#rumbelle secret santa

[thestraggletag]

Gluttony, a RSS Fic

Surprise, @tickletorso, it is I, your Secret Santa! Here to wish you some early tidings of joy and bring a little smut to this festive season. I hope things there are ok (I read that the weather is awful right now, so I hope you're coping!) and that you're getting the finishing touches there for the holidays. Here is my present, which wrote itself so I absolve myself of any guilt regarding it. It just came out like that. Hope you enjoy, though!

Summary: Mr Gold had always fancied the idea of running into Belle French, the posh new town librarian, at an elegant party, wearing a designer dress and sitting next to him to share a fancy meal. The reality was, he had to admit, not quite how he had pictured it.

Ever since Regina Mills had won her first election as mayor of Storybrooke she had always had at least one scheme in the works. Her first success had been bringing back the Miner’s Day Festival, an inconsequential local celebration that, he had to admit, had turned out to be good to attract some nearby tourism. A few years later she had followed her initial hit with an expansion of the local hospital, a very popular idea by any measure, and later with the reopening of the local library. That last little bit had been good to boost real estate prices, so he had actually supported her actively. And just last year she had overseen the construction of a new playground, just in time for her adopted toddler son, a lovely little chap by all accounts, unlike his adopted mother, to enjoy it.

Sadly for the library, and the librarian, Regina’s love-affair with the public building had lasted about as long as it had taken her to understand what a drag keeping it open was to her carefully-curated budget. Royce Gold wasn’t really surprised about it. Regina tended to be, sadly, a bit short-sighted when it came to her ambitious pursuits, and dismissive of what no longer appealed to her.

Her latest scheme- some expensive vanity redecoration project aimed at “elevating” the town from solid middle-class to upper-middle-class or, even better, upper-class- had recently gone over budget, and Regina had not managed to bully the town council- bully him, mostly- to let her have use of discretionary funds. Instead, she had managed to divert funds allocated to fixing the library’s leaky roof to compensate for what money she was missing. 

Royce didn’t care much about that latest obsession of hers. Motherhood had made her ruthless in the pursuit of the sort of perfection that was finally good enough for her wee bairn. Nevermind that Henry looked like a happy, healthy, well-adapted little chap who wasn’t lacking anything that a posher town could potentially offer. Regina, however, was blind to such things and had made the betterment of Storybrooke’s social class her newest quest. She had tried to approach him as an ally first, convinced that he would see the benefits of her way of thinking. She was wrong, of course. He didn’t see the appeal in turning the town into some cookie cutter suburban monstrosity. He rather liked Storybrooke the way it was. He had selected it specifically because of its inconsequential small-town charm, and saw no need to change that. He didn’t mind having to go out of town when he fancied something less mundane or to order from outside whatever extravagant tastes might strike his fancy. Storybrooke was sleepy and quiet, and though there was definitely room for improvement, he didn’t want to change the essence of it. Small, charming and sometimes even a bit unsavoury. 

Places like The Rabbit Hole made him nostalgic for the run-down pubs he used to frequent back in Glasgow, when he was an uneducated street urchin with more ambition than sense. Regina didn’t see that in him, or chose to ignore it, thinking that whatever barbarism remained in him from his rough upbringing was a flaw he would be eager to cleanse or conceal, eager to welcome more people of “his class” in town to cover whatever filth still clung to him.

She was wrong, of course. Royce Gold wasn’t a man to lie to himself. He saw no point in it, no gain. He knew who he was, what he was. A bastard son of no one from the dodgy part of an already dodgy city. No polishing or education, both of which he had strived to get, would ever erase that, nor did he want it gone. He had grappled with the notion for years as he pulled himself out of misery one deal at a time, but he had learned to embrace it in the end. He could pretend, put on Armani and Brioni and enjoy a good bottle of Scotch, turning his head at the swill he had once upon a time guzzled down gladly, but inside he was still that small child who had grown up on the streets, grifting and fighting for whatever he wanted to own and keep. And he liked it. He liked the edge it gave him. How desperation and need had sharpened him, like a dagger. 

The mayor was blind to it, but he knew well that a bit of savagery still clung to him, coiling beneath his expensive suits. He had just learned to channel it into deal-making and, perhaps, the very occasional bout of violence. Just a little beating here and there to relieve the stress, and only ever with good reason. Like that time he had rendered Keith Nott unconscious after he had found him accosting the librarian.

His thoughts turned towards her. Isabelle French. Belle French. Belle. Not a small town girl by any means, and yet, against all odds, she fit in perfectly. She was a strange gust of fresh air, ruffling the stale stillness of the town with her quirkiness and her cultured background. He knew a posh lass when he saw one and Belle French was definitely posh. A lavish wee bird, the kind that he had never been allowed near when he was young. Private-school educated, with a fancy degree from Cambridge and a rather expensive wardrobe. The kind that only people who knew quality could appreciate, no flashy branding or ostentatious touches. But he had an eye for beauty and quality, and could easily tell her clothing was too rich for most people’s blood. Her shoes alone were decadent, and her good taste he knew was acquired from a lifetime of being around the finer things in life. She had been to his shop and correctly identified several of the most valuable antiques, which would not have appeared so to the untrained eye. 

And yet. And yet she had no trouble drinking with the miners, whose rough manners and bawdy jokes she took in stride and who she could, apparently, drink under the table. She had no trouble striking a friendship with Miss Lucas, whose outrageous fashion sense and reputation sometimes scared people away, or with Gus Souris, the shy mechanic who had a rather unearned reputation for aggression after Sidney Glass, who ran the local gossip rag on the side when he was not trying to look respectable as the editor of the Storybrooke Mirror, had blown a minor bar fight- where Mr Mius had been the victim- out of proportion in order to embellish a story. She also seemed intent on participating in all the trite small town affairs Storybrooke had to offer. She had carved a space for herself, in spite of her quirkiness, out of sheer force of will. 

He had tried to tell himself at first that all he felt for her was admiration. For how she refused to cow to Regina, or pretended she didn’t understand Mother Superior’s unsubtle jibes at her reputation for wearing short skirts or hanging around undesirable people. Then he told himself that he was a man with eyes and as such he could recognise that Belle French was, objectively speaking, an attractive woman. In the way he liked the most, disarmingly wee, with reddish-brown hair and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. With a sort of effortless elegance that could not be feigned, or copied. She was gorgeous, and he had no problem admitting that. The sort of lass too good for the likes of him.

But at some point he had to come to the painful realisation it wasn’t just her looks. Belle French, if possible, was more beautiful on the inside than she was on the outside. Genuinely kind, volunteering at the animal shelter and lending her ear to whoever had a problem and her hand to anyone who needed help. And intelligent too, not just a bleeding heart with good intentions. With a unfeigned thirst for knowledge and almost obsessive when it came to books and all the wonders that they entailed. He had been smitten by their third conversation, and in love by their fifth. He had gotten a library card only so he could check out books in order to see her, though he had to admit that her book recommendations, along with the improvements she had made to the selection of books in the library, caught his attention as well. 

Being in love with Belle French soon became the new normal for him and he told himself nothing needed to come out of it. Through some bizarre miracle the librarian seemed to consider him a friend and did not object to his sporadic visits to the library, often engaging him in conversation and keeping him for longer than he had planned to stay. And she visited him at his shop too, not necessarily to buy something but to inspect any new treasures he might have acquired. And, like the fool he was, he obliged her every time. It was nice, he told himself. And harmless. As long as he didn’t get any silly ideas about where their relationship stood and did not push things further than what was appropriate it would be fine.

He had so internalised his feelings that he barely felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach when he entered the library and saw Miss French shelving books, wearing a lovely Valentino dress in dark blue wool tweed, with flesh-coloured tights and a cardigan to ward off the chill, a wine-red hairband keeping her faintly-bronze curls off her face. Perfection, as always, and he could let himself admire it because he was in control of himself and his emotions.

He was. As long as he did her best to not look at her sleek Santoni ankle-length boots, of course. He knew his limits, after all, and his weaknesses. His disproportionate fondness for her shoes was the biggest chink in his armour. 

Like always her eyes lit up when she saw him, a delightful smile spreading across her lips. She smelt like vanilla and bergamot, with a subtle aftertaste of jasmine, a perfect winter scent. He hoped that he was not smiling as hard as he felt he was.

“Mr Gold, how nice to see you! It’s been a while since you’ve ventured into my library. How are you?”

He liked how she called it her library, like that little possessive flair in her.

“I was about to ask you the same. I heard about Regina’s latest stunt and thought I would inquire as to how bad things are.” Anyone else would have likely accused him of behaving like a shark smelling blood in the water. But not Belle French.

“It’s kind of you to ask. I wish I could say the roof could keep for a couple of months till the next budgetary meeting, but it won’t last the winter. Marco confirmed it yesterday. I’ll have to get the cash quickly, somehow. I have a bit of a supplementary income”- he had always suspected so, given her clothes and shoes “but it’s nowhere near enough for something like this. And I have savings, but I’d hate to dip into them. My mamam always stressed the importance of having savings.”

Ah, yes, Colette French, who apparently had been, in fact, French. She had told him early on that she had passed when she was still young, and small stories about her. A lovely woman and a devoted mother, apparently. He rather envied her that.

“I-I might have an alternative for you, then. An offer.” He paused, wanting to get things right. Wanting to get his offer right. “I could, perhaps, be persuaded to lend you the money, at a reduced interest rate, something negligible. After all-” He paused, feeling like he was coming across as too eager- “The library is good for the town’s real estate. Keeping it open works in my best interest. It’s just good business, you see.” Yes, that was good. Sounded convincing and appropriately self-serving.

“That’s a lovely offer, but I’m not looking to make a deal.” Belle smiled up at him, with not one ounce of distrust or fear, which took a bit of the sting out of her rejection. “I’m picking up a temporary job that pays really well, so I’ll just have to dip into my savings a tiny bit, I’ll make it up in no time after the holidays.”

He flexed his fingers around the handle of his cane, feeling a sudden and acute rage towards Regina. The library had been her project, and as the mayor it was her responsibility to make sure the town’s buildings were properly maintained. And yet she got to swan around in pursuit of whatever new fad took her fancy and it was Belle French who had to sacrifice her time and effort to make sure Storybrooke got to keep and enjoy the many essential public services the library provided.

“As a librarian you’re paid by the town to work at the library, not the other way around. And your hours are already ridiculous, cannot imagine they leave much room for anything, let alone a side-gig.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s temporary, and a friend’s father owns the business, so I know I’ll be comfortable. I know what the library means to the people around here, so I’ll do whatever I can to keep it open.”

Whatever she could, apparently, did not involve making a deal with him. Which he was not going to take personally. At all. 

“It’s also not the first time I’m left scrambling for a bit of cash. Once, when I was in uni, my dad got into a bit of trouble so I got a gig as an Easter bunny for a private party. Which, I thought, would be rather charming. Only the costume was, to put it mildly, absolutely terrifying and no child wanted to get anywhere near me.”

She was a delightful storyteller, he had always thought so. Funny and engaging, both to the wee bairns that she read to several afternoons a week- he had memorised the storytime schedule so he could sneak in to “browse” and enjoy the cadence of her voice in the background as tots hanged on to her every word- and to adults. She leaned close as she told the story, pausing for dramatic effect at the right time and bursting into laughter at the end, pulling a reluctant bark of laughter out of him and looking delighted at having done so, a secretive little smile pulling at her lips. He would’ve called it flirty, if it hadn’t been directed at him.

“In the interest of looking to avoid you traumatising any more children, could I get you to reconsider my deal? It’d be the best one I’ve ever offered, some might say you’d be taking advantage of me. That would make you incredibly popular around here.”

She smiled, recognising his attempt at humour, but shook her head.

“I’ll be fine without it, I promise. Besides, I wouldn’t want a deal between us. It would… muddy things, don’t you think?”

“Of course.

He was still thinking about the library days later, as he sat behind a rented car making its way across upper Manhattan. A courageous little thing, with boundless optimism. Too good for the town she fought for and certainly too good for him. Which explained her rejection of his help. But at least that grounded him in reality, reminded him where they stood. No use longing for more.

With that finite thought he tried to relax and ready himself for the little soiree he was about to attend. He had dressed himself with care, knowing the subtle power play behind a well-tailored, black Kiton suit paired with an understated Gucci shirt and a bold tie and pocket square combo for a splash of brashness. It was his battle uniform, of as much use to him as his brass knuckles had been when he was a young lad. And to him this evening was akin to a fight.

Though people in Storybrooke thought his money came from his real estate portfolio and his profitable deals, those were mostly ways to maintain himself on top of the power structure of Storybrooke, above whatever elected official- Regina Mills, as of late- occupied the mayorship at the time. His real money came from deals, yes, but those he helped broker between companies behind closed doors in the business world. Some of the biggest mergers, take-overs or joint ventures of the past years had happened because he had acted as the middle-man, making the necessary introduction, ironing out the terms for both parties, smoothing over any perceived wrinkle. He used to actively seek those deals, when he was younger and looking to make his fortune. Nowadays he had to make himself attend a few society parties to be seen and perhaps approached, or at least partially propositioned, and he would decide later whether the deal was sweet enough for him to get involved in. Otherwise he would return to Storybrooke and bask in the simplicity of it. Another reason why he didn-t want things to change. He had sought the town out as a retreat from the corporate world, a place of escape where he could disappear until it was time to show up at another party.

He had come to this one mostly as a favour to the hostess. Corinne Deville was a longtime… frenemy, he supposed, who he kept in touch nowadays mostly so she could be his eyes and ears around the city. She knew everyone worth knowing on the island and her parties, at least, were never dull, stale business affairs. She liked to be a bit outrageous and had the money to pull it off. And she always had good booze and a lot of it, which was enticement enough. He rather thought a rooftop party in early December was a bit of a bold choice, but Corrie was like that, and the Peninsula Hotel, though not his first choice for a Manhattan stay, was acceptable. 

He arrived fashionably late, so that everyone could see him as he came in. That way he didn’t need to do the rounds and he got to see who was looking at the entrance, as if waiting for someone, and swiftly turned around and avoided eye contact when they saw him, as if afraid to look too eager or interested. Those people would inevitably approach him at some point in the evening. All he had to do was get himself a drink, something to eat, and seat himself somewhere off to a side, looking vaguely approachable. 

But first, he needed to greet the host. Corrie wasn’t one to play hard to get, thankfully, rather effusively swanning over to him to give him her customary two kisses on the air just next to his cheeks. She looked amazing, wearing a black-red orchid mermaid-style Alexander McQueen, with a voluminous stole to protect her naked shoulders from the nippy Manhattan winter air. She was clearly already drunk, yet she almost didn’t look it, managing to walk gracefully in spite of the alcohol and the cumbersome shape of her dress. He knew her too well not to notice the way her eyes were just a bit redder than usual, or the way her grip on her glass was just the slightest bit unstable. Besides, she was holding a Martini, which was usually her third drink, right after a Gimlet and a Tom Collins. 

“Royce, dah-ling, so thrilled to have you join my little party.” She smiled, all teeth, like a predator showing its weapons, and ushered him to the bar. “I’ve ordered that expensive Scotch you like to drink, had it brought specially for you. Never say I don’t do things for you. And there is… a lovely and a bit risqué food arrangement, do try it. Some very good, very expensive sushi, with a rather spectacular presentation specially commissioned for this get-together.”

He glanced to a corner of the terrace, where he could see some tables laid out, with a rather large number of people around them. 

“Some interesting antique set, perhaps?”

“Rather the opposite, dahling.”

She left him once they reached the bar and, almost against his will, he found himself curious as to what surprise Corrie had prepared for this particular evening. He asked for his Scotch, a 25-year-old Glenmorangie Signet that he hoped Corrie hadn’t blabbed about to anyone else, so he wouldn’t have to share- and sauntered over to the tables set up with the sushi, noticing again the inordinate amount of people lingering around them. Most of them, he noticed, were men.

