Chapter Text
Storybrooke, three days after the end of the curse
"You've been quiet," she said, when half of dinner had gone by in silence. "I shouldn't have – I'm sorry. I just... being here, being with you. I don't know, maybe I did go a bit mad, in that room. I've never – "
And, he realized, of course she never had. In the real world there had been only her father's stifling home, and then him. And then, first in that world and then in this, for her nothing but a small room and a locked door. She'd not even had what most of the rest of the population had at some point tried in this world, sex for its own sake in an unreal life.
She'd cupped him in her virgin hand and brought him to climax for the sake of her own innocent lust.
"Belle," he whispered, putting down his fork. "Belle, will you please come to bed with me?"
Her breath rushed in with a little gasp. "Oh."
He cherished the blotches of pink that had risen on her cheeks. "Not that dinner isn't delicious, but –"
Her eyes widened. "Oh, oh! Now? Yes. Oh, please, yes." She pushed back from the table and nearly knocked over her glass.
Rumplestiltskin hurried out of his own chair and caught her in his arms, held her to him. Easier like this, easier to hold her so close she couldn't see him. He pressed his face in her soft hair and the scent made him reel. Without his stick, she was his only support. Holding tight, he guided her most of the way to his bedroom in a sort of dance.
In the castle she'd been in and out of his sleeping chamber all the time, to see to the linens and clean up after him. But not this. Never this.
He wanted to ask her to lay herself down on his bed and let him see her there, see her there for him. He wanted her to lie with her head on his pillow and say to him Yes. Oh, please, yes, again.
Instead he stepped behind her on the pretense of unzipping her dress, and kissed all across her soft pale shoulders as he bared them. He was safe from her gaze here, and she'd been behind him before, so he had some excuse. Her body seemed the center of the room, the center of the house, the center of the world.
The little wriggle and grunt she gave as she dragged the dress off over her head might have been the most endearing thing he had ever seen.
He'd gone into town and bought new underthings for her, as well as clothes so she wouldn't be stuck with the cast-offs from his store. There had been nothing prurient in that, he'd simply been taking care of her. Now, the lace against her full breasts and soft waist made him gasp, and he dropped to his knees again, to rub his cheek at her hip and feel lace scratchy against his jaw and her soft side against his brow.
Giggling, she tried to twist to look at him, and he ran his fingertips up her sides to make her squirm and giggle more.
But he had to hold onto her waist to get to his feet again, shamed and enfeebled once more by his traitor leg. Pathetic. She couldn't have missed it. He reached forward and drew a trail of sparks across her collarbones, magic he could manage easily enough even here. He drew her a necklace of diamonds on her skin that glittered and crackled with soft heat.
Belle went stiff. "Oh, Rumple, no," she said, stopping his hand with her own. "No magic, please. I want to feel you."
"But magic is me, my dear," he insisted. The magic, the power, not his spidery and ill-made body.
"No magic." she whispered, voice gone small, "Please. There's always a price, isn't that what you've always said?"
He'd have told her that he didn't care, that in this world he'd found he could still spin the straw of other people's desperation into the gold of power. Paying for normal magic was not a problem. He could pay.
The problem was this. Love was the most powerful magic, and its price was always pain and loss. He didn't know how he could bear to pay it again.
What he'd paid the first time, for so little, had been more than enough. Surely whole worlds would be torn out of him to pay for the scent of her skin and her head in his lap and her hand on him. Surely the only hope was to bring his power to bear, to cheat the world before the world could cheat him.
He'd have tried to tell her this somehow, without admitting what a brittle and cringing thing he was. But before he could find the words, she'd guided his hand to her breast, and the soft resilience, the way it filled his grip, flushed him with such warmth that he was left with his forehead resting on her shoulder, panting down her back as his hand gently squeezed and caressed her. He slipped fingers inside the cup of the bra so it was all her softness against his fingertips and palm, and the scratch of lace on his knuckles. When he caught the nipple between two fingers and squeezed, she mewled as if he had done something wonderful.
"Do that... again," she breathed. So he did, and again, and again, and nosed aside a bra strap so he could mouth her shoulder, and bit delicately at her throat until she was panting.
