Belle hadn't known much about Rumford "Rumple" Gold before Mary Margaret, affectionately called Snow, had asked her for a huge favour. That wasn't to say she didn't love her clothes, quite the contrary. As a member of the MET European Paintings Curatorial Department she knew the power of that which people took in through sight and wasn't ashamed of liking fashion. Her salary being what it was she had learned to raid warehouses for last-season designer clothes, looking for quality and timeless pieces. Though capable, as any woman was, of lounging around in yoga pants and a T-shirt she liked wearing quality clothing and heels, though she was practical about it. No use amassing debt in order to get pretty clothes.
She liked fashion, owned a couple of couture dresses at least three seasons too old to be cutting edge, and liked to check out collections when they came out, developing a penchant for certain designers. Haute Couture was a particular weakness, because nowhere else designing achieved such an art form. No one could look at an Alexander McQueen and tell her that wasn't meant to be in a museum right next to a pre-Raphaelite nude.
There were some collections she never failed to check out, from Atelier Versace to Zac Posen. But she had a soft spot for Impish, the Haute Couture label of Rumford Gold. The clothes always had an otherworldly feel to them, like strange, fantastical mashes of modern and old, almost fairy-tale-like style. She recognized the shapes and patterns, sometimes, from Medieval and Renaissance paintings and she'd developed a curious drinking game about it with both her curatorial department and the guys down at the Cloisters. But she'd never paid attention to the designers themselves, never listened to interviews or read up on them. Unless they made front page news, like Galliano and his anti-Semitic rants or when Alexander McQueen died, she seldom heard about them. All she had known of Rumford Gold before Snow had asked her for the favour was that he was an eccentric man, prone to strange, fluttering mannerisms and odd giggles and that he'd gain his nickname, Rumple, from the use of gold thread in all of his designs, coupled with the fairy-tale air about them they all had. She'd thought it cute and the fact had stuck to her head.
When Snow had called her with exciting news- "I'm getting fucking married!"- the announcement had been accompanied by a rather strange request. Her fiancé, business Golden Boy David Charmont, and herself wanted to keep it a secret. They wanted a small, private ceremony as far away from the press as possible, which was a bit difficult for an A-list actress with an equally high-profile boyfriend. But that clashed horribly with her dream of having Rumford Gold design her wedding gown, since the man demanded complete and total access to the bride in his atelier at any point in time, and the moment the actress stepped foot inside the press would have a field day.
So she'd begged Belle to please pass herself off as the bride. They were roughly the same size, Snow a bit taller and thinner, but she could work with it, maybe mention she planned on dropping a few pounds before the big day. Snow's Wedding Planner, a lovely woman called Joanna, had agreed to keep the secret and help in the charade, arranging for an appointment. It was then that Belle had felt the need to look up more on Rumford Gold, but nothing could've prepared him for the man himself in the flesh.
She'd dressed nicely, of course, in an Armani dress, short and a deep blue, kind of romantic, and wine-coloured peep toes, determined to seem like she could afford a Gold. Snow had even arranged for a car to drop her off and pick her up in order to help keep appearances, and it deposited her neatly in front of an old, classic Soho building. A very tall, very imposing man met her at the door, his demeanour grave but his eyes kind, and led her to a waiting room where he offered her coffee or tea. She ended up selecting strawberry-flavoured black tea and settled on a lovely couch with a book on the symbolism of flowers in Pre-Raphaelite art.
She had gotten so immersed in her book that the sudden presence of someone else in the room startled her. She looked up, seeing first skin-tight black pants and then a peasant-style golden shirt, the colour almost garish and the garment leaving quite a bit of chest uncovered. She followed that bit of skin upwards, encountering a neck and then a straight, wind-blown mane of brown-gold hair greying at the temples and front tips.
"Well, about time you got that nose out of your book, dearie."
His head tilted to the side, Rumford Gold was staring at her from behind gold-tinted glasses, seeming both puzzled and faintly amused by her. She quickly put the book away, fighting a blush as she stood up and shook his hand.
"I'm sorry. Books are my weakness. I'm Belle French."
He had a strong grip and used it to pull her forward till there was barely any space between them. He studied her face, his eyes ghosting over her features unashamedly. She felt his hands first on her shoulders then down her arms and around her waist, the touch firm and sure, and tried not to squirm. He let go of her after a few moments, taking a few steps back and looking her up and down.
"So, dearie, I suppose congratulations are in order. No ring, I see."
She babbled something about finding it too ostentatious to wear every day, his personality overwhelming her for a while and clouding her mind. But she needed to keep her wits about her if she was going to lie through her teeth so she struggled to focus.
He asked her questions, which she knew he would, but not ones she expected. He asked about her hobbies, about her favourite animal, movie, book- and how was Belle supposed to choose?- her most precious childhood recollection and her dream vacation. It wasn't till she was halfway through a thorough description of her favourite painting, a little-known Edward Huges called Idle Tears, that she realized, to her horror, that she hadn't attempted to answer the way Snow would've. It had been so extremely easy to talk to him, his strange giggles and flighty mannerisms amusing her and putting her at ease, that she had forgotten why she was there in the first place.
