning wheel. Rumple would have liked to send that little monster on a one way trip to Siberia—complete with an abominable snowman!
When they had finally left the shop—without purchasing anything to boot—Gold decided to close up and go home for lunch. He hoped Belle hadn't thrown away the leftover wonton soup and an eggroll from last night's dinner or eaten the mushu pork, though he had to admit that her odd cravings had tapered off in the final trimester—except for the chocolate ones that is. Like her husband, Belle would always be a chocoholic. As he made his way down the sidewalk, he stopped in at the new Godiva store that was only a few blocks away from his shop, and bought a package of Godiva chocolate shortbreads as a treat. Then he took a cab home.
Belle was at home, folding some laundry, as she was no longer volunteering at the library since she only had five weeks till her due date. So far the weather had not been too bad, cold and cloudy, but no snow as yet. She was grateful for that, because she was only fond of snow when she could watch it from a window in front of a roaring fire with a cup of tea or cocoa, and not worry about her husband, son, or granddaughter being out in it. So far she had completed a semester of a BA with emphasis on library science online from Columbia University. She was anxious to start her second semester, but Rumple had convinced her to wait for another three months and enroll in the spring, after the baby was born.
She heard Rumple's key in the lock and turned to see her husband walk in the door, holding a bag with a familiar logo on it. "Hey! You came home for lunch! And you stopped at Godiva."
"Yes, I needed a pick me up after the morning I had, dearie," he came over and kissed her gently on the mouth before putting the bag down on the counter.
"Why? What happened?"
"Rude customers, a shipment got damaged, you know, it's been one of those days," Rumple sighed, running his fingers through his floofy hair, touched lightly with silver.
"That's terrible!" Belle said feelingly, now wanting to strangle said customers for giving him a hard time. Her hormones were behaving oddly again, and she still had mood swings. "Let me make you a cup of tea, Rumple."
"No need, I can get it," he began.
"Sit!" she ordered, pointing to a chair. "I'm not helpless, I can get tea and a plate of cookies for you." Sometimes his attempts to help out grated on her nerves, as she didn't like him assuming she was fragile since she was pregnant. She placed the black silk pajama top she'd been folding on the table and went to put the tea on and arrange the shortbreads, which had an imprint of Lady Godiva on her horse on them and were coated with lush chocolate on the bottom, on a small plate.
Rumple obliged his wife, who was wearing a cute maternity outfit of a babydoll top in cerulean blue with white puffed sleeves and a pair of matching leggings and sheepskin fluffy slippers, her belly now quite pronounced as she was very near her due date. She waddled from place to place in their house now, and often lamented she was the size of a house—or a beached baby beluga. With elephant feet. But Rumple thought she was beautiful, motherhood lending her a sort of warm glow—even when she was bitching at him to get her Godiva chocolate. She reminded him of all those statues of the Madonna in St. Peter's cathedral.
Soon the kettle was whistling, and Belle poured tea into Rumple's chipped cup and served it to him, fixing it just the way he liked it. She placed the plate of cookies in front of him also. He looked at her. "Aren't you having any?"
"I will later. I want to finish this laundry first," she replied, indicating the pile of clothes in the laundry basket waiting for her to fold them. They were his—several pairs of pajamas and boxers and a few towels and some socks.
"Maybe you ought to take a break," he suggested, sipping some tea.
"No, I'm fine. Once this is done I can relax. Now eat your cookies, Rumple!" she mock-growled. "Before I lose all my self-control and eat them for you."
"Oh no, dearie!" he waved a finger at her. "You're not getting all my cookies, pregnant or not!"
As if to prove his point, he grabbed one off the plate and popped it into his mouth. His eyes went to half-mast in bliss as he tasted the buttery sweet decadence on his tongue. The flavors melded together in indescribable ecstasy, rich dark chocolate with delicious crumbly shortbread. A match made in heaven.
The tip of his tongue flickered out to capture any stray crumbs along his lip.
He gave a sort of half-groan of delight, and reached for another one.