He understood then when he spotted a foot peeking from behind a wall of people, naked and attached to what looked like an equally-naked calf. He got the gist of it right away. After all, it was hardly a novelty, though he couldn’t recall ever attending a party where sushi had been served in such a way. It was Nyotaimori, the practice of serving sushi on top of a naked woman, a fad from the 60’s born from the economic bonanza of the era in Japan and inspired by some much older Japanese food-play practices having to do with sake rather than sushi. Rather trite, in his opinion, but allowed for a bit of harmless titillation without it actually being very boundary-breaking. Something right up Corrie’s ally, risqué enough to make her party memorable but not too taboo that would get her exiled from the Manhattan social scene.

He grabbed a plate and slowly made his way along the tables, barely seeing the skin on display. It didn’t interest him much, though he was glad to see the entire thing was done in a rather tasteful fashion, with not only the bare bits of modesty guaranteed but also with somewhat of an artistic flair. The models’ important areas were covered by lovely bits of greenery and flowers- and bless Corrie for avoiding the mistletoe and holly typical of the season in favour of something less hackneyed- but there was a theme and a colour palate, with bits of the skin on displayed painted to imitate the swirling brushstrokes of vaguely-oriental designs in different shades, depending on the model. 

A glint of gold caught his eye as he added his twelfth piece of sushi to his plate, a model painted in delicate shades of his namesake and blue, which, along with her creamy complexion, reminded him of a porcelain tea set he had at his shop. The colour palate complimented her hair rather nicely, a rather fetching shade of red-brown that reminded him of Belle French.

Rather a lot, actually.

Come to think of it, the model’s softly-blushed skin was also the exact shade of the librarian’s. And she also had a beauty mark on her left inner-thigh, close enough to her knee to be seen when she wore some of her more flirty skirts during spring and summer. He staggered close, almost losing his grip on his plate, his eyes refusing to acknowledge what they were seeing as truth. It was fucking Belle French. Naked. On top of a table. With delicious food spread over her, ready to be plucked and eaten. Surreptitiously, Royce pinched himself. No, not a dream. Sounded a lot like a dream, but no.

After the initial shock wore off- and he managed to pull himself together the slightest bit- he forced himself to think about his choices. Should he approach her? Would it be awkward, would she be embarrassed? He didn’t want to shame her in any way, especially given that this was clearly the temp gig she had gotten to help pay for repairs to the library. And what would it mean for their future relationship? Would this damage whatever small relationship they had? He rather liked their little talks and their small everyday interactions. But she might not want to interact with him much at all if she knew he had seen her naked.

As straight-out-of-his-fucking-fantasies a naked Belle French on top of a table slattered with food was, it was not worth risking the everyday Belle French he got to enjoy every day. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so he could quietly slip away and she would be none the wiser. She seemed distracted by the people around her, mostly young men, circling her like vultures, spending too much time deciding on what piece of sushi to take, pretending to be musing over the selection while their eyes drifted towards her covered breasts. Insolent little things, trying to engage her in talk while the librarian struggled not to make eye contact and keep a placid expression without making it look like she was inviting their advances. She was also trying not to fidget as a man used his chopsticks to try and move a leaf covering her lower right breast under the guise of trying to pick a piece of nigiri. Where the fuck was Corrie and why was she letting something like that happen? Hadn’t any of those wannabe executives learned basic manners? Or the barest notion of consent?

The cherry on top of that absolute clusterfuck was a tall, brawny fellow- someone’s favoured son, no doubt, the lad didn’t look like he could count to ten by himself-, some junior VP that distantly rung a bell, pretending to be too clumsy with the chopstick to try and pick up a piece of maki with his bare hands. The moment he saw Belle flinch at the touch of the man’s fingers he decided that enough was really enough. His cane came out a second later, smacking the offending hand away as he told the eejit, in his most Scottish tone, to keep his hands to himself. The idiot looked like he was going to protest before he realised whose cane that was. Looking like he would rather be chewing glass, but also like he might be shitting his pants, the oaf apologised, quickly scurrying off. He smiled with thinly-veiled satisfaction, setting his cane back by his side.

“Mr Gold?”

He turned to look at Miss French, making sure his eyes never strayed from her face, both to convey that he was not looking at her nude body and to try and read carefully any emotion flickering across her eyes. She didn’t look uncomfortable, to his surprise, at least not more than she had before she had noticed him there. Rather she looked cheery, as she always did with him, and more than a bit relieved. He noticed that most other youngsters fluttering around her had gone along with the big lummox, likely scared off by his presence.

“It’s so lovely to see you!”

“It is?”

The librarian laughed, one of her hands reaching out to touch his on top of his cane.

“Of course. Under rather peculiar circumstances, but it’s nice to see a familiar face here.”

And of course it was. She was naked in a party full of strangers, some of them entirely devoid of manners. Seeing a familiar face, someone who could intercede in her favour since she was limited in her actions by her circumstances, was a comfort. And to have someone like him, who could instil fear into people’s hearts even more so. Which meant he had to stay. He could not leave her exposed to whatever lech or overconfident idiot who decided to let his small prick do the thinking.

“It is rather lovely to see you, Miss French. I do so enjoy our talks, and I had resigned myself to a rather dull evening of empty platitudes and boring business talk. Would you mind if I sat next to you?”

She didn’t seem to object, her eyes reflecting pleasure instead of panic, though she did glance around and confessed she wasn’t supposed to talk to the guests.

“Corrie won’t mind, she’ll be delighted I’m sticking around for longer than I intended. Don’t worry.”

It took him a moment to signal for a waiter to get him a chair, sitting right next to the librarian’s head, his glass of Scotch by her hip and his plate of sushi in his hands. He sat himself at an angle so that he could both look at her in the eye and also glare at any passerby that even thought about approaching Belle, a bit like an old dragon guarding his hoard or, if he tried to look at things in a more benign way, guarding the fair princess. He had amassed a fearsome enough reputation with the present crowd to foresee little trouble staking his claim.

He had prepared himself for an awkward evening, telling himself he would endure the discomfort for Miss French’s own ease, but he had been mistaken. It was surprisingly easy to “get over” her nudity. Being so close to Belle while she was wearing nothing- with bits of her bare skin painted the colour of his namesake- was still intoxicating as hell, but he managed to quickly reign in that sensation and store it somewhere in his subconscious to deal with it at a later date- no doubt in nightly fantasies for weeks, if not months, to come. 

He had always thought her attractive to the point of distraction, but it was her mind and her conversation that had always kept him coming back. It was lovely to have her “all to himself” for so long. Their library interludes were always cut short by a patron or some crisis, and she tended to visit his shop during her brief afternoon break right before school ended, which meant she could never stay for longer than twenty minutes. But here she was free, with no one to claim her time and attention but himself, and after a few failed attempts at starting a conversation- she was nude, after all, and he could not imagine himself being very socially graceful in her position- she managed to engage him in a light-hearted discussion about books, starting with a ranking of books by Thomas Hardy based on how depressive they were, both agreeing to put in first place Tess D’Urbervilles  but squabbling good-natured about second place. He maintained the honour went to The Woodlanders, while she argued strongly in favour of Jude, the Obscure.

It was a much more engaging discussion than it had any right to be, mostly thanks to the librarian’s sincere passion for the subject, combined with her extensive knowledge. He saw how effortlessly cultured she was, and how at ease she was amongst the wealthy and privileged, even while wearing nothing but a skimpy thong and some strategically-placed foliage and paint. A posh bird like had often admired from afar as a lad, a perfect fit among the Upper East side crowd around them. And yet she wasn’t snobbish like a lot of them where, or like one would expect someone like her to be. She wasn’t putting on airs or feigning interests. She was as she presented herself to be, her manners effortless instead of artificially refined and her intellect sharp from curiosity rather than a need to boast. But it was her generous spirit what was more fetching about her. A sincere concern for anyone that crossed her path, from a drunk miner to a grumpy, misanthrope pawnbroker who no one else liked.

Even when he attempted to do something for her- it was cold out, so he managed to talk a poor waiter into bringing some of the spare braziers he knew the hotel had in abundance and had distributed generously already to the nearby tables were people were sitting and talking, so that she would be more comfortable. She had thanked him and immediately insisted that she didn’t need as many as he wanted to light around her, telling him to distribute them amongst the other living displays as well.

“It’s not fair that they should go cold just because they don’t have a guardian angel to look after them like I do.”

Time passed without him noticing. He waved away the few people stupid enough not to correctly read his body language and try to approach him for conversation, having decided that it wasn’t a night prime for dealmaking like he had previously intended. Instead it was a night for talking about literature and the places they had been, recalling anecdotes from their college years and in general sharing bits about their lives. It was the most he had ever shared of himself with another person, more intimate than Belle’s nudity. She told him about her mother, and how she had come from money. Old money. But she had fallen in love with an Aussie with more ambition than wealth, and had moved to the ends of the world to be with him. Later he had proven himself, building a successful business and allowing her a childhood spent half in Australia and half in Europe with her mom and her grandparents. 

But Moe French’s entrepreneurial spirit did not survive his wife’s death, and so he had let his business languish. Her mother, who had fretted for her only daughter’s future during the last months of her life, had set up a considerable trust fund, which had allowed her to go to college in England for her undergrad and graduate degree. And later, when her mother’s parents had passed away, she had inherited a modest investment portfolio, which accounted for the few luxuries she allowed herself as a small town librarian.

He, in turn, shared as much as he could stomach about his rather sordid upbringing. An unwanted mongrel, son of a mother who he never knew and a father he would rather forget. Left behind by both at a young age, to beg, borrow and steal a life for himself. It wasn’t until he had come into contact with distant relatives- two of his father’s cousins, who lived modestly but honestly outside of Glasgow, that he had been given a chance to settle, to get an education. Still, he had learned bad habits that had been difficult to break and he had continued with them in his new life, brawling for cash, gambling and doing unsavoury jobs to raise the money needed to get his law degree. It should have made him uncomfortable to expose their stark differences in upbringing and breeding, but there was nothing but understanding and compassion in Belle’s eyes, something he would’ve mistaken for pity if he didn’t know her well.

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me. It must not have been easy.”

They were so enthralled in their own little world that they both startled when they began to clear the tables in preparation for dessert. It was to be a selection of fruits and tarts, served in the same style.

“But before there’ll be a bit of a break, mostly so that us models can walk about a bit and freshen up. Will you be here when I come back?”

The way she said it, with a hopeful lilt, looking at him from beneath her lashes, had him nodding effusively. Wild horses could not drag him away. He did think the idea of walking around sounded good, and he wanted to refresh his drink. While he was at the bar he had the idea to request a glass of ice water and a straw, so he could offer Belle a drink if she was thirsty while she worked. While he waited, not minding that the bartender was a bit busy at the moment, he felt someone approach from behind, one boney, well-manicured hand sliding up his shoulder. He smelt smoke, and considered himself lucky that the hand currently slipping something into the pocket of his suit jacket wasn’t the one holding Corrie’s trademark long cigarette holder.

“I’m so thrilled you’re still here, darling. And given how you’ve been spending the evening so far I thought I would give you a present. One you’ll like, for a change.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, knowing Corrie was looking intently at him, he fished whatever she had put into his pocket out. It was a sleek keycard, one from the Peninsula.

“As an admirer of fine, beautiful things I thought you might want a more… private setting where to study your latest find. I would not usually condone it, but she seemed so willing, so strangely… receptive of your attention, that I thought it might not go amiss to get you a room for the night. You know, just in case you’re too tired or hungover to go back home safely, of course.”

He could see her grin out of his peripheral vision, something feral with a hint of madness that summed up Corinne perfectly. He rolled his eyes, affecting an unaffected manner, knowing it would piss her off not to get a rise out of him.

“Corrie, I wish you’d stop after the fifth drink. Once you get into the gin tonics you grow somewhat fanciful.”

“Be that way. Keep your secrets. I’m not here to interrogate you, dear. Just doing my one good deed of the year before time runs out. I was cutting it rather close.”

With that she sauntered off, but he paid her no mind. Let her think whatever she wanted. He knew it wasn’t like what she was implying with Belle. They were just two friends, or friendly acquaintances, though perhaps that was too distant in light of all the bits of themselves they had shared with each other that night. But still, nothing like Corrie was suggesting, nothing unseemly, just two people having a friendly and thoughtful con-

Fuck.

Belle was back. They had laid her down on her stomach this time around, a few gauzy bits of nothing covering her incredible ass from his view, her head pillowed in her arms, which meant he could see the soft curve of the side of a small, perfect breast. Along her delicate spine and sloping shoulders someone had arranged bits of fruit, bombons and bite-sized tarts. He narrowed his eyes, swearing he could hear Corinne’s shrill laughter in the background.

He took a deep breath, shaking his head. He was not some slobbering animal. And Belle was a lady. He would keep it together, would march there and pretend nothing was amiss. Would not give the perfection before him a second glance. When he sat down he focused on Belle’s face, the way her eyes lit up when she spotted him, no doubt grateful to have her protector return and keep the mannerless young men from before at bay. When he offered her some water, shyly, she beamed at him, as if he had offered her the moon.

“You’re so kind, Mr Gold. And such a gentleman.”

His ears burned at hearing Belle fucking French, with her exotic accent and posh manners, call him a gentleman. He had to force himself not to preen. 

“Please, call me Royce.”

“Only if you call me Belle, as I’ve told you to do before.”

She gratefully sipped at the water offered, making a pleased sound in the back of her throat that threatened to go straight to his groin. Thankfully he was sitting down, which allowed him a bit of coverage. With herculean effort he sought to resume their conversation, which had moved on to a rather spirited debate on the merits of the different adaptations of Around the world in 80 days.

They were in the middle of comparing Cantinflas and Eric Idle’s Passepartouts when the librarian fidgeted the slightest bit, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s the matter? Are you unwell? Do you need me to call someone?”

Belle sighed, shaking her head.

“I’m just hungry. They had to retouch my body paint a lot when I took a break, so I never got to eat any of the power bars I brought specially for that purpose. And it’s not helping that whatever they’ve put on me smells rather heavenly. It’s strange to be literally brimming with food and yet unable to eat.”

He had to agree with her about the food. It smelled amazing, the bombons nestled inside foil wrappers to protect them from her skin’s warmth- warmth he was very specifically trying hard to think about– and the pieces of fruit, cut and arranged into fanciful, artistic shapes, glistened in the dim light of the terrace, looking beyond succulent.

“I could- I could feed you if you wish. It’d be no problem.”

‘It’d be all sorts of problems, but oh so worth it.’

“Oh, you wouldn’t mind? Because that would be lovely.”

“What would you like?”

“I saw some lovely raspberry tarts and some Royce nama chocolate squares that looked amazing. Just not dark chocolate please, I can’t stand it.”

“More for me then.”

Gingerly, making extremely sure he did not touch her skin at all if possible, he picked up a few selections of sweets, arranging them into a plate so she could pick and choose what she wanted. When she made a selection he made sure to hold it out to her so she could bite into it without worrying about his fingers, though he still felt the phantom touch of her breath on his skin even when he tried his best to get himself out of the way. It was a heady, altogether surreal experience: the closeness, the trust, the implied intimacy of the gesture. A dream fucking come true, as far as Royce was concerned, the single most erotic moment of his life and it was happening in public. He had come to the party with the intention of testing the waters for new deals and he would leave it empty-handed and yet a changed man.

‘Best. Night. Ever.’

But as nice as it was, it couldn't last forever. He tried to pretend at first he did not see the signs, the way the crowd around them began to dwindle down, the waiters passing around with trays laden with champagne flutes, offering a “last round”. The writing was on the wall even before he saw the first of the “living displays”, the one closest to the exit, being taken away. Still, neither moved or made a comment about things coming to an end, not even when Belle was the last model left out. 

At some point, however, they had to acknowledge that something was happening, because the waiters were beginning to clear the tables, the bar was getting ready to close, and no one had come for Belle. She seemed puzzled by it, but he imagined it had something to do with the fact that no one had wanted to bother him. Perhaps Corrie had said something, or perhaps his reputation had done the talking. Either way it was unacceptable that Belle be made to wait, exposed in cold weather that no amount of heaters could nullify, for someone to finally come get it. He proposed he get his long overcoat so she could drape it around herself and he would escort her then back to wherever she had left her clothes and things, so that she wouldn’t have to walk around half-naked alone.