When he ran out of personal questions, at least for the time being, he begun to ask her about her favourite designers and what gowns she liked from them. Snow had given her enough information to answer those questions, but the more she talked the more puzzled he looked.
"That… That makes no sense, dearie." He kept calling her that and she got the idea that it wasn't an endearment at all. "I was expecting… something else, from your personal tastes."
"Well," Belle was determined not to let this short, strange man get the better of her, "It's not just my input. I'm also taking into account my fiancé's tastes, of course."
Rumford Gold scrunched up his noise, giving her a look of comic disbelief.
"Why, dearie, is he planning to wear a matching gown? Cause I don't do replicates. If he wants a wedding dress he's gonna have to come here and get his own."
The idea of Gaston, the guy friend she had modelled her fake boyfriend after, stuffed into a wedding dress almost made her lose composure and she couldn't help but giggling a bit, covering her mouth with her hands. A glimmer of welcomed surprise shone behind the gold-tinted glasses, disappearing in a flash. Apparently Gold hadn't pegged her for a girl with a sense of humour. She sipped her tea to try and calm down and attempted to focus. For some reason she felt over-excited and worried she was blushing a bit too much. Maybe it was the constant lying, the pretend that was making her feel so.
"Well, dearie, our time is almost up. As you surely know I make few wedding gowns and my demands on your time will seem excessive, but it is my way or no way, dearie. I expect you to be available at all hours on your phone, and to come to my atelier at least twice a week. While I'll be in charge of the design I will need your input and your insights into fabrics and such. I believe that wedding gowns are very personal matters and their design should involve the person getting married, so you should keep your little cell phone on you at all times in case I need to, say, ask how many children you'd think I should skin for their pelts to trim your train."
The quip cut her off guard, causing her to accidentally drop the empty tea-cup she had been holding. She picked it up immediately, making a soft noise of distress when she realized it was broken.
"It's chipped. I'm so sorry."
She cradled the piece of china close to her as if to protect it from further harm and Gold looked at her oddly.
"It's just a cup. No harm done."
He took it from her gently and Belle refused to acknowledge the fluttering inside her when their hands touched. She was being silly and needed to get a grip on herself.
"It was very nice to meet you, Mr Gold. I look forward to working with you."
He took her hand between both of his, unexpectedly bending down to kiss it instead of shaking it. He let her go almost at once and seemed more surprised than she was at his behaviour. He took several steps back, acting as if he was somehow scared of her, and motioned for the door.
"Well, run away now, dearie. Let me get to my work."
He wasn't joking about random phone calls. She got several during the following week, some of them seemingly to ask strange, inconsequential, things- "So, dearie, do you prefer strawberry or cherry?"- and others that bordered on invasion of privacy- "I assume you like being on top. Just an impression." Sometimes she hung up on him, intent on letting him know she wasn't going to tolerate rudeness just because he was an eccentric designer to the stars. Others she chose to laugh or indulge him. Soon enough she had another appointment set and her nerve-endings buzzing, even though she refused to contemplate the source of her excitement. Gaston teased her, years of knowing her letting him see she was out of sorts and she was tempted to smack him upside the head in the middle of a staff meeting with the heads of the Conservation and research department. She once again strived to look her best, telling herself it was only logical. After all a designer would notice her clothes.
When she arrived at the Atelier she greeted Dove by name, seeing a shy but pleased smile bloom on his lips, and once again settled on the waiting room. This time she didn't even have a second to fish out a book, Gold appearing almost right after she had been served her tea. He was dressed in the same skin-tight pants with a dark red shirt with a slight, obscure pattern. He took his time to have tea with her, asking once more several questions and chit-chatting. He liked to be provocative and contrary, but was rather stumped when Belle either laughed at his controversial quips or scolded him for his inappropriate questions.
When they were done he took her to his atelier. It was an open, airy place with lots of light and warmth. It was also a cluttered mess. Bolts of fabric, sketches, ribbons, spools and such littered the tables and floor on the sides but the centre was almost bare except for the huge rug on the floor and an array of mirrors forming a crescent moon around a dress-form. It wasn't the modern, expensive-looking room she'd thought of when she'd imagined it, but it seemed to fit him.
He instructed her to remove her heels, step atop a stool near the dress form and be very still. He sketched her then, over and over from different angles. Then he got out a tape measure made out of a simple strip of worn cloth with the appropriate marks and instructed her to come down from the stool and stand straight.
"I'll need to measure you regularly to ensure nothing it getting bigger or smaller." He informed her as he come up behind her, his arms circling her to wrap the tape measure under the armpits, around the fullest part of her bust. She fought the urge to shiver when she felt his breath between her shoulder blades. To Belle he seemed to linger forever there, measuring her shoulder width, her sleeve length her waist and her hips. Then he dropped down and measured her rise and thighs. His touch, most of the time, was perfunctory, professional, but a part of Belle got caught up in fantasies of imagined pauses and lingers, soft sighs and muted moans. She was blushing a brilliant shade of red, more arousal than embarrassment, by the time he finished, and doing a bad job at hiding it.
"Well, better be thorough. And, as I recall, I was told you wanted the full package, underpinnings and all."
