Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/751183.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Belle/Rumpelstiltskin_|_Mr._Gold
  Character:
      Belle_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Rumpelstiltskin_|_Mr._Gold
  Additional Tags:
      Golden_Lace, Masturbation, Costume_Kink
  Series:
      Part 5 of play_on,_give_me_excess
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-07 Words: 1258
****** Costume ******
by whereismygarden
Summary
     Lacey's been trying for weeks to break Gold's resolve, but she
     succeeds wholly on accident. Lacey!Belle and cursed!Gold.
Notes
     There's no actual sex in this fic, but Lacey is 17 in this verse.
See the end of the work for more notes
                Gold was starting to relish the late afternoons when Lacey
French breezed into his shop, dressed in something revealing, or sometimes her
work uniform: the cotton shirts of Storybrooke’s little café always smelled
like coffee and bread. She was an appealing sight, in her dark, spare makeup,
with her bloody-colored mouth smirking at him, her skin pale in comparison. He
knew that she was playing some kind of seduction with him, but that did not
bother him. He might look, and occasionally push back at her, let her know that
she was playing with fire, but he had the advantage of not being a horny
teenager.
                When, one Friday afternoon, the bell jingled at precisely
three-fifty, he smirked a little and looked up. She was getting predictable.
The smile froze on his lips as he actually processed her.
                Maybe not so predictable after all.
                “How do I look?” She twirled to give him a full view, arms held
out in a semblance of grace. She was wearing a long blue dress, straight out of
a Waterhouse painting, and her hair, half-pulled up, matched. “It’s for this
thing we’re doing at the elementary school next week. Historic dress. Ancient
Greek, for me.” Gold swallowed.
                “I’m surprised they’re letting you near any small children,
dearie,” was all he got out. She grinned at him, almost innocent but for the
dark color at her lips and the blue glitter at her eyes.
                “I like it. Ruby has to be an Elizabethan and wear a ruff,” she
confided, eyes dancing. “She’s not pleased.”
                “Would you be, in her place?” He didn’t step from behind the
counter, because he can hardly stand with her dressed like that in front of
him. She was just Lacey the flirt, who’d been trying for a good three weeks to
get him to respond to her teasing. Ineffective, on the whole, and then she
shows up in a flower-blue chiton, and judging by the way she held herself,
curled in, she wasn’t comfortable in it the way she was in her tight skirts and
tank tops. She was amused by it all, but not trying to flirt, and he was
undone.
                He clenched his hand around his cane and bit the inside of his
mouth, hard. He wanted to drag her into his lap, or push her down against the
counter and take her, put his hands under that long dress.
                “I’m sure I could spice it up a little,” she said, and winked,
reminding him where and who he was. It was just Lacey, the town slattern,
dressed like a naiad, or a siren. “Which is why I’m here.”
                “Oh?” his mouth was growing dry. He had no idea how she
proposed to ‘spice up’ her costume with anything from his shop, but he was
content to watch her try.
                “Do you have anything that could pass as vaguely ancient-
looking jewelry?”
                “Aren’t you worried about historical accuracy?” he asked, in
what passed, he supposed, as a vaguely normal tone. Lacey shot him a look and
rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” he sighed. “I have some things, but they
might be a little out of your price range, I’m afraid.”
                “You could just lend them to me,” she suggested, trying her
flirt look again. Gold actually laughed a little at that, and she scowled. “It
was worth a try.”
                “Really?” he asked.
                “It’s not like you’re getting a lot of use out of them. People
would say, ‘Where did you get those?’ and I could say, ‘Well, I borrowed them
from Gold, but you can buy them if you like.’”
                “A career in marketing awaits you,” he said dryly, though a
small part of his brain—the stupid, carnal part that reacted to a girl in a
dress—wanted to lend her the things, put something of his upon her. He banished
the thought, and she was already turning toward the door, pulling on a jacket
over the dress.
                “Oh, hang on!” she exclaimed, and pulled a flat square out of
her bag. “I made you a CD.” She thrust it toward him.  He frowned.
                “Why?” Everything came with a price; he wasn’t about to accept
a single thing from her until he knew what it was. She frowned back.
                “I make them for everyone. The only thing you play in the shop
is classic, or Pink Floyd. It gets dreary. You have narrow tastes.” She slapped
the paper case onto the counter. “Enjoy.”
                The bell was signaling her departure before he truly processed
what had happened. He picked up the little parcel and slid the CD from its
cover. She had scrawled ‘for Gold’ on it, rather messily. The paper had a list
of songs and artists on the back, in what he assumed was Lacey’s hand. He had
no idea if she was indeed Storybrooke’s CD burner—it wouldn’t be a surprise—and
had no way to figure out if she was without coming across as creepy.
                He put it on when he went home, wondering if it wasn’t some
prank, and left the volume low. He didn’t pay it much attention as he ate, but
when he decided to take a shower, he replaced the CD in the radio on the
counter—Chopin—with Lacey’s, and let it play. It was loud enough to be
intelligible over the sound of water, and—
                The little slut was really irrepressible, he thought. If there
was ever a soundtrack made to seduce, this was it. Start off demure, some
things to play in the background, then spring the trap. She was already on his
mind, and in the freedom of his house, with the medieval-rock song she had
chosen playing, his control left him, and the soap slipped from his hand onto
the shower floor, his head pressing against the wall.
                He was crossing a line, he realized dimly, by doing this. He
closed his eyes and saw her, as she had been today, in her blue dress, raised
from the pages of Homer and pulled into his shop. White arms and bloody-red
mouth, and water-blue eyes. This didn’t even count, he told himself, as he
wrapped a hand around his cock. He wasn’t even thinking of the real Lacey, just
a girl who looked like a goddess in her costume. The hot water poured around
him, and the music, it was the kind of music he would fuck Lacey to, and he
pulled roughly at himself, wishing her soft hands around him, her flesh against
his hands and teeth.
                “You can’t run from me, I know just what you smell like, go
ahead and try, just know I’ve hunted you in past lives…”
She had been chasing him, and now she had caught him, and she didn’t know it,
but she had him jerking off in the shower, and it didn’t matter, because
tomorrow he would be himself again, but, oh, it mattered, and Lacey’s face swam
in front of him, her red-slashed mouth and clever eyes, and her pale limbs and
chest, her dark hair—he came suddenly, with a strangled gasp, and opened his
eyes, heaving for breath, water running over his soiled hand and rinsing
everything away, as though it had never happened.
Indeed, it would have to be as if it had never happened. He stepped carefully
from the shower and dried himself. He couldn’t lose control like that: not
again. He didn’t turn off Lacey’s damnable CD, however, though it certainly was
not because he wasn’t in control of himself.
End Notes
     The song is from "White Flag" by the Romanovs, and if you were
     wondering, I do have the whole tracklist from Lacey's CD.
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