He loathed to leave her, but there was no choice. He hurried to the coat room, commanding the attention of the poor sod running up and down fetching coats, and managed to get his long Zegna cashmere coat in no time. Pleased with his expedience he rushed back, pausing when he noticed that something wasn’t right. Belle was still in the far corner of the terrace where he had left her, but she had scrambled to a sitting position on the table, using the white tablecloth she had been lying on to cover herself as much as possible as a tall man- the lumbering idiot from hours before, now clearly drunk off his arse-  leaned close to her, one hand gripping one of her naked forearms. She was trying to shake him off, her body language screaming her discomfort and unease, but she was clearly reluctant to make a scene, the power imbalance working against her. 

Thankfully it wasn’t working against him. He felt no restraint or compunction when the urge to do violence overtook him. Thankfully he had, as always, a handy weapon as his disposal. It took one sweep of his cane, once he was close enough, to get the idiot away from her, the surprise at the unexpected blow to his side making him let go of Belle before staggering back a few paces. A few more blows had him first on his knees and later sprawled out on the floor, and only Belle’s gentle hand on the back of his jacket got him to put his cane down. With enviable nonchalance he signalled for a passing waiter, letting him know that the poor bloke on the floor had had a bit too much to drink and should be scraped off the floor and put into a cab as soon as it could be arranged.

“Right away, sir. Thank you for letting me know.”

He tried not to gloat as three people were called away from clearing the nearby tables to pick up the unfortunate young man, no one making a comment as they dragged the lummox away. Good fucking riddance. Realising that he still held his coat in his hands he turned around and swiftly draped it around Belle, noticing with pleasure that, though she had had a front scene to his violent outburst, she didn’t shy away from his touch. Rather the contrary.

“Are you alright? Was he bothering you for long? Did he say something inappropriate?”

“No, nothing like that. He was just not taking no for an answer, and looked drunk enough to try to do something stupid out in public. Thank you for taking care of him.”

Fuck, it was doing things to him that a prim and proper lass like Belle French was thanking him for behaving in a less than gentlemanly manner. Right out of his fantasies as a lad, the idea of a posh bird that would revel in his most coarse manners, in the violent habits he had had to acquire at an early age. It all threatened to go to his head or, even worse, his groin, so he forced himself to push it to the side and concentrate on Belle's immediate wellbeing. Wrapped up as she was in his coat- and fuck, did she nuzzle the lapel and take a deep breath, as if smelling his cologne in the collar of his coat?- she was clothed enough to get off the table and walk out of the terrace. He accompanied her past what was clearly a staging area for the models, given the remnants of body paint and the leaves and petals strewn on the floor, until they arrived at a large room with screens in the corners, clearly where the models had first disrobed. Only one bag was left, a Jackie Smith tote he recognised as Belle’s. He glanced around, noticing there was no place to shower, just some baby wipes packets with which he gathered the models were supposed to wipe the paint off their bodies before putting their clothes back on. Which wouldn’t do, really. Not at all.

“I-I have a room. Here at the hotel. With a shower.”

She stood there, looking waifish and small in his oversized coat, with paint still on her skin and her hair in disarray, yet even then there was an air of understated elegance about her, something in the way she carried herself. Himself, on the other hand, could not boast the same, feeling like he was sweating as he waffled on about how he got the hotel key as a prank but now she could put it to good use to shower and relax, perhaps charge ungodly amounts of room service. It would serve Corrie right to have her little joke backfire on her like that and-

He paused when he noticed how much closer Belle was than a second before. She was looking up at him with something akin to… expectation, almost, and clutching the sleeve of his suit jacket, almost afraid he would take off. There was a patience to her look, as if she was trying to coerce a shy deer to eat from her hand, and Royce’s eyes narrowed, a puzzle slowly unravelling in his mind. He recognised that look, she had worn it often around him as of late, something tinged with affectionate exasperation, as if she was waiting for him to figure something out, something that should be obvious. A nagging voice that had been whispering in the back of his mind now started yelling, telling him he was an idiot for not seeing what was right in front of him.

Could she… could she fancy him? Was that possible? Was he just so fucking dense and self-loathing that he hadn’t realise Belle fucking French was coming onto him? That she had been for a while? It sounded too much like wishful thinking to be true, but there was also no other way to account for how close the librarian was standing to him, how hopeful she seemed as she looked up at him. He froze, unwilling to accept the reality in front of him and yet unable to deny it.

Thankfully for Royce the librarian seemed to notice and understand his inner turmoil, a soft look overtaking her face before she slowly, carefully, leaned into him, standing on her tippy toes to reach him and making sure he had more than enough time to pull away in case her advances were unwelcomed.

No fucking chance of that.

The magnetic pull of her, in the end, overcame his deep-seated denial, pushing him forward, his attention drifting towards her mouth, so laser-focused on the heat and the scent radiating from her that he almost forgot where they were.

Almost.

When he did, he pulled away, babbling about how this wasn’t a private enough place for her to kiss him while wearing nothing but his overcoat. His self-restraint only went so far and his control had been close to breaking the whole evening. If she kissed him he would not be able to stop. It was a shameful confession, but Belle barely batted an eye, looking briefly deep in thought before she took one of his hands in hers.

“You mentioned you had a room, right?” He nodded dumbly, unwilling to connect the dots himself and assume she was saying what he thought she was saying. “Maybe that would be a better place for this?”

There was no mistaking her meaning, not even for someone like Royce Gold, for whom denial was an Olympic event. When she tugged at his hand he didn’t fight her, hopeless to do anything but follow behind her, vaguely dazed, having only enough presence of mind to offer to carry Belle’s bag, which she politely declined. The elevator ride seemed to take forever, even though they were going down only one floor. Corrie had given him one of the best rooms in the hotel. She never half-assed things and wasn’t known for being cheap. 

He held it together till the hotel door was firmly shut behind them, at which point he pounced on her, restraint and decorum entirely absent after four fucking hours of close, unrelenting contact with a naked Belle French. He had been good, so good, but they were behind closed doors and Belle had made it clear that she was not opposed to his advances, so whatever disguise of gentlemanliness he had created over the years was now in tatters and only the unpolished, savage beast from Glasgow remained, intent on quenching its thirst on her. He pressed her up against the hotel door, his mouth eagerly seeking hers out, pleased when she opened herself up to him eagerly, her hands going around his shoulders so they could tangle in his hair. She felt amazing against him, soft and pliant, smelling faintly of something fruity and a scent that was uniquely hers, a mixture of vanilla and the smell of a new book. It was intoxicating, and so he pressed closer, the hand not clutching his cane for dear life wrapping around her waist, resenting the fact that he could not touch her directly. He had relished the fact that she had been wrapped in his coat only minutes ago, when they were outside and she was shivering. But the room they were now in was cosy and warm, with an artificial gas fire crackling nearby. There was, therefore, no need for the librarian to remain bundled so he tugged at the fastened buttons of his coat, humming in pleasure when it was Belle herself that reached down to undo them, shimming out of the outfit altogether a second later.

He could feel her then, gloriously nude but for a scrap of skin-coloured fabric covering her cunt, soft as he had always imagined she would be, skin like silk beneath his fingertips. She didn’t seem to mind her lack of clothing, didn’t shy away from his hands or his lips when he began to explore her throat and the gentle slope of her right shoulder. She was delightfully responsive beneath him, making the softest, most devastating noises as he nipped at bits of flesh, taking care to avoid the big swatches of skin covered by the gold and blue paint.

“You don- Oh, dear Lord- you don’t have to worry about the paint. It’s edible.”

“Come again?”

He couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly.

“Yes it’s-” She sighed when he caressed her spine- “It’s chocolate paint. For safety, mostly, in case the food came into contact with it.”

He blinked, pausing a second to take stock of the situation. He was in a lavish hotel room with Belle French, who was basically naked and, apparently slathered in strategically-placed swirls of chocolate paint. And they were making out like wild beasts. This was beyond his wildest dreams, so far-fetched that it could not possibly be a figment of his imagination. Even his subconscious had limits. Reality, apparently, didn’t.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His Scottish brogue, reasserting itself as a result of the drink, the lateness of the hour and how absolutely out of his mind he was with lust, made him slur his words. “Fucking minx, been teasing me the whole bloody night. So gorgeous, so lovely to an old monster like me…”

He lost himself in the feel and smell of her, feeling starved for every bit of her he could kiss and touch. She was perfect, everything about her the right size and feel for him, as if she had been made to fit him. Her skin felt warm and soft beneath her tongue, the taste of her pairing well with the taste of chocolate from the paint, and she was delightfully responsive, no pretence or air of artifice in her as she pulled at his hair and whimpered helplessly. There was also no faking the delicious wetness between her legs, the scrap of fabric that was her flesh-coloured thong drenched to the touch. 

“Take me to bed.”

He had dreamed about Belle French telling him just that, but not even his wildest dream could have conjured up the reality of it, the way she sighed it, her hands grabbing handfuls of his hair to drag his ear against her mouth, the way it was both a plea and an order. He hastened to comply either way, manoeuvring both of them down the small hallway to the suite, where the king-sized bed stood pride of place. In the small journey there he had somehow lost his dinner jacket, the librarian’s nimble hands working on his tie, undoing the Eldredge knot with an ease that had him imagining her, wearing nothing but one of his shirts, kneeling on his bed and tying his tie, a lovely little domestic tableau with implications that set his blood on fire.

The bed at the Peninsula had standard, if luxurious, white bedding, nothing quite like his burgundy sheets and cream damask comforter, but he barely registered any of it. His senses were full of Belle, who managed to half-shove him into the bed, swiftly climbing on top of him before he could complain about their separation. She sought his mouth immediately, her fingers sinking into his hair to change the angle of the kiss just so. When she let go he whimpered, immediately missing the scratch of her nails against his scalp, but he quieted when he realised she was undoing the buttons of his shirt, having finally done away with his tie and, apparently, his belt. Crafty little thing, this lass, devious beneath her prim and proper facade. And all his, his to kiss and touch, to lay down the bed, legs dangling from the edge while he dragged that little scrap of lace generously called underwear, allowing him to see her in all of her glory. She was every bit as perfect as he had imagined, and so smooth. She was almost entirely devoid of hair from the waist down, a small strip of soft curls the only thing left. 

“So lovely.”

She was. Lush curves, smooth skin and the irresistible lure of unfettered enthusiasm. The moment he put his mouth on her she was like a livewire, practically vibrating beneath his touch, the tension and energy in her impossible to ignore. It made him feel powerful, and more than a bit smug, to know that a woman like her, who could have anyone with a look and a gesture, was trembling with barely-repressed desire because his tongue was lapping at her cunt, his hands curling around her thighs, teasing the edges of her labia. None of the young, rich assholes that had circled her like vultures before he had seen her had interested her, only him, old and crippled as he was.

It wasn’t long before he felt her tense even further, her back bowing in a perfect arc and her whimpers turning into loud moans. He thought briefly about denying her the pleasure she was building towards, to drag things out to heighten the sensations, but soon came to the conclusion he didn’t have the self-control to deny her. So when he felt her tumble close to the edge he sunk two fingers into her, the heat and pressure making his already hard cock ache. He was not going to survive her. Thankfully she came just as he thought he was going to lose the last shreds of his composure, her cries distracting him from his more pressing needs. She was beautiful when she came, as far away from the composed, prim lass he was used to seeing, wild and uninhibited. A magnificent sight to behold, one he tried hard to prolong for as long as possible. Eventually, sadly, she grew slack, almost boneless, one hand lazily combing his hair, as if he was some pampered pet who had done a good thing. The feeling was exhilarating. 

“Mmmmh, that was…” she sighed, her nails scratching against the sensitive skin of his nape. “Wonderful.”

He smiled against the supple skin of her thigh, feeling smug, like he often did after a beneficial deal being signed. He didn’t even care that he was so hard it bordered on painful, not when he could smell Belle, feel her warmth and revel in the knowledge that he had made her come apart.

“I’m cold. Come up here?”

The hand petting his hair tugged on it, leading him to crawl over to the bed after quickly discarding his pants and socks and, after a deep breath for courage, his underwear. He pretended not to notice Belle staring at his cock as he climbed on top of her, trying to distract himself with the feeling of her hands as they explored his naked back, pausing every time they encountered a scar. He had amassed a small collection of them, mostly in his late teens and early twenties, knife wounds and a couple made with glass. They were all faded, the only one standing out being the curved one on his side, product of a rusty blade he had mostly-but-not-quite managed to dodge, and the one on his right shoulder. That one had gone in deep but hadn’t been able to hit anything major. 

“Do any of them hurt?”

Belle’s voice was soft, her eyes wide and the slightest bit watery, likely imagining the pain he must have gone through to acquire each of his marks. He shook his head quickly, wanting to reassure them.

“No.” He paused, wondering if saying anything further would be oversharing. But she had to know. It would be a factor if things… progressed. “My ankle does, sometimes. When it’s raining, or I’ve been overexerting it.”

To her credit she didn’t even try to glance down, her focus entirely on his face, likely trying to read any signs of discomfort that might appear there. He kissed the hand that went to cup his face, for once not mistaking compassion for pity.

“Are you comfortable?”

At that he smirked and, daringly, he ground his hips against hers, bringing her attention to his rather desperate state.

“Not really, but my ankle doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you were asking.”

He was rewarded by a genuine laugh, easing whatever leftover bit of self-consciousness he might still have felt. He leaned down to capture her mouth, eager to devour her whole. She was delicious, still tasting of the raspberry tart he had hand-fed her, and something uniquely hers, which he had already tasted when he had delved his tongue into her cunt. But now he could also feel her beneath him, all the soft curves he had dreamed about pressing against him, her body cradling his like he was something precious. Beneath the buzzing of adrenaline and the thrill of his desires coming true there was an undercurrent of safety he was surprised to feel. He was safe with her, he knew this innately. Safe from judgement or ridicule, safe to expose those parts of him that were weak or ugly without feeling like he was ceding the high ground, leaving himself open to an attack. And that small undercurrent of safety, somehow, heightened everything else he was feeling. Allowed him to let go.

“I can practically hear you thinking, you’re doing it so loud.”

Belle’s voice, throaty from her screaming earlier, sent a shiver down his spine. He burrowed his head against her breasts, anchoring himself in the moment, and apologetically kissed the skin there. One kiss turned to two, and before he knew it he was taking one of her rosy nipples into his mouth and sucking reverently on it, like he had often imagined doing in his own home, usually after a few drinks. She was wonderfully responsive, squirming in the most delightful way, each movement sending sharp spikes through his groin and reminding him that if he didn’t manage to do something about it he was liable to explode. Luckily his lass was bold and brass, and the sort to take charge, and so when he was distracted by her lovely breasts- just the right size for his hands, and so, so soft- she moved one hand down to grasp him firmly and, with the help of a bit of shimmying, guide him to her entrance.

“Oh, fuck, I forgot to ask about…” She hissed when a startled movement made him bump her clit with the tip of his cock. “Protection. I-I mean, I’m clean and on the pill but if you want-”

He had no doubt that there were condoms in the room. It had been, after all, paid for by Corrie to unsubtly encourage him to fuck someone silly in it. The drawers of both nightstands were probably chock full of them, likely in all colours and sizes, and it would take but a moment to crawl over either one to grab what he needed. But the thought of feeling her fully was too good to pass up.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m clean too. Can I- can I really…?”

He couldn’t finish the phrase, nor take that last plunge, but before he could try to shake himself out of his stupor she draped her legs around his hips, hooking her feet right in the dip where his spine met his ass, nudging him rather unsubtly forward till he was, blessedly, balls deep into her, his cock enveloped by silky, wet heat that had him almost coming right then and there. He gritted his teeth and almost bit his tongue off in an effort to not shame himself, body tense for another reason entirely as he fought to control himself. It seemed to take forever but eventually he began to thrust, first tentatively, afraid of hurting her or discovering he hadn’t quite gotten it together as he hoped he had, but need, that itch that was growing to rule every instinct he had, slowly pushed him to go faster, to thrust harder. Belle met him move for move, canting her hips forward, her nails digging into his back in a way that should have felt painful but only enhanced the pleasure building up inside of him. She was, like before, delightfully vocal, and disarmingly demanding, telling him to go harder, to give her more.