For a moment Belle was utterly confused, and it showed.
"Stockings, garters and such. The complete look, so to speak."
Underwear. He was going to design underwear for her. Except it wasn't really for her and things were getting really mixed up inside her head.
She acted as though she'd merely forgotten that small detail and spent the rest of the visit letting him show her fabrics and samples of lace and beading. Gold was passionate about fashion in a way that reminded her of her own love for painting. He talked of colour, of texture, of potential, encouraged her to touch the fabrics and lay one against the other for comparison. she begun to talk about art from her own perspective, encouraged by his sincere enthusiasm- he got charmingly boyish and eager when something struck his fancy- and the way he gave her his undivided attention.
It was late when she finally thought to drag herself away. She couldn't help but smile widely at him on her way out.
"It all seems extremely interesting. Thank you very much for taking the time to explain all of this to me, Mr Gold."
He smiled at her, an unsure, tentative little lift of the lips.
"Call me Rumple, dearie."
"Call me Belle."
It became frightfully easy and quick to grow used to Rumple calling her at all hours of the day, every day, for the silliest of things. Sometimes whatever he desperately needed to ask her sounded more like a feeble excuse to talk to her but she humoured him, more than happy to devote part of her time to a conversation with him. He was a fascinating man, buoyant and almost manic at first glance, but when Belle started peeling off the layers she found a quieter man, surprisingly shy and incredibly earnest who seemed to crave being noticed behind the impish facade everyone else saw. There was a fragility about him she found endearing and incredibly attractive as well as a tendency to lash out, to hurt before being hurt, that she supposed had been exacerbated by the cutthroat nature of the fashion world.
He was also incredibly lonely. Several times he called her in for an appointment and they ended up disregarding the wedding dress completely in favour of a discussion about books or something else that caught their fancy. A tiny voice inside her head told her to be careful, to remember the original plan. She was supposed to be a blushing bride, excited about getting married to her handsome fiancé, whom she was supposed to love. Soon-to-be brides were supposed to have little but the wedding on their minds yet she'd hardly talked about it to the man designing her wedding dress.
She strove to mend her mistake, but she felt he could see right through her as she talked of Gaston and of her wedding dress.
"No, no, a full skirt would be all wrong for you. And I resent your refusal to contemplate a strapless bodice softened by a layer of lace."
It was actually Snow's refusal, but she had to pretend she didn't agree with him. Mary Margaret wanted a corseted bodice with small straps, apparently to honour her mother's wedding dress, and though Belle knew Snow would look lovely in a dress like that Belle herself imagined she'd wish for a gown more like the one Rumple had in mind.
"You got all a lovely collarbone, it'd be a waste to do anything but a strapless bodice but suit yourself."
Rumple had the oddest habit of complimenting her when he was angry, and she blushed both from anger at his scathing tone and embarrassment over his words. He was almost beastly to her when he thought she was letting her fiancé's likes and tastes superimpose her own. Belle didn't much like to linger on what it all meant, sure it would make an already complicated situation impossible.
She begun to feel like she wasn't pulling off the charade any more. Gold HAD to know, by the way she acted nothing like a bride most of the time, that she wasn't engaged at all and it was all a ruse, albeit a very good-intentioned one. But he never said anything and whenever she remembered to mention her fiancé he seemed to believe the man existed… and despise him. He didn't hold much respect for Gaston's insights and opinions, often turning abrasive and prickly when she happened to mention him.
One rainy afternoon Belle arrived at the Atelier a bit earlier than usual, and Dove informed her Gold was out but kindly let her into the atelier to wait for him there. She explored the room idly, softly caressing a bolt of fabric or admiring some intricate piece of needlework. Quite unexpectedly she came by his sketch book, one she'd seen him carrying around and holding when he sketched her. Knowing he probably didn't want her or anyone else taking a peek she tried to leave it where she'd found it but she couldn't quite put it down. His work was gorgeous, some of the sketches very detailed and others rough and unfinished. As she flipped the pages she encountered her wedding gown, a feathered skirt sewn into a corseted bodice decorated by wisps of feathers and beading at the neckline. Snow had an old necklace that would complete the look and Belle had no doubt she'd be lovely.
She turned the page and froze, inhaling sharply. There, much more detailed, was the dress he'd wanted to design for her, a strapless mermaid dress covered in a layer of lace that flared out at the bottom, creating a small but exquisite train. It was a simple dress, but the shape would complement her curves perfectly and the lace made it look soft and romantic. She felt it needed a touch of something, but it was perfect all the same. A dress she could see herself getting married in.
Except she wasn't getting married. Snow was.
She flipped the pages again, wanting to erase the image of that dress from her mind, when she noticed that, whereas at the beginning the figure wearing the clothes had been some faceless model, the dresses now hung on the body of a brunette with very familiar features.
She closed the sketchbook forcefully, wishing she'd left it alone to begin with.
"Sorry for the delay, Belle."
Rumple strode in wearing a white shirt, dark jeans and a leather jacket. She'd never seen him look less like his impish persona. It wasn't just about the clothes, it was as if his whole personality had been toned down. His mannerisms, his expression, even his voice sounded different. He seemed to notice her gawking because a shy, vulnerable look crossed his face and he hunched over, burying his hands in his pockets.