Belle was mesmerized, standing at the end of the table clutching Rumple's green and red plaid boxers with the monogrammed RG on the bottom right leg to her, her indigo eyes drawn irresistibly to her husband's face as he ate the cookie. She found herself longing to run her own tongue over his lips and taste both the cookie and him. Or kiss his quirking eyebrow. She tore her eyes away with an effort and resumed folding the laundry.
But now she was feeling flushed and sort of . . . feverish. She went to pick up a small dishcloth and wipe her face when she saw Rumple eating yet another cookie. This time she found she was transfixed, watching longingly as he picked up the shortbread and placed it into his mouth, savoring the rich creamy taste. She watched him chewing, his mouth moving up and down in the most erotic way, his eyes dreamy, as if he had just woken from a long winter's nap.
Belle's mouth was both watering and dry as the Mojavi, though she couldn't figure out how that could be so. Or how just watching her husband eating Godiva shortbreads could make her burn like an oil-soaked torch. Then again, she hadn't felt very sexy lately, or even interested in sex since her body became so unwieldy, annoying, and unattractive. Now she understood better why in her old realm, noble ladies went into confinement in the last month before they delivered. For who wanted their husband to see Mrs. Hippo?
She went to pick up one of Rumple's black silk pajama pants, and had to unobtrusively wipe the palms of her hands on her leggings because her palms were sweaty. Maybe she was having hot flashes? No, that was ridiculous! She felt her tummy rumble, reminding her she was starving it. Just then she also felt a familiar craving coming on.
"Mmm! These cookies are delicious!" Rumple commented, drinking some more of his tea.
"No . . . you're delicious," she murmured. "Actually both of you are." She was practically drooling now.
She began folding his pajama pants, loving the silky feel of them in between her fingers. She recalled how they had felt against her skin the last time she had snuggled up to her husband, which had sadly been months ago. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced up to see her husband picking up another cookie.
Now the baby got into it and did a small dance upon her tummy, making her even more hungry . . .but watching as he brought the shortbread to his mouth again did things to her insides that should have made her self-combust right then and there.
Somebody shoot me! I'm getting aroused watching my husband eat a cookie!
But it wasn't just any cookie. As his lips parted and his mouth opened, she fantasized about taking him to bed, and feeding him cookies in it, and kissing the crumbs off of his face and body.
Suddenly it felt like a hundred degrees in the kitchen.
Once again, she almost died when he licked his lips. He had the most kissable pair of lips—nice and wide, but not overly so,-and he was totally oblivious to the effect he was having on her.
She began to fan herself to no avail. He was now chewing on it, and the way he moved his mouth was like poetry in motion, delicious, sweet, and satisfying. Heat curled up through her, from the toes of her sheepskin slippers to the top of her head. I think I need a cold shower. No, I think I need him in shower! She smirked at the naughty thoughts .
Rumple swallowed the third cookie and just the act of watching the cookie going down his throat made her want to throw herself onto his lap and kiss him breathless-while running her hands through his floofy hair. Her hormones suddenly went into overdrive and all she could think of was him.
Crumbs speckling his lips . . . on his shirt . . .no, have to fold the laundry . . . Her hands tightened unconsciously upon his boxers, making creases in the silk. His tongue seductively licking the bits of cookies and chocolate . . . running over his lips . . .tasting, teasing . . .she wanted that tongue to run all over her lips . . .his hands to touch her . . .handle her with the same delicacy as the cookie . . . no, she wanted to drag him into the bedroom and tear off all his clothes . . . She looked down at the underwear in her hands and another image surfaced of her throwing it and the pile of unfolded laundry onto the floor and pulling him down onto it while she unbuttoned her Gold One and he fed her cookies from his hand and licked the crumbs off of her chin while . . .her eyes snapped back to him, riveted as he picked up the chipped cup, setting his lips just so and watching the tea go down his throat in one long rapturous swallow.
Her hand encountered her prominent belly, and she recalled crushingly she was the size of a baby walrus, and she could barely fit in his lap and if she tried, she'd probably injure his leg again. Yet she was on fire with need for him, and it was all due to those damned chocolate shortbreads! Frustrated, she cried, "Rumple, would you mind opening a window in here! It's hot and I need some fresh air!"