“Insatiable little minx,” he grunted, trying not to stare at her breasts as they bounced with the force of their actions. If he got distracted he ran the risk of spending himself inside her without bringing her to orgasm at least one more time and that was unacceptable. “You’ll be the death of me.”

It felt a little bit like he was on the brink of death, of a pleasure so acute it was indistinguishable from pain. His hard-earned self-control was close to snapping and only his pride was keeping him going. Desperate to feel her flutter around him he braced his upper body on his left arm and both his knees, leaving his right hand free to trail down her stomach and dip in-between her thighs, looking for that bit of flesh that he had previously only touched with his lips and tongue. He let her cries guide his fingers, letting her gasps and keens set the pace as he stroked her slowly at first, increasing the tempo and the pressure in response to her needy demands. Finally she tensed beneath him, back arching in a perfect bow as she came, loud and uninhibited, her cunt gripping him tight as it spasmed, the feeling too much for him to bear. His orgasm was quieter, his groans muffled by her hair and skin as he pressed his head against the crook of her shoulder and spilled himself into her for what seemed like forever, a catharsis that felt both physical and mental.

Afterwards he had enough sense to collapse to the side instead of falling bonelessly on top of Belle like he had wanted to. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, and he felt cold and clammy, but a second later Belle was cuddling up to him, draping a leg over his, making sure to keep her feet away from his ankle. He drew her close, greedily seeking out her warmth and the reassurance she brought. He dared drape an arm around her, his fingers ghosting up and down one of her exposed arms.

“Any complaints?”

He kept his tone light, flippant even, but he paid attention closely to her face, trying to read her expression. She looked dishevelled and delightfully smug, satisfaction oozing out of her, stretching out like a cat in a sunspot, but then frowned, her nose wrinkling a bit. He tensed, preparing himself for whatever had put that look in her face. Maybe she was having second thoughts already?

“I’m sticky.”

“Come again?”

“From the edible paint and your valiant efforts to rid me of it. Don’t misunderstand me, it felt heavenly when you were licking the paint off but now that my skin is dry it feels… well, sticky.”

“Oh.” He shook his head, willing his blood to flow upwards to his brain again and allow him to think somewhat coherently. “I’m sure the bathroom’s facilities are more than adequate. These sort of rooms usually come with the full package, a spacious shower and a bathtub with all the bells and whistles.”

Her eyes sparkled and he patted himself in the back mentally for clearly saying the right thing.

“Oh, it’s been ages since I’ve been able to take a bath. The apartment above the library only has a rather pitiful shower stall and I love a good soak in a tub every now and then. Some bubble bath, a glass of wine and a good book… And maybe some company.”

There was no mistaking the look she shot him, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering with promises.

“You don’t suppose the bathtub here is big enough for two, do you?”

Her tone, mellow and just the littlest bit sultry, had him aflame and made his tired body reconsider the time it would take to rise to the challenge once more.

“Only one way to find out.”

[rumbellesecretsanta]

RSS 2023 Schedule

Here it is! This year’s schedule.

Sign-Up Period: Friday, November 17th - Friday, November 24th.

Assignments Sent Out: Saturday, November 25th.

Gifts Due By: from Saturday, December 23rd to Wednesday, December 27th

Once we get closer to the due date, I’ll contact all participants to ask when day they’d like to post.

I hope everyone’s having fun thinking up their prompts for the Rumbelle Secret Santa! I’m sure this year’s event is going to be another success.

[chippedcupwrites]

Giftee: @notalwayslate Merry Christmas, dearie! I have had the most fun being your Santa. I've seen many years of RSS come and go, but this is my first year participating and I couldn't have asked for a better giftee and prompt. Writing this fic has brought a lot of joy to my holiday season and I can only hope that it brings a little bit to yours too ♥ | AO3 LINK |

Prompt: "her picture in a locket"

Summary: Rumplestiltskin's heart beats with a singular purpose – to reunite with his lost son. But his heart only has so many beats left before it fully gives into the Darkness. An enchanted locket known as "The Heart's Caretaker" may be his only chance to save what little light still burns within him. He just needs it to reveal the one person in the realm destined to banish his shadows and bring love back into his world.

| 'Skin Deep' prologue, very Rumple centric, character studies, canon divergence, verbal sparring, Marchlands world-building, Jefferson & Rumple friendship, background Papafire, hyper-fluffy epilogue |

"Portrait of the Heart" | (5/5) | (12.7k) | AO3 LINK | 🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄

[of-princes-and-savages]

They Said It Was A Party

Prompt: Rivaling another magical power couple.

Hello @cartoonjessie ! It's me! I am Santa! Here is your gift, which is not late! To Ao3 you go!

Mr. Gold, an old acquaintance of the Mills family, and Belle French, a definite outsider, attend a holiday dinner for the rich and infamous.

"It's lovely."

The decor was a little different every time. But always tasteful. Now, there were twinkling lights and silvery ribbons as a nod to the holiday season. The odd spray of greenery or drape of a garland. But there was a chill in the air. One that had nothing to do with the temperature. Inside, or out, on the wind-whipped, snow-covered lawn.

It was chilly and impersonal in the house. Cora had that effect. If Gold hadn't visited the house before, he'd think she was renting the ground floor as a venue for her intimate dinner parties.

Like this one.

Though intimate dinner party really meant show of power.

Read More...

[cartoonjessie]

Make Me Feel Alive Again - a Rumbelle Secret Santa 2023 gift for the delightful and talented @kelyon || Rumbelle AU where Rumplestiltskin never let Belle go, and thus canon runs a little... differently... || When Regina meets Belle in the Dark Castle, she harms Belle in a way only Rumplestiltskin can save her... || 14567 words || COMPLETE || Read the story here || Listen to the fanmix here

[kelyon]

Wrapping Up Her Christmas Gift 1/2

My Rumbelle Secret Santa gift for @99goosebumps!

The prompt was: "Rumbelle pegging, both in lingerie"

This is technically a continuation of my fic "Begging on His Bended Knees." You don't need to read that fic to understand this one.

Read on AO3

Chapter two is here

“You like soft things, don’t you, Theo?”

  Belle French slid the fabric over her submissive’s outstretched palm. In the revamped office building that housed Belle’s professional dungeon, Theo Gold knelt in front of her wingback chair. He was blindfolded and stripped to the waist. She rubbed the dark green silk across his bare wrist.

“Yes, Mistress Belle.” His voice had that dazed, breathy quality that came over him whenever he really got into a scene. “I like things that are soft.”

“Soft and smooth,” she sing-songed. “Silky and satiny.” 

Using the fabric, she stroked up his arm and down his naked back. Theo often needed time at the beginning of their sessions to warm up to being touched. He didn’t get a lot of it in his normal life.

“You like fine things,” she told him. “You like quality, and beauty.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered. 

“Do you want to look beautiful, Theo?”

Even through the blindfold, she could see his eyebrows furrow. He swallowed hard before he answered. 

“Yes, Mistress. I want to be beautiful for you.”

Belle tutted. With one finger, she lifted his chin. “No, no, my Theo. This isn’t something we’re doing for me. We’re doing it for you. I’m going to ask again, and I want you to answer correctly this time: Do you want to look beautiful?”

He clenched his jaw. His hands balled into fists. When the words came, they seemed to have been dragged out from the depths of his heart. 

“Yes, Mistress. I want to be beautiful for me.”

“Good.” She cradled his face in her hands, removed the blindfold so he could see her sincerity. “Good boy, Theo.”

With a shaking breath, he accepted her praise. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. Belle stroked his hair and murmured how good he was, how proud she was of him. 

She was proud of him. It had been a long road for the fearsome Mr. Gold to admit he needed all the things society told him not to want. A powerful man wasn’t supposed to yearn for weakness. He wasn’t supposed to let himself be vulnerable, to open himself up for pain and ridicule. A real man wasn’t supposed to take joy in softness and beauty. He wasn’t supposed to crave such things, especially not for himself. Theo did. He wanted the frivolous and the decorative, the lovely and the weak. He wanted to be those things. 

Belle never tired of giving him ways to be himself. 

When he was ready, she set him on his knees again and stood up. With the blindfold off, Theo had full freedom to look at her. His dark brown eyes shone as he drank her in. He looked from her high-heeled, thigh-high, red vinyl boots, to her flared red skirt lined with white fake fur, to her red corset, red opera gloves, and jaunty Santa hat. 

It was Christmas Eve, and neither of them had anywhere they’d rather be. 

Belle held up the green silk she’d been rubbing him with, pinching it between her thumbs and forefingers so he could see the shape of the panties. 

“Can you put these on by yourself? Or do you want me to help you?”

Theo licked his lips. “I--I can do it,” he said softly. “Though I may need your help with the corset.”

“Of course.” Belle put the panties in his open hands and sat back down in her chair. It was the perfect place to watch him. “Anything for my sweet Theo.”

****

 Gold gripped the material, crushing it with the force of his need. He was already hard, though just being around Mistress Belle was enough to do that to him. All of his scenes with her were good, but this was a special night. This was the culmination of everything they had done so far, the first step of a new journey.

His cane was on the floor beside him. Mistress was always so good about keeping track of it. He picked it up and used it to get to his feet. He was shirtless, but had kept his shoes on. Whenever possible, he kept his feet covered, so Mistress wouldn’t be troubled by the scars on his bad ankle.  

He sat on the chaise lounge across the room from Mistress’ chair. As he removed his shoes and socks, he kept himself from stealing glances at her. He had to believe what she told him, instead of looking for lies. She wanted him to do this, he told himself. It was safe. She wasn’t going to mock and deride him like any normal person would. She had a plan. He had to trust her.

Trust did not come easily to Gold. Mistress Belle had earned it over months of sessions. Over and over, she had proved her professionalism, her compassion, and her genuine desire to do what was good for him. This would be good for him. She would take care of him, as no one in his life ever had. 

It was easier to take off his boxers than it had been to take off his socks. There was nothing extraordinary about his cock, either towards the good or the bad. Mistress was more than familiar with male anatomy, including his. It didn’t bother her to see his erection; she always said she took it as a compliment. Gold had nothing to be embarrassed about.

Carefully balancing from one leg to the other, he slid his panties over his legs and up to his hips. His first sensation was of tightness. A yielding pressure against his skin, like someone cupping his groin and his buttocks at the same time. 

God. It almost felt like an embrace.

His fingers twitched as he rubbed his hand over his hipbone. The change from warm skin to cool silk and back to skin was intoxicating. The panties had a full back, which covered his arse, but there was an exposed V over the center of his backside that was fronted with lace. Reaching back, Gold touched that area. He savored the texture. He had always liked touching lace on a woman. It was a thrill to feel it on himself. Next time, he would wear something that was all lace.

For now, the silk was smooth and luxurious, completely without flaw. It was enough to have it under his hands, let alone to wear it on his body. Slowly, he dragged his palm over his groin--until Mistress cleared her throat and he snatched his hand away. 

“I know you’re excited,” she said patiently.  “I’m excited too. But you have to follow the rules, even at Christmastime. What is the rule, Theo?”

“I mustn’t touch my cock until you say, Mistress.” The words flew out of him like a lesson learned by rote, a lesson he had long ago memorized and imprinted on his heart.

“Correct,” she said, with a touch of imperiousness. The tone suited her. Mistress Belle deserved to be treated like a great lady. 

“I am sorry, Mistress,” Gold said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to disobey you. I wasn’t trying to touch myself.” He gulped. “Please don’t say I can’t put on the rest of my clothes.”

It was an unlikely punishment for an infraction so minor, but there was something thrilling about begging his Mistress for mercy. It felt cathartic--perhaps because he knew that she would always do what was best for him. Either she would grant him mercy, or the punishment she gave him would be fair and restorative. Mistress Belle  was a benevolent goddess, not a vindictive one. 

She laughed indulgently at his plea. “Don’t be silly, sweet Theo. I’m not going to deny you this experience. Not unless you start acting very naughty.”

“I won’t,” he promised. More than anything in the world, he wanted to be good for his Mistress. 

“I know,” she smiled. Her blue eyes twinkled. Her lips were as red as her holiday costume.  “Why don’t you put on your garter belt next?”

Gold looked down at the coffee table, where all his paraphernalia was laid out. The garter belt was the same shiny forest green as the rest of the set. Since it was mostly straps, it lacked the expanse of smoothness that the panties provided. It wasn’t Gold’s favorite part of the ensemble, but he would need to wear it if he was going to keep his stockings up.

He placed the garter belt across his waist, then reached both hands behind him to fasten it. The hooks were damnably small and hard to feel out. How was anyone supposed to pull this thing together when they couldn’t look at it?

“Do you need help, Theo?” Mistress asked after a moment. From the amusement in her voice, she knew very well that he was out of his depth. The question was a reminder of the core principle of their dynamic: She would give him what he wanted, as long as he asked her for it.

He lowered his arms and looked at the floor when he spoke to her.

“Mistress, will you please help me?”

Only then did she stand, with a bright smile on her face. “Why, Theo! How clever of you to ask! I would be more than happy to help you dress.” 

He kept his eyes lowered as she came behind him and put her hands on his waist. She took the garter belt and moved it around so the fastenings were in front of him. Reaching around him, her gloved hands lined the hooks into the loops so the belt was a complete circle around his abdomen. Then she pulled it around him again so the clasp was on his back where it belonged.

“That’s how you can do it if you’re ever alone,” she said as she smoothed the straps. “When I’m with you, of course you should always ask for help.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

There was the slightest constriction around his stomach when he breathed. He liked it. It was like having Mistress’ arms around him every moment, a constant reminder of who he was and why he was doing this.

“Sit down now,” she ordered. Gold instantly obeyed. “Do you know how to roll on a pair of stockings?”

It felt good to sit. How did she know? He had been standing for too long, putting all his weight on one leg. Mistress took such good care of him. 

“I think I do,” he answered her question. “Will you correct me, if I do it wrong?”

“I will.” She towered over him in her platform boots. Her arms crossed over her chest, which pushed up the pale globes of her breasts. 

Gold swallowed and looked down again. He couldn’t get distracted by her beauty, not now. Not when she had given him a task to complete.

He picked up one of the stockings. They were also green, dark enough to cover up anything unsightly. He gathered the fabric up into a ring and placed one foot into the hole. Slowly, careful not to snag on anything, he lifted his leg to pull the stocking up.

Mistress Belle chuckled. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Gold stopped what he was doing to look up at her. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “It’s from a movie. Don’t worry about it. You’re doing very well, Theo.”

He did the same thing with the other stocking, then stood up to fasten the tops to the straps that hung down from the garter belt. With his cane in one hand, he presented himself.

“Did I do well, Mistress?”

She looked him up and down. “You’re not straight.”

Despite himself, Gold let out a laugh. “You know, I have been re-considering that lately.”

She snorted, and waved her hand as if to swat him. “That’s not what I mean, silly Theo. I’m looking at your stockings.”

A bright red line ran up the back of Gold’s stockings. Turning his head, he could see how the line on his bad leg was decidedly slanted. 

“May I touch you, Theo?” Belle asked softly. “May I help make you beautiful?”

Gripping his cane, Gold lifted his bad leg up for her ministrations. “Please,” he whispered. “Please help me, Mistress.”

He had never known her not to be gentle, even when doling out punishments, but she seemed especially careful when she put her hands near his leg. She straightened the line of his stocking and smoothed out the material. Her touch lingered on his ankle, warm and soothing. Could she feel the raised scars through the fabric? Did she want to see them? Was it out of morbid fascination or something more sympathetic? Could Mistress treasure the most grotesque part of his body in the same way she reveled in the perversions of his mind?

Would he ever be brave enough to find out?