"Went to visit my son. He doesn't like the whole "smoke and mirrors", as he calls it, so…"
He shrugged, pocketing the sunglasses he'd perched on top of his head.
"I didn't know you had a son."
The mention of his kid seemed to put him at ease, and he smiled genuinely.
"Yeah. He's fourteen now, and completely embarrassed about his designer dad. He still calls me over to grab a milkshake at least once a week, so I can't complain."
She didn't push for details, understanding that his child was a difficult topic for him. She watched him shrug off his jacket, a dark brown leather, and roll up his sleeves.
"Well, it's time for your first fitting. You ready?"
She nodded, mentally preparing herself. As a designer Gold was daily in contact with women's half-naked bodies and she was terrified he'd find her inferior to the usual models he was accustomed to. Still she stripped, trying to appear nonchalant as she peeked at him, thanking her lucky stars she'd remember to put on her best underwear set, so that was one less thing to be embarrassed about. Rumple was carefully unpinning the different half-sewn parts of the dress from the form, giving the task all of his attention.
She was pretending to be engrossed in something on her cell phone when he turned, missing completely the heated look in his eyes. It was just as well, things were already complicated enough.
"The measurements you gave me… You're sure about them?" Rumple was busily hemming the skirt to make it less heavy-looking. "Because the way you look now is more than fine, Belle. No need to slim down for the big day. Curves better display a dress, in any case."
He was worrying for her, she realized. He clearly thought she was being pressured into losing weight and wanted to assure her it wasn't necessary. It was really sweet, but also completely unhelpful for her ruse so she did what she always did: she blamed Gaston. She knew it'd sound horrible, but she was past caring about that.
"Oh, Gaston likes me better a little slimmer. I don't mind."
He frowned but seemed to think it wiser to remain silent, concentrating on the bodice next. With his hands at her waist, running over her ribs to see that the corset fit and didn't pinch it was hard for Belle to concentrate. The bodice gaped open at the back since it wouldn't fit her properly with Snow's measurements and he was standing too close for comfort, the heat of him seeping into her back. She fought the urge to lean back and focused on controlling her breathing. She needed this dress to be finished or else she was going to lose her mind.
"I'll lace the bodice loosely so you can see the whole dress as it'd be once it's finished."
His voice was a low growl emanating from somewhere near her left ear and she was almost surprised when something yanked her back. Rumple was deftly doing up the laces of the corset, trying to find the balance between too tight and too loose. When he was done he stepped back and gestured for her to look into the mirrors to appreciate the effect from all angles. That meant he stepped back and away from her which was a relief.
"How does it look?"
All Belle could see was Snow, her hair up in an elaborate do and her mother's necklace around her neck, looking like some sort of fairy-tale princess. She'd be happy with it, she was positive. But Belle couldn't wait to step out of it.
"It's perfect."
He made a soft noise on the back of his throat, circling her.
"It is that, yes, but what I wanted to know is… Do you like it? Are you happy with it?"
The questioned seemed loaded, somehow, like he was asking her something else entirely, something far more important. Belle felt tears prick her eyes and discreetly wiped them away, hoping he'd just assume she was emotional over seeing herself in her wedding dress.
"Yes. I do. I am."
"I don't think you are."
His tone wasn't accusatory or probing. Instead he was looking up at her, perched as she was above the cushioned stool, his expression open, warm and a little bit sad. Sad for her, she thought.
"Rumple…"
She reached out to caress his cheek, wanting to erase that melancholic look off his face but somehow she ended up twining her arms about his shoulders and lowering her head. He rose up to meet her halfway, tilting his head to the side to catch her lips at a perfect angle. He made a needy little noise on the back of his throat his arms wrapping around her waist to press her close to him. He kissed her hard and desperate, frantically lapping at her closed lips with his tongue till she opened up for him. At some point she lost her balance and fell heavily on him, clutching at him in surprise. He was stronger than his lean frame denoted, supporting her entire weight without shifting his attention away from her lips or the spot on the roof of her mouth his tongue seemed to be falling in love with. She moaned, moving her hands to sink into his hair, nails tracing patterns across his scalp that he seems to adore, making the most delectable approving keens she'd ever heard.
When their lips parted it was just so he could kiss her from another angle, one hand moving to support her upper back and other still firmly wound around her waist, as if he feared she'd disappear from his arms if he didn't hold on to her tightly. He was all but crushing her to his chest but Belle didn't seem to be able to find it in herself to protest, intent as she was on devouring him. The stress of weeks of lying- lying to him and to herself- and worrying came crashing down on her, making her desperate, ready to claw at him to get closer, to feel him as she needed to.
She arched her back when he slid his lips down her throat and closed his mouth around a sensitive bit of flesh, sucking on it with something akin to reverence. Heat flooded her, coming from him and from somewhere deep inside her, followed by a dull, pulsating ache, a sort of emptiness that had always been inside her but was choosing that time to make itself known in the form of a fierce need. She needed… something from him. Everything.