He glanced up from his cup. "Belle, it's about thirty-eight degrees out and you want to open a window?" his tone was both incredulous and slightly patronizing.
That did it. She snapped the boxers pointedly. "Yes, Rumplestiltskin, I want you to open a window because I'm about to self-combust here watching you eating shortbreads! The way you pick up the cookie, and your eyes go all dreamy when you eat it . . .and your mouth . . . and that tongue . . .now open the window, dammit, before I melt right here!" she gasped.
He carefully set the cup down in the saucer, and saw to his delight that his wife was all hot and bothered . . .over a cookie . . .over him . . .when he had assumed because of her pregnancy she had no desire to engage in their usual night time activities . . .and so he had refrained from touching her that way . . . figuring he could be patient . . .except now . . .now his eyes were drawn to the way she held his underwear in her slender fingers, her hands caressing the folds of silk . . .and suddenly he was burning up too. Imagining her fingers running over him like they were doing to his unmentionables . . . suddenly he regretted drinking that tea . . .his mischievous brown eyes met her indigo ones and crackling heat flashed between them.
He smiled his trademark insouciant grin. "I have a better idea, dearie, than opening a window. You come sit on my lap." He crooked a finger at her.
"But . . .the laundry . . ." she blurted, trying to come up with an excuse because she was the size of a whale and weren't pregnant women supposed to be focusing on other things at this stage . . .? Her hands automatically folded Rumple's boxers into neat thirds, and simultaneously caused her husband to become so overheated he was surprised steam wasn't emerging from his ears like the teakettle.
"Belle . . .don't worry about the laundry, dearie, you'll always have more of it . . .right now I want you to taste these cookies . . ." He lifted another from the plate and waved it tauntingly at her.
It was like a matador waving his red cape at a bull.
Belle practically charged over to where he was sitting, her hand reaching both for the cookie and her husband, because she couldn't decide which one she wanted to taste first. "Rumple, you're making me ravenous!" she groaned, just as her huge belly bumped into the table as she leaned over. "Oooh, bloody hell!" she swore. "I can't even—" she was on the verge of tears now. "I'm so fat and-and—"
"You're not fat, dearie, you're beautiful—like the earth mother with child—with my child—and that makes you wondrous to behold," he murmured in her ear, then pulled her gently down on his knee, sideways, so he was holding her against him, his breath tickling her cheek. "Now, I think you were saying how much you wanted to taste those cookies . . .how about we start here . . ."
His mouth came down on hers, in a slow seductive kiss, allowing her to taste the shortbread and luscious chocolate upon his tongue, mellowed by the tea, and his slender fingers tangled in her hair, stroking the strands as if he were spinning at his wheel.
Belle felt herself come undone, she splintered into a thousand pieces, borne away upon a river of rich dark chocolate and sweet golden shortbread combined with the unique sensation that was pure Rumplestiltskin, and utterly irresistible.
Her hands tightened upon his suit jacket, her fingers leaving imprints in the fabric, but neither of them cared in the slightest.
Then she was kissing him back, as if there were no tomorrow, because for her there was only now, and she drowned in the cauldron of sensations he stirred in her. This was all she ever wanted, all she ever needed . . . her sexy sweet beast, who tasted better than chocolate, light and dark in one, and more intoxicating than any liquor known to man. In that instant she forgot everything—the fact that she was pregnant, that she was half falling off his lap wile clinging to him, everything except one thing—that he still loved her and wanted her, and her soul sang with joy.
"I love you, Rumple."
"I love you too, my heart." His voice was silk, enticing and arousing. "Now let's move on to the next layer . . ."
He gestured and the plate of cookies was floating in the air, and then she was floating also, gracefully in his arms, as he carried her into their bedroom and proceeded to show her what else he could do with his mouth besides eat shortbreads, the laundry still unfolded in the basket and a certain pair of monogrammed plaid unmentionables lay forgotten on the floor.