She stood up. Neither of them spoke. Mistress Belle picked the corset up off the table and handed it to him. Gold was able to fasten the metal loops over the metal pegs in the front, but it was up to her to finish the lacing. It was an underbust corset, the top edge a flat line just under his nipples. With every pull of the laces, there was a feeling of tightness, but it wasn’t constricting. Gold felt contained in the corset. He felt safe. He was as protected in lingerie as he was in his three-piece suits. 

“Is that tight enough?” Mistress asked. “Is it too tight? Take a deep breath for me, Theo.”

He obeyed. His chest filled the corset. Somehow, it felt like the deepest breath he had ever taken.

“You look so lovely,” she said. “Truly, you do, my Theo.”

Gold’s cheeks burned. He ducked his head. “Thank you, Mistress.”

The last part of his outfit was a pair of elbow-length silk gloves. He had been worried about them. Much of his body could fit in women’s sizes, but his hands were indisputably male. Fortunately, there was a whole subculture of men who wore opera gloves with surprising regularity. Gold didn’t like to think of what he was doing as drag, but he was more than happy to buy from a drag queen supplier. 

The gloves were dark and elegant. His hands glided over his clothes, over his skin. The gloves made everything he touched feel smooth and sleek and lovely. They made him feel lovely, at least to the touch. And Mistress said he was lovely to look at. 

He let out a shuddering sigh, his only way of voicing the yearning that consumed him. His eyes fluttered closed as he touched his own body. It was broken and sagging and old, but somehow it was lovely, lovely, lovely. 

Tears leaked from his closed eyes as he caressed himself. Gold embraced the feeling. The same awe and wonder he normally only expressed for his mistress, now he felt it for himself. He was beautiful, like she said. He loved beauty. He could love himself.

He never thought he could feel this way. For years, he had denied himself even the desire to love himself. Why want something when it would never happen? 

It was happening now. Mistress Belle had made it happen. She allowed him to want again, and she had given him what he wanted. 

When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him. Her expression was soft and misty.

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“For what?”

She reached out to take his hand. A red glove enveloped green, both of them satiny and beautiful. Mistress Belle came closer still, to kiss a tear away from his cheek.

“Thank you for letting me see your joy, Theo.”

He let out a breath, a hollow laugh. “Thank you for giving it to me.”

Smiling, Mistress shook her head. She picked a final item up off the coffee table. It was a length of green ribbon, with a festive bow at the midpoint. Coming behind him, she tied it loosely around his neck, like a collar. Then she turned him around to face her. She fingered the bow that nestled neatly in the hollow of his throat, underneath his Adam’s apple. 

“You’re my present,” she said softly. It was almost like she was talking to herself. “I don’t need anything else.”

If this was happening outside a scene, Gold would ask her what she meant. If she wasn’t his mistress but just Belle, he would offer to give her anything. He had enough money to buy her whatever she could ask for and her happiness would be worth the price. This woman had saved him. She had soothed the ache in his heart. It destroyed him to think she might suffer an ache as well. What was her true desire? What did she want? He would do anything to help her, but in their present roles, ‘anything’ had a very narrow definition. 

Somehow, she seemed to understand. Meaning passed between them without words. So much between Belle French and Theodore Gold could not be said. It could only be felt. Both of them knew that. Both of them tried to live with it.

Mistress hadn’t taken her hands away from his throat. A red-gloved fingertip brushed his long hair back behind his ear, revealing more of his face. She traced over his forehead, his cheek, his jaw. Her touch trailed down the nape of his neck and over his bare shoulders. She grazed down his arm, to the tips of his own gloved fingers, and then back up to his chest. She tweaked his nipples, felt the new curve the corset brought to his waist. 

Lower and lower, inch by inch, she claimed him with her touch. She fit her finger under the band of his garter belt, stretched out the elastic, then let it snap back on his hip. The pain was sharp and stinging and perfect. She did the same with the upper edge of his panties, though that snap was less intense. Both of her hands slid over the silk that covered his backside. She squeezed his arse like he was a fresh mango.

“Oh look at that.” She smiled broadly when she got to the front of his panties. “Look who’s so hard for me!”

She squeezed the silk over his cock and Gold bit down on his tongue.

“Mistress,” he groaned. “Please!”

‘Please’ what, he wasn’t sure, but he trusted Mistress to take care of him. All he had to do was tell her what was happening and allow her to make a decision. If she wanted him to come in his panties, then she knew it would happen if she kept touching him. If she wanted him to last longer, she would have to ease off on the stimulation. If she wanted to tease him and keep him on the verge of orgasm for minutes or hours, then he would have to submit to her will, no matter how agonizing it might be.

In her mercy, Mistress released her grip on his cock. She gave it a few loving pats as a promise of more attention soon. Then her hands slid down his thighs, over the straps of his garters and down to his stockings.

“Are you ready for me to touch your feet yet, Theo?”

Gold breathed in sharply, something between a gasp and a hiss. His heart was already racing, but now an edge of terror cut into the excitement. He froze. He couldn’t speak. Even if he could, he didn’t know what he wanted to say. 

“Alright,” Mistress nodded. She took his silence as a rejection of her proposal, but she knew very well that it wasn’t a rejection of her. She kept her hands on him, kept touching his shoulders and torso. She wanted to make sure he knew that nothing had changed between them.

She bent his head down so she could kiss him between the eyebrows. “We’ll never do anything you don’t want, Theo. Never.”

He swallowed. The ribbon-collar was tight at his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” she petted his hair. “Nothing to be sorry for, little one. Not a single thing.”

He bowed his head. He accepted her touch, her sweet words. Mistress wasn’t angry at him, he knew that. The trouble was keeping from being angry at himself. He wanted to give her every part of his body. Hell, he wanted to give her his heart, mind, and soul. It wasn’t his intention to keep any part of himself away from her. 

Yet the thought of his beautiful mistress seeing the ugliest, weakest, most awful parts of him--it was enough to set him on a panic attack. He knew she would be kind and compassionate about his injury, but he also knew that nothing would be the same once she saw it. He couldn’t bear the thought of things changing, of Mistress losing any regard she might have for him. 

Nor could he bear the thought of his own reaction. Gold knew himself, he knew his own thin skin. If her expression flickered for a microsecond, it would all be over. He would blow it out of proportion, let it be confirmation that every compliment she had ever paid him was a lie, that every loving gesture had been nothing more than doing what he paid her to.

It would be so easy to believe she would never care for him--could never care for him--that she was just as twisted and self-serving as everyone else he had ever trusted. Because he was a monster, of course, so everyone who treated him with any human sympathy must be a liar who wanted to destroy him. Even at his best, he knew he was a difficult man to love. It would be so easy for Gold to convince himself that he was better off as he had been before he met her: alone and unfeeling, the enemy of love. 

He had come too far for that. He couldn’t allow himself to become that person again. More than his physical scars, that inner ugliness was what he wanted to keep Mistress Belle from ever touching. He had to protect her from it. He had to protect himself from his own worst impulses. 

“Are you ready for the next step, my Theo?” 

She was still holding his hand. He had lost track of Mistress at some point, but she made him focus on her now. She nodded toward the door at the back of her room. That was a more private area than the parlor-like front room they were in now. That was where their scenes became more intense. That was where Gold had spent the happiest moments of his life. 

He swallowed. He drew himself up and squared his shoulders. He couldn’t give Mistress every part of himself, not yet, but he damn well could give her the best of him. She deserved so much more, but he could only offer what he had.

“Yes, Mistress,” he told her. “I’m ready.”

[jackabelle73]

Hello, @threepwoodmarley !! Let me introduce myself. I am your very tardy Secret Santa. My apologies for my lateness, but your fic is finally here!

Well... at least half of it. Two of three chapters are posted. I hope to have the third and final chapter up soon. The mod of @rumbellesecretsanta agreed that it would be okay to post what I have, and I promise that I know exactly how this fic will end.

One final note... you'll notice that your prompt is no where in this fic -- YET. I haven't forgotten it, and it will be included in chapter three.

In the meantime, please enjoy the first two chapters and Happy New Year!

[tickletorso]

Finding the Fun - RSS 2023 Fic

Hello @of-princes-and-savages I am your Secret Santa and damn was this a labor of love! The flu almost stopped me, but I said "not today infectious demon, I have a gift to complete." So without further ado, I hope you enjoy this kinda angsty, mostly fluffy, with just a hint of smut Rumbelle fic.

I will also post it to Ao3, but probably not until tomorrow and I wanted to make sure I got this to you today. So, feel free to read it below....

Summary: Belle and Rumple are settled in Storybrooke with two year-old Gideon. One night, Belle has a mishap and it inspires the couple to try and bring back the fun into their relationship.

Notes: This is a little bit AU, because after Gideon is turned back into a baby, the family stays in Storybrooke instead of traveling realms. So magic exists and all of the characters' history is the same but I’m glossing over the whole “Rumple needs to break his Dark One curse” thing. Also, I researched it and baby deer walk 7 hours after being born. - That’ll make sense when you read it. 

Finding the Fun

Well, this wasn’t the oddest position Rumple had ever found Belle in.

There was the time in the Dark Castle when he’d found her perched high up on a ladder tugging on the window curtains trying to let light into the room. He’d been about to chide her, because it was called the dark castle for a reason, but she’d lost her balance and fell right into his arms. There were many other “Belle mishaps” (as he liked to call them) to choose from, but the ladder was his favorite. He’d ended up with his arms full of a beautiful woman, the sun shining down on him like a spotlight and she hadn’t looked at him with repulsion. Instead he saw curiosity and kindness in her bright blue eyes. He didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of his love for her. 

Currently, he was leaning against the doorframe of their son Gideon’s room. The hallway light behind him cast a luminous glow over the scene inside. Belle was fast asleep propped up by the headboard of their two year-old son’s bed. Gideon was cradled in her lap, equally fast asleep, his head resting against her bosom. He could tell even from across the room that Gideon’s breathing was a bit labored, and he could hear the occasional sniffle from what was undoubtedly a stuffy nose. 

Ah, Gideon finally caught a cold from one of the other children at daycare. Well it was bound to happen at some point. An autumn chill had recently swept through Storybrooke and with it inevitably came runny noses and germ-laden hands.

But his beautiful wife comforting their son wasn’t the ‘odd’ part of this tableau. It was what she was wearing. Rumple’s eyes trailed up her legs. They were covered in sheer black stockings and just a peek of a garter belt could be seen high up her thigh. He could just make out a pair of matching panties trimmed in scallop lace before Gideon’s little body hid the rest from view. His gaze continued to drift upward to her top. It was a thin and rather ragged sweatshirt with the words Storybrooke Library stamped upon it. It even looked like she’d done her makeup more than usual. Her eyes were darkly lined with a winged effect and her lips were a luscious merlot color. 

He tried to bite back a chuckle. Belle had sent him out for a bottle of wine and there had been a wicked gleam in her eyes. It appears Belle’s plans for a seduction had been rudely and quite suddenly interrupted by Gideon’s head-cold. 

Rumple gently closed the door and made his way to their bedroom where he was met with more evidence of Belle’s thwarted seduction. Hanging off the side of their bed was a black corset covered in a black scallop lace just matching her panties. The drawers of their dresser were all pulled out with clothing spilling out of them and several items strewn across the floor. The male part of him groaned at the missed opportunity. The rest of him had a good laugh while he cleaned up the room. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Belle stumbled down the hallway like a baby deer fresh from the womb. Her legs had fallen asleep while keeping Gideon propped up on her lap. Poor little Gid had woken up crying and panicked because he couldn’t breathe through his nose. He didn’t understand that it was just a cold, and he kept pointing to his nose crying “no no no.” Once she was able to calm him down they’d sat in the bathroom with the shower steaming to help loosen his stuffed sinuses followed by a small dose of cough medicine. He still hadn’t been able to sleep without Belle propping him up making it easier for him to breathe. Thank gods toddlers don’t care what their moms look like as long they’re there, because Belle looked very different than usual.

The house was already dark so it must be late. It was always disorienting leaving Gideon’s room after sleeping with him. It felt like his room existed outside of time and space; the white noise machine, the complete darkness he needed for sleep (he must get it from Rumple), the cozy warmth of his body when he insists on snuggling until he drifts off. It all effectively shuts out the world. So when Belle tiptoes out the door, it always takes her a long time to orient herself to the sounds, the light, and the cold of the real world. She has absolutely no idea what time it is. It could be tomorrow for all she knows. 

She makes her way into the kitchen trying to quietly make some tea before she puts herself to bed. The feeling is back in her legs because she definitely felt the chair she just knocked into which, of course, clattered to the floor. The sound echoing throughout the first floor of the house. With a great huff she slouched against the kitchen counter. So much for quiet. 

“Well well well. What do we have here?”

Belle jumped with a little shriek turning around to meet the very amused eyes of Rumple. 

“Rumple!” She pressed her hand to her heart, “You scared me.”

He shrugged and swaggered towards her pulling her into his arms. He was dressed for bed in his deep blue silk pajama set with a matching robe. The contrast in their attire was very apparent. Most of Belle’s makeup was rubbed off  and her hair was a frizzy, tangled mess from the shower steam. She looked up to see Rumple biting back an amused smile. The glee on his face made him look like the imp she’d known during their time in the Dark Castle together. Despite her embarrassment, she found her heart chuckling inside of her along with him. It had been a long time since she’d seen him find something funny other than from sinister irony. 

His voice was quiet and laughing when he asked, “Would you like to tell me about your evening?”

“Only if you make me some tea.”

“Deal,” he said, and with a peck on her forehead, left her arms to tend to the kettle. 

Belle picked up the chair from the floor and settled herself into it. She pulled a leg up under herself, and the silky slipperiness of her stockings made her grimace. The stockings weren’t made to withstand a steam bath and restless toddler feet snagging on them. They were designed to carefully encase each leg and then dramatically shown off in a big reveal that raises blood pressure (in addition to other things), maybe a short session of eye-fucking, and then finally are peeled off in favor of more naked activities. 

“I should get changed,” she muttered to herself.

“And deprive me of the sexy sight before me?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Obviously this was not what I was going for. Gideon woke up with a cold and it all went downhill from there.”

Rumple set the tea tray on the table, and reached for her clasped hands. “I’m sorry sweetheart. Is Gid ok?”

“Yeah he’ll be fine. I think it scared him more than anything.”

Rumple sat across from her still holding her hand. “I suppose you can’t really explain to a two year-old what a head cold is.”

“Not really.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you. The situation is just….”

“Funny.” Belle supplied with a smirk. “I know. It is. It really is.” She fiddled with Rumple’s finger while trying to shake off the feelings of disappointment and frustration. With his free hand, Rumple began to fix their tea trying to pour hot water into the teapot without spilling. When Belle noticed his adorable attempt to make tea one-handed she released his fingers and clasped her own together in her lap. 

For two years they’ve been trying to heal together. They are both in individual therapy and in couples therapy. Even little Gideon went to play therapy once per month. Now that he is starting to develop his own sense of self they wanted to make sure Gideon had extra support in case their were residual effects from his time in the Dark Realm and…well, from everything else that had happened to him. Because so much had happened. Sometimes it felt like too much. All of the curses, all of the betrayals, and secrets. There were times early on when Belle couldn’t imagine their little family ever being happy together. 

Now, she sees glimmers of hope everywhere. In the way Rumple holds onto her hand even if he needs it back to make their tea; in the way he packs extra snacks in Gideon’s daycare bag “just in case he’s hungrier than usual;” in the way he tells her every single time he has a craving to misuse magic, and instead they talk together until a non-magical solution can be found. 

So tonight she had wanted to create something special for him  — ok, for them. Not that they hadn’t had sex in the past two years, but this was intended to be different. She wanted to play and have fun. It had been such a long time since they’d just had fun. She thought bringing that playfulness into the bedroom would in turn bring it back into their relationship on a whole. 

Rumple sat her teacup in front of her and she grabbed his hand before he could pull away. He looked up a bit surprised at her earnestness.

“I….” She started. “I….” She sighed. She didn’t know how to say it. How to explain what she had imagined for their night together. The simple explanation was not so simple anymore. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what Dr. Hopper had coached. 