She let her hands explore his shoulders and chest, feeling the way he was practically vibrating. He always seemed ready to burst with energy, like a coiled spring, but it was exacerbated then, more noticeable. Just as her fingers dipped into the bit of collarbone bared by the open neck of the shirt his found their way into her hair, taking fistfuls of it and massaging them, purring at the silkiness of her locks. He allowed his mouth to wander but it always quickly returned to her lips, as if he couldn't draw air unless it came from her own lungs. It certainly felt like he was stealing her breath away, a strange sort of communion that she found both intimate and erotic.
So concentrated she was on his touch and how he tasted that she missed, at first, the fact that he was mumbling something over and over, frantic and a bit desperate.
"Please, please, please… Just gimme this. Just this, just this one time… Please, Belle, I need…" He kissed her, hard, making her bend backwards and clutch at his shoulders for balance.
"Yes." Her answer, a breathy exhale against his throat, was muffled by a sudden knock on the door of the atelier.
"Miss French, there's a Gaston Anders here to see you. He says he's your fiancé."
The words where like a splash of freezing water. They parted suddenly, Belle a bit unsteady on her feet and almost tripping on the skirts of the dress.
"She's trying on her wedding gown, Dove, he can't come in here. She'll be out shortly."
Rumple's voice had returned to its usual high-pitch but it was wobbly. Without another word he helped her out of the half-sewn dress, and Belle tried to ignored when his touch lingered and slipped from professional to affectionate. All of her self-control was going into keeping herself from bursting into tears and she was glad when she was finally out of that horrible gown and into her regular clothes. He didn't talk to her, and barely looked at her, while he escorted her out of the atelier and into the waiting room. Gaston was there, wearing a smart suit and trying to fold his gigantic frame into the tiny couch. When he saw her his face lit up and Belle had to admit he was quite a convincing fiancé.
"Gaston, what a surprise!"
She didn't have to fake the warmth in her voice. She'd been friends with Gaston for years. They'd spent long nights watching old movies and eating ice-cream, talking about men and watching the European Champion's League. Belle loved soccer- something she had her father to blame for- and Gaston did so as well. And a part of her was glad to see him, glad he'd saved her from making a mistake. The other part was still mourning the loss of Rumple's touch.
"Hi, Bluebell."
He enveloped her in his arms and it filled her with warmth and calm. He was solidly-built and she'd never appreciated that fact more than right at that moment.
"Thought I'd pick you up so we could grab something sweet."
He was playing the solicitous boyfriend to a T, shaking hands with Rumple and mentioning he couldn't wait to see her in a wedding gown. The designer looked down on him, even if the lad was quite a bit taller, his lips curled into something akin to a snarl. Of course. To him Gaston was some shallow idiot forcing her to lose weight and get a wedding dress he liked, as opposed to something she'd want. Belle had to admit she'd made Gaston into the worst possible fiancé.
"Ah, young love. So sweet, so innocent. So precious."
He was almost hissing, and the harsh mocking in his tone told the brunette he was hurting. Usually he'd be flippant, irreverent. But now there was something almost ugly about him.
"Alas, dearies, you happen to be in my way. Run along, I'm quite, quite busy."
He let Dove usher them gently out of the building, an apologetic look in his face. Gaston huffed, shaking his head.
"Temperamental little man. No manners. You okay, Bluebell?"
She shook her head and leaned up against him. She didn't want to talk about it, and Gaston didn't pry. It was for the best, Belle wouldn't have been able to tell him what was wrong even if he'd asked.
She dreaded coming back to the atelier, but she had to. Rumple hadn't called her in a week and a half and when her phone had finally rang it had been Dove, telling her that her wedding dress was finished and she needed to come for a final fitting.
The day of the appointment she thought about cancelling a thousand times, but postponing the inevitable seemed rather silly. She donned her favourite pale-blue dress and silver pumps as a sort of armour and arranged for one of Snow's cars to pick her up from the Met and drive her straight to the atelier in Soho. When she rang Dove appear, with the same kind smile as always and a gentle disposition. He served her tea and offered her cookies- as if she could eat- and then told her he was going to leave early.
"My pottery class is having a bit of a friendly contest open to the public and I really hope my ceramic unicorns win something."
The lumbering giant smiled and wished her a good weekend before departing. Belle tried really hard not to think about being alone with Rumple by concentrating on the idea of Dove painting tiny ceramic unicorns. Still she gave up on drinking her tea when she realized the hand holding the cup was shaking and took out a book to pretend to read while she waited for her.
"Come on in, dearie. Big day's finally here!"
He was, once again, dressed in his eccentric style. It looked like armour now, from the high-collared vest to the knee-high boots. Protection from her, almost and Belle tried not to take it personal. She undressed as nonchalant as possible and stepped atop the stool, taking a deep breath and trying not to worry about her strapless bra, like she usually did. She was almost over, almost there. This was it, the final part of her fucking favour to Snow. She'd look enchanting on her wedding day and it'd have all been worth it.
She watched as Rumple carefully lifted the fully-sewn dress from the dress form, carefully opening it up so she could step into it. Though the dress itself was sturdy the feathered skirt and details required a gentle touch so he was methodical as he laced her up, loosely again so it'd fit.
