Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Belle sits in front of the fire, cross-legged on the swept floor, as she darns the damage to her favourite, pale green dress – recovered by Red in Hefty's second-hand clothes shop from her father's trading – and Gold's soft, worn nightshirt.

It's been nearly eight months since she first arrived back in District 8 from the Games, and she has only just returned home from the Victory Tour, six days ago.

It had been arduous, seeing the other districts for the first time and finding most of Panem's citizens as poor and starved as Eight's. All except the Career districts, of course. They weren't happy to see her. No one was.

She's the Bloody Rose of the Wastelands, and only the Capitol has interest in her.

Belle continues with her sewing, thinking of the feasts she dined at and the officials she met, and just thanks her lucky stars that the Victor's team is required to attend the Tour as well.

Seeing Saph again had been difficult, and Russell and Cherry and Bowlby had all been sugar-sweet and overly fawning, but, of course, Belle had had Gold by her side. It had been so much easier handling the cameras and the smiles with him by her side, just there, should she need him.

It works both ways, of course, which Belle is more than happy about. Should Gold need reassurance, she's there, waiting, with a smile.

Belle glances up, turning to look out of the window and watch the sky darkening to almost-black. A smile flits across her lips, knowing as she does that he'll be here soon.

She returns to her dress, snipping the pale thread and beginning on the hole in the hem of Gold's nightshirt. She thinks she might have put it there herself in her haste to have his shirt off of him one night.

She absently wonders about Ruby and her courtship with a man Belle doesn't know the name of yet, though she think it might be Hopper, the baker's son, because she's seen him drifting near Granny's more than once with a mooning smile on his sweet-featured face.

As the firewood cracks and pops in the grate before her, Belle thinks of her father. She had seen him the other day, when she had returned, being interviewed by one of the cameramen from the Capitol.

She has a television in the house, but she hadn't bothered watching the coverage of the Tour, or trying to find her father's interview. She doesn't want to know. Though the pain's lessened, it's still there, burning in a place that feels very much like her heart.

Belle slips a stitch in her distraction and glances at the kink in the neat row. She knows Gold won't mind. Even though they have a little money stored away now, along with a couple of favours from their time in the Capitol, they're still frugal. Belle smiles, knowing it will always be this way.

A key being turned in the lock of the front door sounds softly, and Belle continues with her stitching, unable to remove her smile.

Footsteps. The soft and steady thump-thump-thump of his cane. A sigh.

After a few moments, she breaks the silence. "Are you watching me again?"

Belle glances over her shoulder to see Gold leaning against the door frame into the living room, a soft look in his eyes as if he can't believe his luck. He's come to look at her this way often, and has chosen to stare at her sometimes when he thinks she's not looking.

She'll never tell him she likes it.

"No," he answers, though she can hear his smile in his voice even as she returns her attention to the sewing.

He sidles up beside her as she finishes, cutting the thread once more before piling the fixed clothes and her sewing things on one of the armchairs. Gold awkwardly takes a seat next to her on the floor, stretching his bad leg out towards the fire and leaning his cane against the fireplace.

Belle curls into his outstretched arm, smiling, and holds up her middle and index fingers in front of Gold's face. Pinched between her fingertips is a single, shining needle, glinting in the warm firelight.

He doesn't ask her whether she's sure, or whether she's ready, merely grins and takes it from her with careful and dexterous fingers. He beckons her closer and takes her hand when she offers it.

With the tiniest movement and the biggest smile, he gently pricks her left middle finger.

She feels no pain, only overwhelming joy. Blood blooms on the pierced fingertip, dark and beading. Belle takes the needle from Gold with a blush, and gently grips his outstretched right hand at the wrist to will his dancing fingers still.

A tiny prick with the needle and his blood breaks the surface of his skin in a small, dark dot at the tip of his middle finger. And then, according to the customs of their district, they press their hands together, fingertip meeting fingertip, with ridiculously pleased smiles on both of their faces.

His left hand comes up to cup her cheek. Belle returns the favour, a laugh catching in her chest, and leans in to brush her lips against his. Their other hands entwine in her lap.

Belle's heart is light, free, because, finally, they are married. After waiting for so long, the simple ceremony of District 8 leaves her breathless and weightless, floating.

Gold leans in, catching her lips, his happiness not diminished one inch, merely overridden by his obvious desire. He kisses her, his tongue seeking out hers, all softness and warmth and hot desire as he urges her back, onto the floor.

Belle wriggles against the hard wood, before tugging at the small rug between the two armchairs and pulling it up to the fire, rolling onto it and crooking her finger for her husband to join her.

No words are needed.

There are only sighs and kisses, the crackle of the fire, and lingering touches and the soft shushing noises of clothing being removed by each other's hands. Gold makes Belle arch for him, slipping her blouse over her head and taking one unprotected nipple between his lips.

Her gasp draws out a moan from his own throat, gentle and desperate, his fingers climbing her naked thigh as he shakes off the remaining sleeve of his shirt.

When they lay skin-to-skin, finally, Gold turns, taking Belle with him until they lie against the hearth, half-off of the rug, and she is sprawled across his body. They shift a little together, making Gold arch beneath her with hooded eyes and parted lips, and then they each find their place, his cock sliding smoothly against her slick lips.

He gasps and stills beneath her, one hand splayed across her belly while the other dithers at her thigh, and he watches intently as Belle rocks back, so practised now, to take him inside of her.

The first feel of him – his cock filling her, pushing into her – is the greatest high, the longest and purest sensation of flesh against flesh, so delicious and excruciating.

Her breath leaves her as her hips roll and Gold's meet them, still so exciting and precious, even after all the late nights and heat between the sheets of both of their beds.

The firelight lends him something, she thinks, as she looks down at him while she gently lifts and drops her hips, rolling and rolling and grinding. The glow makes him look darkly ethereal.

"Ah, Belle!"

He's the first to cave, the first to break the thick and heated silence between their moving bodies, but she doesn't have the time to feel smug or victorious. Not tonight. Tonight, they are married, and she has no patience for any of their little games. She just wants him, as fiercely as ever, and all to herself.

So she kisses him with passion, with whispered nonsense and muffled cries, and takes them both somewhere higher. His hands betray his need, shaking against her back, but he gives her his all, kissing and cursing and fighting for her pleasure.

She loves him so much.

She buries a hand in his hair, so much shorter than before now he's cut it a little, and the damp half-curls tickle her palm as he pants and writhes, eyes dark and half-lidded. He looks so much younger with shorter hair, especially now he smiles more and laughs more, but, of course, these things are for only her.

Only she can see him so undone, crying out for his release but holding on for hers, and it heats her more than the fire could ever do. His desperate lovemaking spurs her on, making her meet his thrusts with her own until all she can see is him. And stars. Bursting behind her eyelids.

When she falls, he catches her. Even though he's crashing through his own bliss and riding out his own aftershocks, he will always catch her.

Belle pants against Gold's damp neck, murmuring the most heartfelt sentiment she can give him at such a tender and vulnerable moment.

He returns it, so breathily it melts her heart. "I love you, too, Fireweed."

Belle dozes, warm and happy and sated. But before sleep can claim her, as it has the deeply-breathing man beneath her, clutching at her even in his dreams, she scrutinises her fingertip, holding it up to the light.

A tiny dark smear graces her skin, the pinprick already healing, and she treasures the sight, curling in closer to Gold, relishing the sleepy smile that graces his soft mouth.

The few lines he has on his face vanish in sleep, and she thinks him truly beautiful. Not a victor, nor any of the names given to him by the district, but just Rum. Soft, and dark, and sweet, and wicked.

She falls into a deep, undisturbed sleep.