The emotions behind a simple situation make it feel complicated. Un-complicate it by first stating the facts out loud.

Belle’s blue eyes pierced into Rumple’s. He could see her internal fight, but was mystified as to what it was about. His first instinct was to jump into the conversation and try to fix it, but he knew that wasn’t what she needed. He has a penchant for trying to fix everything and anything for the ones he loves. After hundreds of years and lots of therapy he’s finally curbing that instinct. 

You don’t have to fix everything. You just have to be present, listen, and then, if Belle asks for your help, you can work together towards a solution .

Finally Belle blew out a long breath and an even longer stream of words. 

“After Gideon went to bed, I sent you out for a bottle of wine even though we have a full wine cellar. I went to our room, put on makeup like Lacey used to wear, and then started changing into some sexy lingerie that I bought specially for tonight. Then everything with Gideon happened — ” she pulled her hands apart and spread her fingers wide as if she could grab Gideon’s untimely cold from the past and show it to him like a picture book at a children’s story hour. 

Once the facts are stated begin listing your feelings. Don’t go into the cause or the reasons for the feelings. State just the feelings.

“— and I am frustrated, disappointed, annoyed, embarrassed, and exhausted. Ok, I don’t know if ‘exhausted’ is technically a feeling but if it’s not it should be.”

Rumple brought his teacup to his mouth gently blowing over the hot liquid’s surface. A bubble of quiet contemplation settled around the table. He and Belle had been diligently working to keep their family together which meant they lived a sedate and routine-oriented lifestyle. 

“Sweetheart, not that I’m complaining, but may I ask what brought this on?”

Belle groaned internally, because of course that was his response. Any sane person would ask that question. Except most people would say something like ‘why did you suddenly decide to act out a cheesy seduction on a Wednesday night?’ 

Belle fiddled with the tiny handle of her teacup while her mind swirled with words creating half-explanations none of which would make sense to anyone outside of herself. Several times her mouth opened to say something but all she could accomplish was looking pleadingly at Rumple with big pitiful eyes. He grasped her limp hands and held them tight. 

“Belle…is there something -”

“-I’m bored!” She blurted out. 

They blinked at each other both surprised for very different reasons. 

“Oh”

“No, not in that way. Not bored of our relationship. I’m not unhappy. I cannot stress that enough.”

“…ok.” To his credit Rumple’s grip on Belle’s hands didn’t lessen. “But you’re bored.” He stated it like it was one of the many facts of their life together; Gideon doesn’t like peas, Rumple is the Dark One, and Belle is bored. 

“I miss the fun part of our relationship,” and even as Belle said it she winced, because in truth there relationship history wasn’t riddled with lighthearted moments. “I want there to be a ‘fun’ aspect to our relationship.”

“Fun.” Rumple repeated it like it was the first time he’d ever said the word in his life. “Well, I’m not entirely certain what to do about that. Should I do something?”

Belle face glowed with warmth and happiness. The Rumple from only a few years ago would’ve never asked if he ‘should’ do something. He would’ve spent days and weeks plotting and planning without consulting her, and then revealed something ‘fun.’ 

“Let me try to come up with something and if it doesn’t work out then you can take a crack at it.”

“If its any consolation, what you came up with looked like it would’ve been spectacular.” Rumple placed a kiss on her hand and leaned in close, “Parental responsibilities simply got in the way.”

“So much for spontaneity.” Belle leaned in bringing her lips to his intending for a quick kiss, but the forward momentum of her body kept their lips locked together. She opened her mouth ever so slightly and Rumple’s fingers cupped her chin keeping her steady while the tip of his tongue gently caressed and coaxed hers. She exhaled and sank deeper into their kiss enjoying the comforting familiarity of it, and grateful that even after all these years her lips still tingled with excitement when he kissed her. When a natural break from the need to breathe inserted itself, Belle leaned back in her chair feeling cautiously excited about this new endeavor. 

———————————————-

This. Is. So. Horrible.

Belle wished it was physically possible to impale herself on the tiny dessert fork before her. The shiny object was sitting next to a plate of pears gorgeously poached in a spiced red wine reduction, and yet the only thought running through her brain (aside from suicide by fork) was her gratitude that the dessert course had finally arrived. 

Gusteau’s was one of the newer restaurants that popped up in Storybrooke after the Black Fairy had been defeated. A quiet curse-free existence seemed possible for the first time and many of the town’s citizens were investing in their hopes and dreams again. Resulting in many new businesses and restaurants opening their doors. 

Gusteau’s was the prime example of a fine dining experience. Heavy beautifully carved furniture was spaced evenly throughout the restaurant and crisp white linens covered the tables. Each tabletop was adorned with a low vase of roses and a miniature lamp that cast just enough light that one could comfortably gaze upon their dining companion. The room on a whole was swathed in heavy, rich fabrics and carpeted to dampen the foot tread of the wait staff as they hurried from table to kitchen and back again. 

Belle thought, at the time, it was the perfect idea for a fun night out. Gideon was enjoying a play date at the Nolan’s house. Their little boy Neal was a few years older, but he played well with Gideon always making sure to keep their games at a pace suited to a toddler. He had the sweet nature of his namesake and seemed to favor Gideon especially. More importantly, it meant their own house was unoccupied. While preparing for their evening out, Belle had visions of an elegant dinner enjoying sumptuous food and good conversation accompanied by just a tad too much wine. Maybe they would take a stroll in the crisp evening air by the water. She loved the mystery of the sea at night. It was a thrilling contrast, hearing the water churning against the docked boats, but the black night obscuring it from view. Once they were thoroughly chilled to their bones they would warm each other in front of their fireplace finding bliss in the comfort of their own home. 

But now…..

She just wanted to go home, throw on some leggings, and crawl into bed until the morning when they would go retrieve Gid. Hopefully he was having a better night. 

Rumple was twisting the stem of his glass of port between his fingers. They’d both given up trying to keep the conversation from stagnating. It hadn’t occurred to her that after hours of talk therapy they wouldn’t have anything to talk about. They started off the evening talking about Gideon - that was inevitable - and then Rumple’s shop and the library, but once those topics had been exhausted, neither of them knew where to direct the conversation next. They were in each other’s lives every day. There wasn’t much more to say that hadn’t already been said at the breakfast table that morning. And Rumple tried, he really did, but gods help them at one point he even commented on the weather. It’s colder than usual for this time of year…. That was it. It hadn’t even been something substantial about the weather that Belle could verbally latch onto and run with. 

So now she was left staring at her dessert like it was the saddest sight in the world. Resolutely, she picked up her dessert fork and (choosing life) cut into one of the pears. As the warm flavors of cinnamon and nutmeg burst in her mouth, she tried to think of something to say. 

“How is the port?” She reluctantly let the question escape her lips, but before Rumple could answer, a cheerful giggling from the adjacent table captured their attention. 

Squinting, Belle could make out a very young couple, in their teens, not-so-secretly passing a silver flask between them under the table. Each time the girl took a small sip she laughed producing a delightful jingling sound and the boy looked at her like she was the sweetest thing on this earth. They were tucked together at the table experiencing their first foray into ‘adult’ dating and all that it entails  — soft candlelight, fancy food and clothing, and hushed serious tones. But like most teens their natural enthusiasm for being unleashed on the world could’t be tamped down. They awkwardly held hands and fussed with their cutlery as they waited for their next course. They talked just a bit too loud. 

Belle’s mind jolted with memories, but she quickly realized they weren’t her memories. They were Lacey’s. Like a book she read long ago and could only recall small portions of the story, Lacey’s memories were vague and full of feeling more than specifics. However, in this moment, she could recall ‘memories’ of Lacey as a fresh teen going to parties and playing drinking games with her peers. She could feel the thrill of drinking alcohol like an adult. Mostly she remembered laughter. Laughing while a bottle spun round and round between her circle of friends; anticipating the person it would choose for her next kiss. Laughing when she proclaimed “Never have I ever…” and watching her friends sheepishly drink a shot and admitting to some embarrassing deed. Lacey’s nights out as a teen were a strange mixture of vulnerability and….fun. Belle could confidently guess that Rumple’s cursed memories didn’t contain anything like Lacey’s shenanigans, and she was positive he’d never participated in even the simple games children played in Fairytale Land. 

She reached across the table and took the glass of port from Rumple’s fingers. Gaining his attention, he seemed dazed like a schoolboy caught daydreaming during his lessons, Belle took a big breath and smiled at him. It was time to breathe some life back into this half-dead date.

“Let’s get the check and then I want you to come with me, but before you do, I need you to promise me one thing.”

Rumple’s eyebrows raised at that. They tried not to practice in promises. They were still learning their own limitations as a couple and making promises could be dangerous. 

“Belle, sweetheart, are you sure?”

“Trust me. Promise that you’ll keep an open mind.” She tried to infuse her smile with as much assurance as possible. 

“Ok, darling” Belle almost missed the sigh that accompanied it, but she wouldn’t be deterred. This was a situation of her own making and she needed to fix it. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The rush of wind was wonderfully refreshing. It was just what they needed after the heavy warmth of the restaurant. Belle had insisted on walking through town. They could get the car later. Rumple had never been happier to be cold, because it meant Belle was snuggled tight into his side. The small table at which they’d been seated at Gusteau’s made it feel like he was trying to hold a conversation with someone on the opposite side of a football field. No matter how hard he’d tried to keep the flow of conversation going it was inundated with long pauses and stilted answers. It’d been excruciating. He’d felt like he was failing Belle with each course serving more awkward pauses than the last until finally dessert was served with outright silence. 

Another gust of wind blew back the flaps of his coat, and he tugged them closer around him and his beloved Belle. They stood by the harbor looking out into the vast darkness of the sea. Belle was practically molded to him. He buried his face in her thick auburn tresses, once darker and curly they had straightened into waves with age, but it didn’t matter. He loved her no matter what. After all, he had changed too - his hair had been chopped short by his own hand. He was sometimes self-conscious of the change he’d made, but as if she could read his thoughts, at those times Belle would take the opportunity to gently massage his scalp letting her fingers slip and slide through his shorn greying hair. How he loved her. It was the reason he was so panicked about their lackluster evening - she was bored. She wanted to have fun, but honestly Rumple wasn’t sure he was capable of such a thing. His life hadn’t exactly been built on the idea of carefree joy. His parents had abandoned him and, until Belle came along, so had everyone else either by death, circumstance, or outright choice. What did he know about fun?

Belle turned in his arms nuzzling the smooth skin of his jawline which then turned into small kisses and nibbles. The biting cold and Belle’s amorous affection had him fighting for breath. 

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to ‘keep an open mind’?”

Chuckling, Belle murmured, “Not quite.” She pulled back a fraction so she could see his face, “Have you ever heard of Truth or Dare?”

Rumple faltered for a reply. “Uh…yes, it’s some kind of game teenagers in this realm like to play.” He couldn’t keep the perplexed look off his face. 

“Yes!” She hugged him tighter and he could feel her jump up and down a little. “I think we should play it.” His comically stunned face urged her to add, “I’ll even go first.”

“Why. Why do you want to play Truth or Dare? Darling we’re a bit old for such things.”

“Nonsense.” Her prim response was accompanied by a tug on his tie. “I think it’s just what we need.”

At Rumple’s raised eyebrows, she continued, “I think we are talked out. We need something fun to do. And unless you want to suddenly become more social and do a…” she floundered for an example, “a pottery class together or some other group activity, then I think playing some silly games together is just what we need!” 

Rumple still looked unconvinced. 

“Please, Rumple. Try. For me.”

And that was the straw breaking the camel’s back. They both knew he couldn’t deny her this. She never asked for much in their relationship, and how could he say no to a simple game? Even one that was excruciatingly juvenile. A great huff escaped him and after one long exaggerated groan, that made her giggle, he said, “ok ok. But you go first.”

Belle straightened up expectedly. “Ok, ask me!”

With an endearing smile, Rumple muttered, “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth!” 

Rumple moved Belle to his side and kept them walking along the pier. He pursed his lips and swayed his head playing at putting some serious consideration into the devious question he would ask. The question she would have no choice but to answer with complete honesty. Rolling her eyes at the theatrics, Belle waited with bated breath. 

“What is the last lie you told?” 

Belle snapped her head up in surprise. She really should’ve known that the infamous Rumpelstiltskin, wordsmith extraordinaire, would’ve chosen a question meant to disarm her. The look of smug satisfaction on his face made her want to kiss it right off him, but that could wait. 

“Hmmm I don’t lie very often.”

“Well you’re a saint, darling, but try your hardest to think of something.” 

Ignoring his sarcasm, Belle answered, “Last week at Granny’s, Snow and Red were arguing about how often a couple should have sex. I happened to walk in for a cup of tea, and somehow got trapped in the conversation.” At this Rumple snorted and Belle elbowed him in the ribs, “Anyway,” she said pointedly, “Snow was saying that after a couple has children, they’ll be lucky to have sex every few months! She expected me to agree, and well….clearly she and David are going through a dry spell and I didn’t want to make her feel bad…..so I just kind of smiled and didn’t disagree with her.”

“That’s it? A lie of omission?”

“It’s still a lie.”

“Barely.” 

“Oh please, it counts and you, sir,” she pointed a manicured finger at him, “are filled with glee to know that we’re having more sex than the king and queen.”

Rumple chuckled and played at trying to bite her finger. 

“Your turn! Truth or Dare?” The sparkle in Belle’s eyes made playing this ridiculous game worth it. 

 “Dare”

“I dare you……to sneak into Granny’s Diner and leave three hundred and fifty dollars in the tip jar. You mustn’t be seen and you can’t use magic.” 

“Absolutely not.”

“You have to! That’s the game.”

“What makes you think I have that large amount of money on me.”

“…….”

“Ok. I have that amount, but I don’t see why I should give it to — wait. Is it possible Granny is having trouble making rent this month?”

Belle arranged her face into what she hoped was the picture of innocence. “Life is full of possibilities.”

“Uh huh, only you my dearest Belle could take what’s supposed to be a devious game and turn it into a tool for good deeds.”

“It’s a gift.” 

“I only have hundred dollar bills on me. Do you have change?”

“No, but I’m happy to amend the dare from three fifty to four hundred.”

“How flexible of you.”

Belle grinned and grabbed the collar of his coat pulling him down for a kiss designed to leave him breathless. She pressed her body against his and sunk her fingertips into his hair pulling on the short locks. When she let him up for air, she whispered, “Complete your task and, maybe afterwards, I’ll show you just how flexible I can be.”

Without giving him a chance to blink, she pulled away and walked ahead of him. If she hadn’t been wearing such high heels he was certain she’d be skipping. Rumple just stood there reminding himself how to breathe and with a shake of his head thought, So this is what it feels like to know you’re being manipulated and not care in the least.

— - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In the end, the dare was quite easy to accomplish. At that time of night Granny’s only had a few patrons, thankfully the kind that liked to keep to themselves, and the only people working were a short-order cook and Granny herself. The plan had been to wait until Granny went into the back, and then Rumple would quietly walk through the front door, slip the money into the tip jar, and continue out the back door where Belle would be waiting. 

But as Rumple waited just outside the front door for the opportune moment, a giant crash could be heard and Granny went running to the back of the building.Before Rumple could register what was happening, he saw Belle scurrying down the street and Granny in the back yelling something about “damned raccoons.” Knowing it was now or never, Rumple whipped open the door, ran towards the tip jar sitting innocuously next to the cash register, and it wasn’t so much that he stopped at the counter rather that the counter stopped him—his custom-made Italian shoes weren’t made for quick movements on freshly mopped floors. So after slamming into the counter, he hastily shoved the cash into the jar, and hightailed it back out the front door. 

Miraculously, no one saw him. 

He found Belle hiding next to the pharmacy doubled over with snorts of laughter muffled by her hands. Her feet were bare and she was holding onto only one of her shoes. She tried to explain between giant huffs of laughter, but Rumple simply held up a hand and said, “Belle mishap.” Before Belle could ask what that meant, he gathered her in his arms and snapping his fingers *poofed* them back to their house in a cloud of magic. 