Fully finished it looked like a fairy-tale gown, delicate and almost magical. David wouldn't know what hit him, of that Belle was sure.
"Oh, a lukewarm smile. Quite the reaction, dearie. What one would expect from an eager bride-to-be."
She tried not to react to his jeer, focusing instead on smoothing over some feathers on the skirt. Taking out her cell-phone she asked him, as kindly as she could, to snap a picture to show a couple of friends and he reluctantly did so, his face carefully blank.
"It is everything I hoped for. Thank you, really."
She felt guilty for being unable to muster any sort of enthusiasm for the dress, but it wasn't hers, not really. Yet it was an exquisite creation. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes almost looking right through her.
"I want to show you something, Belle."
His voice had softened and acquired that deep, delightful burr she remembered from the day they'd kissed. Feeling like she'd jump out of a ten-story building if he only ask it in that low tone she nodded her acquiescence, not reacting when he stepped behind her and began to deftly and quickly unlace her dress. She stepped out of it automatically, watching him as he carefully draped it once more over the form and then went towards a screened area, from where he plucked a garment bag.
"Eyes closed, sweetheart."
She didn't question the order or the endearment, closing her eyes immediately. She heard the garment bag being unzipped and then he proceeded to help her into another dress. All she could feel was the softness of the inner lining and the secure tightness of the body as Rumple did up all the tiny hooks at the back. He then proceeded to smooth his hands over her body, arranging the fabric and smoothing out the wrinkles. His hands lingered around her waist, his touch turning loving, meaningful and she wished he'd stop so she'd no long feel like wanting to escape her own skin.
"Open up, pet."
She didn't want to, at first. She wanted to be suspended in time, relishing in his touch and pretending she wasn't up knee deep in trouble. But when he made a little noise of impatience she reluctantly opened her eyes, taking in her reflection in the many mirrors. The dress fit her perfectly, as if she had been directly sewn into it. It followed her curves precisely, wrapping around her body like a lover. The lace overlay gave the modern silhouette an old, romantic feel to it, and it flared out around mid-thigh, creating a lovely shape as it pooled to the floor, the trimming of the lace exquisite. The only other detail was a satin bow tied to a side, adding a touch to an otherwise simple gown. With her hair loosely gathered at the back of her head she truly looked like a bride.
What was worse, she felt like one, for a split second.
"It's…" She couldn't stop herself from crying, and Rumple was right there next to her with a tissue and a panicky look in his eyes. Like most men he dissolved into utter helplessness at the sight of female tears. His hands fluttered about her, not daring to touch and it almost made Belle cry harder.
"I'm sorry," she apologized over and over, convinced there was nothing to do that could remedy what she'd done. What her lies had put them through "I'm so sorry, so sorry…"
He almost yanked her off the stool, so clumsy he is, and wrapped himself around her, every bit of coldness still in him melting away. He rested his forehead against one of her bare shoulders and clamped his arms around her waist, looking as if he was trying to fuse their bodies together.
"No, this is all my fault. I shouldn't have kissed you, I shouldn't want you, or think of you all the time… I shouldn't have made this dress. I've… Ever since I've met you I've sketched dozens of things. Dresses, nightgowns, coats, shifts… I've never been so productive, so feverishly inspired. I can't stop thinking about you. I want to call you at all hours, I want to laze around on a Sunday afternoon with you and do nothing, I want you to meet my boy, and hold my hand when I'm a nervous wreck before a show." He sounded guilty and desperate and it was making Belle almost breathless. Then his mood shifted and his voice darkened. "I want to rip your fiancé to shreds, little by little. He doesn't deserve you, he doesn't love you and you shouldn't marry him. Don't marry him, Belle. He won't make you happy. Please, please…"
He clutched her closer, his grip on her almost painful. Out of ideas and out of energy, Belle decided that it was enough. She cupped his head with her hands and pulled it away from her shoulder so he was staring right at her.
"I'm not marrying him."
The noise he made was a cross between a sigh of relief and a whimper. It only made her feel worse.
"I never meant to marry him. I was never engaged."
Confusion stole over his features, and he let go of her suddenly, taking a few steps back.
"What?"
"It was supposed to be a good thing… A favour. My friend Snow, she's getting married but she's an actress and there was no way she could have a wedding dress designed by you without any paparazzi noticing and spoiling her dream of a quiet wedding. She asked me to fill in and I thought it would be a harmless little deception but… You were never meant to be so wonderful. Or interesting. I didn't want you to be. And then I thought… Maybe it was just me. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just me, I wouldn't be hurting anyone else. I… I didn't think you…"
It pained her to see him turn away, walking to a corner table and leaning heavily against it, shoulders hunched. She hadn't meant to hurt him, that was true, but she'd done it all the same.
"You're…" his voice was low and small, wavering. "You're not getting married?"
"No."
"And Gaston…"
"…is my best friend."
"Very handsome best friend."
"His boyfriend thinks so too."
"Oh."
They lapsed into silence, breathing hard. Belle itched to get out of the gown, feeling like it couldn't get any worse than being rejected by Rumple while wearing her dream wedding dress. There was a sort of pathetic air about the whole situation that added to the heart-break, made her pride sting while the rest of her ached.