Then he carefully undid the catch on the bra and smoothed the straps down. Instead of falling, it caught under her breasts. He lifted one soft breast in each hand, and the bra fell free down her arms. Holding her breasts he pulled her back against him. He was hard for the second time that day, and he let her feel it. A little bit shyly, she pressed back.
It felt so good he shut his eyes and just held her there for a moment, then nudged her to step forward until they were at the edge of the bed. "Go on," he murmured, "get in." Then he pulled away, going back for the light.
He'd foregone tie and jacket when he'd re-dressed himself, and in his rush now he pulled the shirt, still buttoned, over his head as he limped the few steps to the lightswitch, and was shoving down his trousers and fresh boxer shorts on the way back when she switched on the bedside lamp.
She was seeing him, seeing him scrawny and tottering on his bad leg and he wanted badly to flip into the air, to trail fire from his fingers, to blow the bulb of the light with a glare, to impress her with his vitality, to give her the Dark One and not the rickety shepherd.
But she'd asked for no magic, and he tried, tried, postponing his failure. Until his will crumbled, he would pretend to be what she thought he was, what she thought she wanted. He'd lay his mangy hide down at her feet and let her hands soothe him and pretend not to be rabid and broken.
Belle dragged down her panties and then squirmed on the bed to push them down her legs. Then she looked up at him, nerve and thrill in her welcoming smile, and if her revelation came now, if she saw him clear at last as he was and he lost that smile, the world would go dark again and he would have no way to light it but to set a thousand souls afire.
He bent to bury his face in her bare belly, kiss her navel and the little hairs below it and she was soft, she was so soft, and he still felt made of lizard skin, as if he would rasp her raw with his ugliness.
Her fingers went into his hair, tangling and gripping and holding him there. "Oh," she breathed, "I've wanted you, touching me. So much."
"On your side, my dear," he said into her skin. "You know I always repay my debts."
Breath quick, she turned her back to him, and he climbed into the bed and pressed himself to her naked flank.
Her bottom was such a soft warm swell that he groaned as his cock pressed against it. He put his arms round her, finding the indent of her waist perfect clearance for his right, which wrapped tight round her, while the left roamed freely: breasts, sides, belly.
His hand skimmed lower, just crossing the crisp prickle of hair before he stroked the front of her thigh, down as far as he could reach, nearly to her knee.
"Oh, please," she whispered.
Rumplestiltskin straightened his fingers and pressed the side of his hand at the seam between her strong thighs, pushing until he'd insinuated his way in up to the knuckles, and then slowly began to work his way up.
Wantonly, she spread her legs for him, refusing to provide any resistance, and his hand glided all the way up the inside of her thigh. It was like nearing a furnace, and then the side of his index finger was suddenly hot and drenched. Belle wailed and moved her hips, and Rumplestiltskin gently sawed the side of his hand all along that hot cleft: wet silky skin below and coarse protective thicket of hair above, wet too. Wet and wet and wet
"Belle," he breathed in her ear, awed. No magic, he'd used no tricks, she'd seen nearly none of his power tonight, and yet she was magnificently wet for him, was shuddering and whimpering at the first touch of his finger.
Carefully, face pressed into her neck and arm holding tight round her waist, he pressed two fingers inside. Too slippery at first and they skidded up against the complexity of her folds, and she grunted and jerked. On the second try his angle was perfect, and she squeezed him slick, so hot, so slippery smooth until her hips twitched and his fingertips encountered the first hint of a patch of roughness deeper inside.
He'd barely bothered to use his fingers to explore inside a woman, before now. By the time he'd known enough to appreciate the sexual utility of such foreplay, he'd been able to do it from a foot away, through seven layers of petticoats, magic prickling or hot or teasingly cool while his hands stayed dry and languid at his sides.
He wanted to spend an hour with his fingers tucked into the firm grip of Belle's body, allowed to touch this place no one else had, no one else could. He wanted to know her textures, know the secret shape of her, own her the way only perfect knowledge could establish possession. Own her because she allowed him there, almost too intimate to be believed.
And he wanted to get his fingers out of the way and slide his cock into that clasping wetness, now, this moment.