Belle was still giggling as they stumbled into their entryway kissing and pawing at each others clothing. Rumple wasn’t one to let other’s emotions effect him, but Belle’s joy swept them up creating an elation he’d never known before. They landed in front of the fireplace which had magically been lit and several fluffy blankets and pillows spread out before it.

Smiling like a fool, Rumple pecked kisses over Belle’s body as more and more skin was revealed to him. Her lingerie was nothing like the black corset ensemble he’d missed out on. Instead she wore a sheer forest green bralette with matching hip hugging panties. It was staggering in its simplicity, highlighting the fairness of her skin and giving her curves freedom to move. He delighted in it; kissing and biting and even tickling the spots he knew were most sensitive. Between breathy laughs Belle managed to divest Rumple of his own clothes, and they took their time reveling in each other.

Their previous lovemaking had been permeated with an intense need to show their love and devotion with their bodies. Trying to make up for all the past hurt by clinging to each other while they physically connected as close as possible for two humans to be. But this time was about joy and happiness. Their was no rush to reach their bliss. It would most certainly come, but this was about loving each other with light not darkness. Belle found a few of Rumple’s ticklish spots and for a moment lovemaking was paused in favor of a naked tickle fight until one of Belle’s legs ended up hooking over Rumple’s shoulder putting them in a delicious position that neither could pass up. With mirth in their eyes, a wordless conversation passed between them about Belle’s promised flexibility. 

They rocked together at a rhythm they both knew so well. The familiarity was far from boring. Instead they loved each other with gratitude as deep as their kisses. They were so lucky to know each other this well and for this long. The happiness on Belle’s face was mirrored by his own. It felt like sunlight surrounded them and clear blue skies were reflected in Belle’s eyes. Rumple realized that this was what fun was - it was turning your face towards the sun even on a cloudy day. It was actively finding joy and laughter, and if you can’t find it, you make it. Just like Belle did. 

Afterwards, they lounged by the fire enjoying lazy kisses and caresses. They teased each other about the horrendous dinner they endured, and Belle told him about Lacey’s memories saving their date night. 

“So what other games does little Lacey remember?”

Belle thought for a moment before ticking off her fingers, “Well there’s Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, Never Have I Ever-”

“Hmmm group games,” Rumple grumbled.

“We could play Two Truths and A Lie.”

“You would dare play a game that requires deception with words with Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Oh I think I could manage.”

Rumple tutted and pinched her side making Belle squeak, “Ok, but you go first.” 

[threepwoodmarley]

The Sweetest Dream

Merry Christmas, @peacehopeandrats! I’m your Secret Santa! I hope you like your fic and that you will forgive me for taking at least part of your prompt in a way that I’m sure you didn’t intend!

Prompt: Coco, fire, fresh snow, bakery

Summary: Ever since Belle French opened her bakery in Storybrooke, Frank Gold has looked forward to the days she brings free samples to the townsfolk. Her kind heart always includes him in her rounds and he cherishes the moments they spend together, bonding over cookies and cake.

Title from Muppet Christmas Carol

Read on AO3

“Good morning, Mr Gold!”

The tinkle of the bell above his shop door accompanied the lilting voice of the woman who had just stepped through. Frank Gold looked up from his ledger to greet his visitor, noting the covered tray in her hands and the wide smile on her face.

“Miss French, a pleasure as always.” He placed his pen down to give her his full attention. “What gastronomic delights bring you to my shop today?”

“It's Christmas!” She held up the tray as if that explained everything.

“It's November.”

“Exactly, I'm already behind!” She practically bounced over to set her tray down on the counter and lift the lid. “I'm about to start on our seasonal menu and wanted to get your opinion on which flavours you like best.”

This was not an unusual occurrence. Belle French owned and ran the local bakery, Storybrookies, which she'd opened earlier that year, and often went around town handing out samples to drum up business. His shop must have been on her route as she came in most days to give him a taste of her latest creations.

He moved his gaze down towards the counter top and eyed the various confections there. “So this is market research?”

“Exactly! Got to give the public what they want!” She pointed to each cookie in turn as she rattled their names off. “We have mint choc chip, chocolate orange shortbread, and cinnamon and basil.”

Try as he might, Gold couldn't stop his lips curling in distaste at that last one. “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned gingerbread?”

“We'll have that as well, of course, but this is my bakery's first Christmas and I wanted to offer something different, maybe be a bit adventurous. All I will say is don't knock it till you've tried it.”

“Hmm.” Tentatively Gold picked up each cookie, carefully tasting them one at a time as Belle looked on eagerly. He could see how important this was to her, so he closed his eyes and opened his mind to better savour the different flavours, wanting to give each a fair chance.

“Well?” Her patience had apparently run out as she prompted him for his opinion, her voice strangely breathless. He opened his eyes to find her own fixated on his face, her pupils blown wide with her eagerness for his answer.

He carefully placed down the remains of the final cookie that was still in his hand. “I'm afraid you haven't convinced me that cinnamon and basil is in any way a reasonable flavour combination. However I am fond of the first two, the shortbread in particular."

Belle beamed. “I hoped you'd like that one. I know that shortbread is Scottish and chocolate orange is more of a popular flavour over there so combining them seemed like a good idea...” she trailed off with a blush that Gold didn't understand.

“It was,” he agreed. “But as you say, it's a flavour that's more popular over there than here. How has it gone down with the other people you've asked?”

“Oh. Um, you're actually the first person I've shown these to.” Belle looked down and began fiddling with the tray, picking up the half-eaten cookie that he'd left. “I value your opinion, you see. And I know you'll give me honest feedback.”

Gold felt a strange warmth in his chest at her words. “Well, I'm glad you feel you can rely on me. However, as I'm sure you're aware, a sample size should be as large as possible to most accurately reflect public opinion.”

“Of course.” She put the cookie down again before replacing the lid on the tray and lifting it into her arms. “That's why I'm on my way now to canvass the town. Who knows, maybe cinnamon and basil will reign supreme.”

“Knowing some of the inhabitants of this town as I do, that wouldn't surprise me.”

Belle laughed as she carried the tray to the door, walking backwards until the last possible moment and throwing a parting glance over her shoulder as she left. “See you around, Mr Gold.”

~*~

“Good morning, Mr Gold!”

“Miss French,” Gold felt himself smiling as the bell chimed and the familiar voice met his ears. It had been a few days since she had graced his shop and he found himself missing her presence.

“I'm sorry I haven't been around for a while, but the bakery has been so busy. We started selling the chocolate orange shortbread last week and it's been a huge hit.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“And to thank you for your invaluable input I thought I'd bring over some of my festive hot cocoa.” She reached into her bag to produce a thermos. “It's spiced with cinnamon, nutmeg and star anise.”

He watched as she brought out two mugs, pouring an equal share into each before handing him one.

“Thank you.” He gave the concoction a cautious sip, relishing in the initial taste before taking another longer one. The perfectly spiced chocolate slipped over his tongue like velvet and he had to use all his willpower to prevent a rather unseemly moan from escaping his lips. He took a few seconds to compose himself before speaking. “Another triumph, I would say. I imagine this must be one of your best sellers too.”

Belle took a sip from her own mug before shaking her head. “I don't sell this at the bakery. It's my own personal recipe.”

“Oh.” Gold looked into his mug and felt his heart flutter at the thought she would have made something personal especially for him. He ruthlessly tamped that idea down before he could get any fanciful notions in his head. She was thanking him for his help, that was all. She probably made the same thing for everyone else in town whose opinion she had sought out.

“Well I thank you for sharing it with me. Do you mind if I ask how you came up with the recipe?”

“It was my mother's.” Her voice took on a melancholy twinge and he instantly regretted the question. “We used to make it together every Christmas. It was our holiday tradition, no matter how hot the weather was. Dad thought we were mad having cocoa in summer but I loved it.”

Her eyes had taken on a faraway look as she cradled her mug carefully and he thought he knew the answer to his next question but felt compelled to ask anyway. “Is your mother...?” he trailed off, unsure how to finish.

“She died.” Belle brought her eyes back to him and smiled sadly. “A few years ago now. I still make the same recipe every Christmas though. It's a lot more seasonally appropriate now I've moved here, but I must admit that sometimes I miss the incongruity of sitting in the bright sunshine with my hot cocoa. That probably sounds silly, I know.”

“Not at all. I used to...” he trailed off, unsure whether he wanted to go where he'd been about to. His fingers twitched and he put his mug down before he dropped it.

“You used to?” She looked at him with such an open and honest expression he felt almost helpless in the face of it. Something about her compelled him to speak about things that he'd kept locked up inside of himself for years.

“I used to make paper snowflakes with my son. My ex-wife hated them, said that they looked cheap and tacky, but we had fun. It was the time spent together that was special.”

“You have a son!” Belle's face brightened, then quickly fell as something seemed to occur to her. “Is he...?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” he was quick to reassure her. “He's alive. He lives in New York with his wife and a son of his own now. But we did have a falling out a few years ago. It was a bad one and all my fault, of course. I didn't hear from him in so long I feared the worst so many times.”

“I'm sorry.” She placed her mug down and reached out to cover his hand with hers where it rested on the counter. His breath caught at her touch and he kept perfectly still for fear of losing it. “But it sounds like you've heard from him since?”

“Yes. He got in contact with me not long after Henry was born. Said he finally understood how terrifying it was to be a father. We had a long talk, I apologised and he forgave me. I didn't deserve it, but then he's always been a better person than me in every way.”

“I think the kind of person he is is a reflection of the man who raised him.” She squeezed his hand gently. “Is he coming for the holidays?”

“No.” He sighed. “He said they want a quiet Christmas at home this year. I don't think he's ready to completely trust me yet and I can understand that. I just wish we hadn't lost all those years we could have spent together due to my stupidity.”

“I think you need to stop beating yourself up about it. The past is the past and all you can do now is move forward. Your son is alive, he's forgiven you and you'll have many Christmasses in the future to spend together, I'm sure.” She leaned towards him, her eyes locked on his while he stared at her dumbly. Apparently he was silent too long because she blushed and pulled away from him, lifting her hand from his. “Sorry, I'm probably overstepping here. Please tell me to shut up and go away.”

“Never,” he breathed, before clearing his throat. “No, I mean, you're right. As usual.”

He reached for his cocoa once again and brought the mug to his lips, grateful for both the shield it provided and the warmth it brought back after the loss of her touch.

They finished their drinks in a companionable silence, as though any further words would break the spell that had fallen over them. Sooner than Gold would have liked, Belle began packing their empty mugs into her bag and made to leave.

Walking to the door, she turned and looked as though she wanted to say something else but thought better of it, deciding to go with her usual parting instead.

“See you around, Mr Gold.”

~*~

“Good morning, Mr Gold!” Belle's cheery voice betrayed none of the heaviness of their previous conversation and Gold was glad for it. He had been half afraid she would be put off visiting him again after the revelations of the other day.

“Good morning, Miss French.” Gold looked up and felt his eyes widen. “What on earth do you have on your head?”

“They're reindeer antlers!” She shook her head to make the attached bell jingle, and he was momentarily mesmerised by the way her curls bounced around her shoulders. “Do you like them? I could get you a pair if you like.”

He shuddered. “That's very thoughtful but I think I'll pass, thank you.”

“Are you sure? I think you'd look very dashing.”

“I highly doubt that. They look far better on you than they ever would on me.”

Belle's radiant smile nearly blinded him and it took him a second to realise she had moved forward and was now holding a paper bag out to him. “Here.”

“What's this?” He took it from her outstretched hand.

“It's a 'good old-fashioned gingerbread man.'”

He peeked into the paper bag and raised an eyebrow. “Since when do gingerbread men wear suits?”

“That's what makes him so old-fashioned.” Belle laughed, tilting her head and leaning forward on the counter almost conspiratorially. She looked out the window and sighed wistfully before turning back to him. “Do you think it's going to snow soon?”

“Probably,” he grumbled. “We've been lucky so far but I can feel a chill in the air. At least we're spared the worst of it being this close to the sea.”

She lightly slapped his arm and he looked at her hand in surprise as she admonished him. “Oh humbug Mr Gold, don't tell me you're a snow-hater.”

“Live in Maine long enough and you will be too,” he responded drily.

“Well, I love it. We never had snow when I was growing up in Melbourne. Then I moved here and I can still remember the first morning I woke up to a snowy day. It was like the world was covered in a pure white blanket, glittering in the sun. I thought it was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen.”

“And did you still think that when you had to shovel three feet of the stuff off your driveway? Or when it felt like your fingers were going to fall off from frostbite? Or when you slipped on hidden ice and nearly broke your neck?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know about that?”

“Lucky guess,” he deadpanned.

“Well, it was just the one time and I learned my lesson.” She held up a finger accusingly. “High heeled ankle boots may look cute but are not practical for icy weather.”

With deliberate slowness Gold peered over the counter. He was not at all surprised to see a pair of red heels at the end of her shapely legs.

Before his brain could go in a dangerous direction he forced his eyes back up to hers and raised his brow in silence.

She blushed. “Hey, it's not icy yet. I have a pair of snow boots at the bakery just in case though.”

“As long as you're prepared.”

“I am.” She gave him a wide smile which dimmed slightly as she caught sight of the clock behind him. “Oh, shoot. I have to head off now. I told Ariel I'd be there by ten, so this has to be a flying visit.”

Gold felt heart sink in response, but kept his face neutral to hide his disappointment. “In that case don't let me keep you. And thank you once again for the gingerbread man.”

“You're very welcome and I hope you enjoy it.” She walked to the door and turned back to him with a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe I'll bring you a matching gingerbread lady tomorrow. See you around, Mr Gold!”

~*~

The implied promise in Miss French's words meant that Gold started the next day in an uncharacteristically good mood, hopeful that he wouldn't have to wait too long before another visit from his favourite baker.

That good mood soon faded upon his arrival into town and the sight that greeted him there. The entrance to one of the roads was blocked off and he was just about able to catch a glimpse of flashing lights through the crowd of people gathered by the roadside. Spying David Nolan among their number, he quickly parked his car and grabbed his cane, walking over to the group as quickly as he could.

“Mr Nolan.” He waited for the other man to turn and acknowledge his presence. “What's going on?”

David looked surprised. “You haven't heard? No, I suppose you wouldn't have since the bakery isn't one of your buildings.”

“The bakery?” Gold's stomach twisted as his eyes moved from scanning the scene to focus all his attention on the man next to him. “What about the bakery?”

“There was a fire. Last night. Looks like the whole place has been completely destroyed.”

Gold felt as though a cold vice had gripped his heart. He could barely breathe except to stutter out a single word. “Belle?”

“Oh, don't worry. Belle's fine.” David waved his hand, apparently unaware of the magnitude of his words. “I mean she's devastated, obviously, but no one was inside the building at the time.”

David's gaze moved from Gold's face to somewhere over his shoulder, leading Gold to turn his head to follow his line of sight. Belle stood near the edge of the crowd, her arms wrapped around herself as though for protection against the world.

Barely aware that David was still speaking to him, Gold turned the rest of his body and set out in her direction. One of her friends, the grumpy one, was standing nearby and appeared to be attempting to provide support but Gold paid him no mind as he approached Belle.

“Miss French.” The greeting felt woefully inadequate, but it was all he could think of in the moment.

“Oh, Mr Gold, hi.” Belle turned to him, lifting a hand to wipe away the tears that were still clearly visible on her face. “I'm sorry, I don't think I'm going to have any gingerbread for you today.”

He watched as the corners of her mouth turned up in a weak approximation of a smile before her entire face crumbled again.

“Don't worry about it.” Gold flinched, mentally kicking himself for such an inane response. He scrambled for something better to say before settling on what he should have started with in the first place. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she huffed quietly before visibly steeling herself and meeting his eyes, “but I will be. Nobody was hurt, which is the main thing. It's just... hard. To see everything I've worked for, everything I've put my heart and soul into, be destroyed so completely.”