The dress, as lovely as it was, was impossible to remove by herself. She tried, as quietly as she could, but there was no way her hands could reach the tiny row of hooks and there was no Dove to help her. Mustering as much of her courage as she had left she cleared her throat.
"I… I need help with the dress. I'll go as soon as I change, I promise."
He grunted, and for a moment it didn't look like he was going to move to help her. Finally, after what felt like forever he turned, head bowed so his hair covered his face, and moved towards her. She turned around, willing herself not to shake as she felt his hands on her shoulders, steading her. He soon slid them down to the bodice of the gown, his nimble fingers undoing the tiny hooks with ease. All too soon the bodice was gaping openly at the back, and she felt both relieved and reluctant. She didn't want to change and leave the atelier. After that there was no going back, no seeing him again.
All of a sudden his hands grazed the bare skin of her back. Softly, slowly, he begun to trace patterns with the tips of his fingers, becoming less tentative. His nose soon joined his hands, carefully nuzzling the nape of her neck. Belle froze, scared of moving and breaking whatever spell he seemed to be under. But when he felt his lips brush against her skin she gasped, incapable of remaining still much longer.
"What are you doing?"
He hummed, the vibrations passing his lips and sinking into her skin. His hands circled her waist, coming to rest atop hers where they clutched the bodice to keep herself covered.
"I want to be very angry at you… later. Shout and argue and demand more explanations. Hash it all out, no more secrets, no more pretence. But there's a part of me that can only focus on the fact that you." He kissed the slope of her shoulder, his lips travelling upwards. "Are. Not. Marrying. Anyone."
His teeth grazed that spot just behind her ear and Belle sagged against him, sighing. She turned in his arms, almost getting tangled on the skirt of the gown and kissed him, pressing herself up against him so she wouldn't need her hands to make the dress cover her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, dragging his head down so she could explore him thoroughly. He welcomed her into his mouth, letting her set the pace as she sought out his tongue, playfully flicking her own against it and letting it chase hers. The teasing lightened the mood, a giggle escaping Belle when Rumple bit her lower lip softly to admonish her for suddenly leaving his mouth and she could feel him smile in response, his body relaxing against hers. It was then that she dared put some distance between them, the gown immediately gaping open.
"Careful!" She scolded. "It's lovely and you're going to rumple it."
She could see that it was in the tip of his tongue to make a playful comment about rumpling her, but he chose instead to look affronted and help her lift the dress up and off of her. She watched amused as he delicately gathered the gown into his arms and laid it on a bare table nearby, arranging the fabric so it wouldn't crease. His hands lingered on the lace in ways that inspired a hint of jealousy inside Belle and she snorted at how ridiculous it sounded, to be jealous of a dress. As he fussed over the garment she turned to look at herself in the many mirrors surrounding her. Her hair was mussed and her lips were swollen and bright red. She unpinned her hair and tried not to feel self-conscious in her flimsy strapless bra and panties. She had removed her stockings when trying on Snow's dress and she was grateful for the thick rug she was standing in.
When she took her eyes off the mirrors she found him staring at her intently, his head tilted to the side.
"I've dreamed of your body almost every night since I first took your measurements. Quite unprofessional but I couldn't stop myself. I started to think of the perfect way to showcase it, the gowns, the cuts, the colours that would best compliment your skin, your hair, your eyes…" As he talked he approached her, looking as if he was in a trance. "Talking to you on the phone left me bursting with ideas, and every time you mentioned losing weight I wanted to shake some bloody sense into you. This," he turned her around so she was facing the mirrors and he stood directly behind her and splayed his hands across her belly "is perfection. Every inch of it. From every angle. I hated the idea of you changing it for someone else."
He nipped at her shoulder, as if to admonish her and then laved the small, reddish mark with his tongue. Belle watched the mirrors as they showed her leaning back against Rumple, who looked, clad as he was in his eccentric finery, like some sort of fairy-tale imp. His hands idly roamed her body, drawing nonsensical patterns across her stomach, ghosting over her breasts, sliding down her sides and skimming the waistband of her panties. From the side she could see the way he was pressed snuggly against her back, but he had too many clothes on and she needed to see and feel skin. She drew her head back so it rested against his shoulder as he nipped and tongued the side of her neck.
"Rumple…" The way she drew his name out, with the barest hint of need, caught his attention, stopping him in his tracks. "Clothes. Gone… I need…"
He was a flurry of movement as he took a tiny step back from her and divested himself of his vest and shirt, pressing back against her with a sigh of relief. He unhooked her bra and she watched as it dropped to the ground, Rumple's hands taking its place. He cupped her breasts at first, seemingly content to hold them, get a feel of their weight and softness. Belle watched, the mirrors on the side giving her glimpses of his expression. He was completely focused on her, and it was beautiful to see his whole body language, the way he seemed to want to wrap himself around her, mould his front against her back. She drew her trembling hands behind her, letting the mirror guide her to the waistband of his pants so she could slide her fingers towards the centre till she reached the buttons. With great pains she managed to undo the buttons and push the garment down, taking a moment to contemplate the fact that he wasn't wearing underwear.