For as long as he could withstand the urgency in his cock, he moved his fingers inside that narrow heat. He was a little man with a little cock, and he knew it, but with so many reasons to despise him, he couldn't bear to give her another. He was monstrous enough, he would not be a monster in this, he would be careful. He wouldn't tear her, the way other men seemed to believe a woman must always be torn. Let her hate him for something else, not that. So he scissored his fingers a little, and felt her incredible tightness easing slowly as she grew restless in his arms.
Belle moaned as his hand rubbed her folds with the motion of his fingers inside her, and finally she whispered urgently, "I want you, please. Oh please, I need – ."
So he gently pushed her leg forward, leaving a smear of her own juices on the back of her thigh, and then took his cock in hand. The sensation of his own wet fingers on himself made him groan and press his face against her shoulder. Then, panting, biting his lower lip for control, he guided himself into place.
"Belle," he gritted out, voice tight, "Belle – "
He should have been reassuring her, or telling her to relax, instead he just went on repeating her name, "Belle, Belle. Oh, Belle," as he sank slowly, very slowly, feeling her slippery walls clutching round him.
Belle whimpered and gasped, but didn't tense or cry out or tell him to stop.
He was inside, and it was different, it was. Different from Milah, who'd never fully hidden her disappointment with him, not even in those early days when she'd still tried. Different too from the various adversaries with whom fucking had been a dance of dominance and powerplay.
He'd wanted to please Milah to appease her. He'd wanted to please others to prove he could, or to prove he could give them more pleasure than they could give him.
But pleasing Belle felt only natural and necessary, and when she twisted her hips a little and pushed back at him and moaned, her pleasure was a beautiful thing in itself.
He thrust again, and sank deeper, and grunted in shocked ecstasy. Every cynical mote of his nature told him that sex was sex, that he'd do just as well masturbating.
And a tear spilled down his cheek as he moved out and then deeper inside her again and he wanted this, just like this with Belle, forever.
One more slow push and he was utterly flush with her, all his length buried inside, and Belle made a little sound in the back of her throat. Rumplestiltskin held himself still, stunned with contentment at being permitted to possess her so completely, in no hurry to move.
Gently he stroked her with his fingers, rubbing gently until he found the swollen hot little bead in its nest of flesh. She winced at a direct touch, but cried out and ground her hips back against him when he found the ridge above and stroked firmly up and down its length. Plump damp flesh pressed either side of his finger and his fingertip rode that taut buried stem.
She moaned and shuddered as he touched her there, and when he used his fingertip to play the hood in swerves and flourishes, as if polishing a jewel, she wailed and bucked and around his cock her cunt clenched tight and tighter, tight and tighter.
Rumplestiltskin's breath rushed out of him in an exultant "Hah – " and he clamped her hard to him as she writhed and whimpered and quivered exquisitely around his cock.
He kept stroking her, wanting this delicate power over her to last forever, but finally she clutched at his wrist. "Give – give me a moment – " she begged.
He slid his hand away, nuzzled his face into her neck and tasted the new tang of salt sweat on her skin. "Shall I – " he offered, starting to shift back. His arousal was delicious and agonizing, but if she asked he would spill himself on the sheets happily to prove his control over this reviled body.
"No. Gods no, you're perfect there," she whispered, breathless, "You're lovely there. Gods, you're inside me. Just give me a moment."
So he laid there, and held her, until she shifted again, hips pulling only briefly away before pressing back to take him fully again. "Now move. Let me feel you."
And when he did, when he thrust into her, she laughed, not jeering and taunting him, but a laugh of breathless happy approval. It was practically applause.
Rumplestiltskin thrust again, and again, and every one was met with her body rocking to meet him and her little sounds as if he were a shock and a delight.
Soon he was bucking faster, groaning. Her body was luxurious, decadent, lovely, and in the end he had to roll her forward, half under him in his desperation to be buried as deep as he could. His body spasmed and shuddered and a sting of terrible pleasure was followed with a bloom of hot rose-colored contentment that left him rag-limp, melted onto her, feeling that he might melt into her.