"The pants are really too skinny for boxers." He mumbled into her hair when he heard her snort in surprise. She could tell he was smiling, amused. "What did you expect, gold speedos?"
She let out a surprised laugh and he took the opportunity to bend down and remove the pants completely, taking his socks off in the process. Completely naked he rose once more, kissing his way up her spine till he was back where he had started, his hands one more cupping her breasts. He kneaded them gently, letting his thumbs trail across her hardening nipples briefly. Belle watched him in the mirror, unable to tear her eyes away.
"Lovely collarbone, lovely breasts. I've told you so, pet, a hundred times."
He pinched one of her nipples and her knees almost buckled, the sensation shooting straight towards her groin and making several of her nerve-endings sing. She panted, suddenly wanting to participate but realizing the position forced her to be merely a spectator. She squirmed, wanting to turn around, to touch him, but he stopped her, softly but resolutely.
"Let me touch you, pet, let me unravel you one time. Just watch, I promise I'll make it so good if you let me."
He was pleading, and Belle couldn't say no. He kissed her neck in thanks and continued to lavish attention on her breasts, letting his nails scrape against her areolae, not quite touching the hardened buds at the centre. In protest Belle bucked against him and he grunted in surprise and arousal, his hips shunting forward automatically. Finally he gave in, pinching and tugging on her nipples, hearing her sigh and keen. She arched up against him when he explored the underside of her breasts, letting one hand stay up and moving the other downward, caressing her ribcage and delving into her underwear.
He looked into the mirror then, his eyes connecting with hers as he dipped his fingers into her sex, exhaling harshly when he found her wet and slippery. The look in his eyes was of awe and adoration, causing the sensation of the rough pads of his fingers against her clit to sharpen. His touches begun exploratory, tentative, but as he studied her expression he seemed to decipher where her most sensitive places where and how she liked best to be touched. Using the last bit of her bravery Belle grasped the sides of her underwear and pushed down, shimming out of the scrap of lace so he could see his fingers buried inside of her. The sight was riveting and it took almost no time for Belle to feel herself being pushed over the edge, her legs trembling as she came. He held her by the waist, crooning soft nonsense right next to her ear as he tried to prolong the orgasm with gentle stimulation. Belle's eyes drifted to a mirror on the side, where she could see Rumple's profile, his half-erect cock pressed against her lower back. She lifted her hips slightly and pressed back, smiling in triumph when he sunk his nails into her sides and shivered.
"Belle…" he whimpered, turning her around clumsily and tipping her head up so he could kiss her. It was clumsy and messing, all teeth and little else, but neither seemed to be able to care. Belle drew his slowly down onto the soft rug, climbing on top of him as soon as she was able to. He didn't seem to object to the change in dynamics, moaning when she exerted pressure on his groin teasingly. He wrapped his hands around her hips, making no move to control her, only using the grasp to ground himself.
"Pet, please…"
She ran her fingernails down his torso, watching him arch up, seeking her touch, and then bent over to kiss her way to his chest, her tongue flicking out to taste him. He howled, squirming and thrashing beneath her but staying put all the same. She rewarded his obedience by closing her mouth around a nipple, applying increasing suction till he was bucking up against her. Feeling quite desperate herself Belle rose on her knees and grasped his erection, guiding it inside her, dropping back on his lap so he was sheathed to the hilt. He muttered a curse, looking up at her with wide eyes and for a moment neither moved, trying to gather their bearings. Slowly Belle rocked back and forth, feeling him slip partway out of her before thrusting back in. He tried to match her rhythm but never to impose his own, turning his head to look at a mirror on the side.
He was watching her ride him, she realized, and the thought made her grind herself harder against him, picking up a more brutal pace that had him begging and spouting nonsense in the thickest Scottish accent she'd ever heard. His voice got low and deep, almost a guttural growl, and his hands slid to her upper thighs, nails digging into her skin. The pain sparked more pleasure and she moaned in approval.
"Tilt your head back, pet. I wannna watch you enjoy me, ride me like the Great Queen or Scáthach, the trainer of heroes. So powerful, so beautiful, so…"
His voice trailed off, dissolving into a groan of pleasure as she tightened her inner muscles around him hard. He came apart beneath her and the feeling was enough to have her orgasming a second time, more powerfully than before. It seemed like forever before she collapse on top of him, his cock still nestled inside her. She snuggled close to him, uncaring of the fact that they were both sweaty, and sighed when she felt him kiss her temple and stroke her hair. She shivered and he wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back and sides to try and warm her up.
"This… this friend you have. Perhaps… perhaps I can visit her personally. Or meet her at your place, so I can tailor her dress properly. After we have a big fight about the whole affair, of course."
His tone was light but Belle could tell he was still hurt by the deception, as she expected. She couldn't blame him, but she knew they could work things out.
"That sounds like a great idea. So, maybe, you could bring the dress over to my place tomorrow Saturday. And perhaps… perhaps Snow could come over on Sunday."
It was quite a roundabout invitation but he made an approving noise and didn't tease her for it. Instead he kissed her temple again and smile against her skin.
"I'd like that very much."