It took a very long time before he had control enough over his limbs to shift off her, both of them catching their breath as his cock slipped all the way out. Rumplestiltskin reached to switch off the light she'd turned on, and then he tugged at her shoulder until she rolled to her back and he kissed her mouth in the dark, so slow and sweet and deep, as if he could lick at the source of her beautiful sweetness.
He dragged his mouth away and kissed her breasts, shifted down to kiss her sodden hot cunt, until she was giggling wildly and tugging him back up, and they kissed some more, both chuckling for no reason but stupid happiness.
Finally he rested his forehead against hers. "You'll stay, here." He'd given her a bedroom of her own, the previous nights, now the thought she might sleep elsewhere was cold and harsh.
She pecked kisses on either cheek, then on his forehead. "In my bed in the cell, that was the sweetest part, you know, the saddest part, drifting off after, and that moment when I was just close enough to sleep I could dream I was holding you in my arms, all the night through."
He held her close. He didn't want her frightened. He wanted the rest of the world terrified, but not her. So he couldn't let her know how he was churning inside with murder and vengeance and love.
"Of course I'll stay," she finished, "Gods, hold me, just hold me and this time I'll wake up and it'll be true." She was shaking a little now. "Please let this be true."
So she fell asleep with her face tucked into his neck and his arms holding her close, and he could not leave to stab justice or whip redress or bombard recompense on the sleeping world. He would stay here, and give her what she wanted, while still she wanted him.
He would hold her to him for as long as he could preserve this. And Rumplestiltskin was a man of great cunning, a man of great power. There were tricks he could turn. He would fight, and scheme, and one day he would succeed, and one day, triumphant and unassailable, he would no longer feel his love curdling with the cold terror of losing her.
One year before the curse
This is a traveler’s tale: In one clearing in the Infinite Forest there are a wide unclouded pool and a graceful spreading willow. The pool is fed by a tiny bubbling spring that arcs water feebly towards the willow. The willow’s long dragging branches swing softly toward the pool when there is a breeze. In the pool there is a naiad who cannot leave her water. In the tree there is a dryad who cannot leave her wood. They reach for each other, and cannot touch. The clearing stands in a sweet haze of love and sorrow.
Rumplestiltskin went there once.
He wandered often, in those days, when his castle had once more become dark and cold and empty. He’d heard a traveller’s tale of what the pool might do, and afterward he went back to find the traveller and mete out appropriate punishment for getting it wrong. That whole caravan of travellers made a pretty flock of blackbirds, and the blackbirds made a fine pie.
It was autumn, and as Rumplestiltskin watched, the first golden leaf of the willow released itself from one drooping branch and spun, and fell to touch the water. Rings of ripple spread from it and there were two sighs of longing and ecstasy and sorrow.
Rumplestiltskin watched his reflection in the moving water.
When it cleared, the traveller had said, he would see the thing he most wanted to see.
Bae, he willed it, Bae where he was now. Let him see the city or the wood or the fields, let him see his son’s face, surely changed with years. Let him know where he would go, once the curse had come and gone.
And he did see Baelfire’s face. But it was the face he knew, the face of a child. Baelfire as a boy, sitting at their table, firelight making his skin red-gold.
In the image, Rumplestiltskin was sitting at the table too, his old self, the pathetic little man with no power.
In the image, both of them looked up and smiled to see someone come in.
Rumplestiltskin winced back from the image, not wanting to see Milah again, not ever. And so he nearly missed the sweet heart-shaped face, the eyes like light on seawater.
In the image, Belle dropped a kiss on Baelfire’s head as she walked past and then settled herself on the lap of the ugly little man at the table and they were both smiling, laughing, as they kissed, kissed, kissed.
What he’d wanted most to see.
This is a traveller’s tale: In the Infinite Forest there stands a wide clear space of earth blasted black. In that space there is no water and no trees will grow. When wind blows through that place ashes swirl amid the bones of two skeletons. Both are damaged, blackened and broken, and they are tangled together as if, before some fury turned them to steam and kindling, the naiad and the dryad were given a moment in each other’s arms. The clearing stands in a haze of ash and loss.
Rumplestiltskin went there once.