“I'm sorry.” His fingers itched to comfort her but he wasn't sure he'd be welcome, so instead he just continued to stand ineffectually at her side, wishing he had something better to say. “You have insurance, I assume?”

“Of course.” She nodded. “But it's going to take weeks to sort it all out and then even longer to rebuild. There's no way I'm going to have a bakery in time for Christmas.”

“Perhaps you could use one of the empty properties in town as a temporary base. I happen to know there are a few available.”

“That's very kind of you, Mr Gold, but until the insurance pays out I'm not going to be able to afford to rent anywhere, let alone buy the equipment I'm going to need.”

“I could pay for anything you...”

“No.” Her face was resolute as she cut him off. “I mean, I appreciate the offer, I really do. It's just that I don't want...”

“It's all right, Miss French. I completely understand.” It was his turn to cut her off and he tried not to let the sting of rejection hurt too much. “Perhaps a fundraiser then.”

“What, like charity?”

“I prefer to think of it as community. The bakery is such a beloved part of this town, I'm sure the townsfolk would be more than happy to help you get back on your feet. It would be in everyone's best interest to have you back in business as soon as possible.”

“Really? My bakery is beloved?” Belle had the first real smile he'd seen on her face all day.

“Of course. You've said yourself how busy you've been.”

“True, I guess. But I'm not sure, I wouldn't feel right taking people's money when I'll be getting the insurance payout eventually.”

“As you said, that could take weeks. Would you really deprive Storybrooke of your baked delights for all that time?” He could see she was still unsure, so went for an angle that he knew would appeal to her. “And when you do receive the insurance money you could take whatever amount the town raised for you and donate it to another worthwhile cause. Pay it forward, as they say. I know the library is always struggling with their budget and would be very appreciative of funds to purchase new books.”

That caught her attention, just as he'd suspected it would, so he continued, “and if you're worried about the appearance of impropriety you can always ask the town council to organise it. Keep everything above board.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Mr Gold,” she said, and he was pleased to see a thoughtful expression on her face. “I'll definitely think about it.”

Gold nodded his farewells and took his leave. He felt confident that Belle would be all right in the company of her friends. The grumpy one was still hovering protectively, and he'd seen the Lucas girl pushing her way through the crowd heading in their direction.

He made his way straight to his shop but didn't open for business right away, opting to retreat to the back room while he made some calls. He had arrangements to make.

~*~

A few days later Gold stood at the side of the road, watching as Belle and her friends set up her new premises.

He hadn't talked to her in a while, but she looked happy and he was glad for that. He was so focused on watching her that he didn't notice David Nolan approaching him until it was too late.

“Hey, Gold”

“Mr Nolan.” Gold inclined his head and made to move away, but David refused to let him go.

“You know, this was a good thing you did.”

Gold blinked. “I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Making this place available for Belle. Marco told me that it was an empty shell last week, yet somehow it's been brought up to code and ready to rent in just a few days. I can't imagine how much that would have cost you.”

“I don't know how it goes in your line of work, Mr Nolan, but in the landlord business it's always better to have an income than to not. Investing money into a property in order to rent it out is what I do.”

“Uh huh.” The man had a smug look on his face that Gold didn't like one bit. “And, where is this rental income coming from exactly? The money the town raised with the fundraiser?”

“How should I know?” Gold flicked his hand dismissively. “All that matters to me is being paid the money I'm owed. The source of the funds is not my concern.”

“Really? You don't care at all? Because, you know, there's a funny thing about that fundraiser.” David looked around and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Mary Margaret told me that while a lot of people were willing to donate, they weren't able to give all that much. Certainly nowhere near the amount necessary. Apparently almost all of the money raised came from one, extremely generous, anonymous donor.”

“What exactly is your point?” Gold snarled, baring his teeth.

“Why don't you just tell her that you like her?”

“Excuse me?”

“Belle. Tell her that you like her.”

“You're being ridiculous.” Gold tried again to move away, but David refused to let up.

“Am I? Because I've known you for years and in all that time I've never seen you do anything without some ulterior motive.”

Gold's mouth twisted. He knew what people thought of him, of course, but to have it laid out so baldly, and from someone he almost considered a friend, still stung. “I see. And you think if I tell Miss French that I donated the money to help her bakery then she will feel so grateful she'll have sex with me.”

“What? No!” David seemed flustered. “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that this is the first time I've seen you do something nice for someone just because you wanted to help them. She must be pretty special.”

“Yes, well. It doesn't matter.” Gold felt his fingers twitch remembering their previous conversation. “Miss French made it very clear that she wants nothing to do with me.”

“Are you sure about that?” David looked over his shoulder in confusion. “Because she talks about you a lot. And it sure doesn't seem like she wants nothing to do with you.”

“Perhaps you don't know her as well as you think you do. Good day, Mr Nolan.” Gold finally managed to make his escape, barely resisting the urge to look back and attempt to catch another glimpse of Belle as he did so.

~*~

One of the advantages of a reputation such as his was that people didn't generally seek him out if they didn't have to, which meant that his evenings at home usually went undisturbed.

That's why the knock on his door, coming not long after his return, was such a surprise to him.

The sight of the very woman who had occupied his thoughts most of the day stood on his front porch was yet another surprise.

“Good evening, Mr Gold,” she greeted him with a soft smile on her face.

“Miss French.” Gold stared at her dumbly. “What are you doing here?”

Her smile faltered at his rather unwelcoming response, but she pressed on. “I wanted to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He stood back to allow her entry before closing the door behind her. “May I take your coat?”

She seemed relieved at this indication that he wasn't going to kick her out immediately and smiled again, placing her bag down as she removed her overcoat, passing it into his outstretched hand for him to hang up.

When he turned back around he saw her reaching into her bag and pulling out a small box, which she handed to him.

“Here. I, um, I brought some cookies. The first batch made in my new bakery. I wanted to say thank you. For everything”

“It's no matter.” He shrugged, trying to downplay his involvement, as he led her into the kitchen, placing the cookies down on the counter. “The place was sitting empty. This way we both get something out of it.”

“Right.” She bit her lip before taking a deep breath. “See, the thing is... David told me. That you donated the money too.”

Gold made a mental note to have words with Mr Nolan about the consequences of gossip. “He shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. I know you didn't want me involved and I hope you're not too upset...”

He was cut off by the sudden pressure of her small body crashing into his. Her arms wound around his back and he could feel her breath on his neck. Gold felt his heart stutter in his chest at the contact and he almost missed the words she whispered into his skin.

“I'm not upset.” The quaver in her voice gave him pause, and he pulled back slightly. Belle mirrored his actions, but instead of letting him go she tilted her head, bringing her lips close to his. Ice ran through his veins as he understood her intention and he pushed her away more roughly than he meant to, taking a step back and planting his cane in front of his feet like a shield.

“Miss French, please. I don't know what Nolan told you, but you don't owe me anything. And even if you did I am most certainly not the kind of monster who would expect...that.” The fact that she thought him capable of such things hurt more than he could express and he hoped she would leave soon so he could drown his sorrows in scotch.

“You're not a monster at all,” she cried, moving forward to close the distance between them again and placing her hands over his on his cane. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I shouldn't have done that. And I shouldn't have refused your kind offer the way I did. I hope you know it was never because I was afraid you would hold it over me. I know you wouldn't. I just didn't want you to think I was only interested in you for your money.”

“You... what?” It was an inarticulate response, but his mind had gone blank and he couldn't quite comprehend the meaning of her words.

“Because it was never about that and I wouldn't want you to think it was. I should have known better, I see that now, but I was so afraid of ruining what we have. I'd just lost my bakery and I couldn't bear to lose you too.”

“You're... interested in me?” He felt like his world had been turned upside down in just a few seconds and he never wanted it to right itself. Could she really be saying what he thought she was?

“Of course,” she laughed. “Why do you think I was always at your shop bringing you baked goods?”

“I just thought you were giving out free samples to everyone.”

“Mr Gold, if I gave out as many samples to everyone else as I gave to you I'd have gone out of business months ago.”

“But... why?”

“Because I like you. I like spending time with you. I like talking to you. And I thought...” Here her expression flickered. “I thought maybe you felt the same.”

“I do,” he was quick to reassure her. The last thing he wanted was yet another misunderstanding between them. “Your visits are the highlight of my days. I just never imagined it was possible that you could reciprocate my feelings.”

“Well I do.” She smiled shyly. “You don’t know how many times I wanted to reach across that counter and kiss you. Speaking of which… may I now?”

“By all means,” he breathed.

This time when she moved closer to him he didn't resist, instead bringing his hand up to stroke the side of her face, sliding it around to cup the back of her head as their lips met.

Gold felt tempted to pinch himself, half-convinced that he was having the most wonderful dream. Belle's lips were soft and sweet, moving gently against his as he responded in kind. The kiss was undemanding and delicate, but he could feel the potential for more passionate ones in the future bubbling under the surface.

When they pulled apart he rested his forehead against hers, delighting in sharing her breath as they smiled at each other.

“Would you...” he broke the silence. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Miss French?”

“I would love to.” Her smile widened even further. “And I think it's about time you call me Belle.”

“Belle.” He spoke her name like a caress. “You can call me Frank.”

She pulled back a little and raised an eyebrow. “Your name is Frank Gold?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “And yes, I was called 'Incense and Myrrh' every Christmas throughout all my school years.”

She giggled slightly, “I'm sorry. But that's adorable.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

“If it makes you feel any better, the kids at my school called me Jingle Belle.”

“Actually, it does.” He blinked, wondering what to say next when movement in the darkness outside caught his eye. “Huh.”

“What?” She turned and he could see the moment she noticed what he had as she pulled away in excitement. “Oh wow, it's snowing!”

“Apparently so.” They moved closer to the window to better see the thick white flakes. “And it looks like there's going to be a lot of it.”

“It's so beautiful,” she sighed, leaning into his side. For once he didn't feel like disagreeing. “But I should probably mention that I didn't bring any snow boots with me.”

She looked up at him with a mischievous grin that he returned, before glancing down at her heels. “I suppose you'll just have to stay here then. Those shoes are definitely not appropriate for this weather.”

“I suppose so.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I did bring the ingredients for my festive cocoa though. I thought we could make it together.”

His breath caught as he comprehended the magnitude of what she was offering. “I'd like that.”

~*~

Christmas Eve, Five Years Later

“Good morning, Mr Gold!” Belle's cheerful voice rang out through his shop as she stepped through the door. Gold smiled at the familiar sound as he raised his head from his ledger to greet her in return.

“Good morning, Mrs Gold.” He put his pen down as she skipped over to give him a quick kiss. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to remind you that we both need to get home by four at the latest if we're going to have the festive cocoa ready by the time Bae and Emma arrive. You know as soon as they get here Henry's going to be having you make paper snowflakes with him all evening.”

“I remember.” Warmth spread through him as he thought about having all his family together for Christmas again this year. “You didn't have to leave the bakery to come and tell me that, I'm sure this must be a busy morning for you.”

“It is,” Belle admitted, “but Ariel and Astrid have it under control. And... I wanted to give you this.”

He took the paper bag she held out to him and reached inside, pulling out two gingerbread figures. One was clearly a man, decorated with a suit that matched the one he was currently wearing. The other was a woman wearing a dress the same colour as Belle's, but with a far more prominent waistline than his wife had.

He looked up at her, watching the way she bit her lip as the meaning of the gift dawned on him. “Are you...?”

“I am,” she confirmed, placing a gentle hand over her stomach. “It's still early days so I don't want to announce it yet, but I wanted you to know. Of course this does mean we'll have to come up with a reason why I'm not drinking any of the eggnog tonight.”

Gold laughed in delight, hurrying around the side of the counter as quickly as he could to throw his arms around his wife. Just when he'd thought his life was as happy as it could possibly be, she went and proved him wrong. She'd always been good at that.

Belle returned his hug, her own arms tight around his back, before pulling away and looking into his eyes, tears in her own. “Merry Christmas, Frank,” she whispered, her face moving towards his.

“Merry Christmas, Belle,” he replied, closing the distance between them and capturing her lips with his own.

[peacehopeandrats]

Christmas Secrets

Ho Ho Ho, @jackabelle73 ! Now that it has gone midnight for both of us I can complete my job as Santa and deliver your gift!

It was so much fun writing for you, including things you'd mentioned and accidentally including things you would mention in the future, like Rumple not singing. 😉

Now, this was written during a whole lot of driving around at all hours to play with cats, and while playing with the cats themselves. I figured that was even more appropriate for you, so please pardon anything out of place. Just nudge me that something is cat-altered and I'll happily correct it.

Have a wonderful holiday!

[reolf]

Mysterious

@rumbellesecretsanta

Hi @abovethemists, It's me, Santa!

Happy secret santa! I wish you every bit of happiness and luck.

You gave me a reason to write again and I am thankful for that. I hope you enjoy your gift.

Greetings,

Reolf

“rain, heartache, marriage of convenience”

– Heavy rain was pounding against the window of the carriage. Belle could hardly see anything of the landscape they passed. They were on the way to a ball. It was her 7th season and she was already considered a spinster. Her father absolutely hated it. He wanted her married and soon. Especially now they had financial problems. Belle couldn’t really say why she had stayed unmarried for so long. Was it her mother’s early death? Her absence making it difficult for Belle to navigate the balls and other social gatherings of the ton? Was it her father being an awful matchmaker, only introducing her to boring and dull men? Or perhaps it was just herself who was the problem? Maybe she was the odd one, as she loved to read countless books. It wouldn’t be the first time if she sneaked away during a ball to the library. It wasn’t ladylike, but Belle couldn’t help herself sometimes. – This ball, it seemed difficult to sneak away to the library. They were at the home of The Duke and Duchess of Misthaven. Lord David and his wife Mary Margaret were perfect hosts, but they were highly honored among society. Her father wished they had the social standing among the ton as they did. Her father was only a baron. Their family’s history has been shrouded by the multiple feudal lords waging wars they couldn’t win. It seemed Belle couldn’t win either.

While her father conversed with other Lords, Belle was stationed next to the dance floor. Her dance card remained relatively empty until she caught the eye of a broad shouldered man. He was tall and had dark hair. She felt his eyes on her during the third dance of the evening and by the fourth he had approached her already.

“I don’t think I have ever seen you before. What is your name?”

Belle introduced herself. He smiled and took her hand, kissing her glove. “ My name is Gaston, Lord of LeGume. Can I have this dance?”

As Belle couldn’t see a reason why not, she let him lead her to the dancefloor for the next round of country dance.

His presence was overwhelming. He grabbed her hands, hurting her more really. She also found he was terribly arrogant as he talked about himself and his lavish hunting parties. He insulted other ladies as they passed by. “That dress is ugly compared to her necklace. She is rather idiotic looking. Unless you, my Belle, you are stunning.”

Belle found herself getting more bored by the minute. She hoped the party would soon be over and she could return to her books.

It was when Gaston went to get her a glass of lemonade, she could finally breathe again.

She wanted to turn around and get lost among the corridors of the estate, no matter the social cost. She wanted to do just that as she bumped against someone. Hastily apologizing, she looked up into a familiar face. It was Lord Gold, Earl of the Frontlands.

“It’s no matter,” he answered in his brogue voice. “ I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”

Lord Gold was a mysterious person among the ton. He rarely was at the social events, only if he could make deals with other people. If not making deals, he was standing alone in a corner, cane between his feet. He had long brown hair with gray strands in between, which was unconventional for the fashion. She had spoken to him a handful of times, between standing at the sidelines and being ignored by the other members of the ton.

He was a relatively quiet man and Belle didn’t know why he was so standoffish towards other people. He had obviously a past and Belle liked to know his story.

She saw an opportunity. When she saw Gaston returning, she laughed like she had heard a funny joke and looked Gold in the eye, hoping he would get along. “You are a man of wit, my Lord”

Gold, who had seen Gaston approaching, smiled at her. “If you say so, Miss Marchland.”

Gaston halted in his steps when he saw Gold, but seemed to refind his feet and approached them. “Excuse me, my Lord. But the Lady belongs to me.”

Gold faintly smiled. “ Oh, is that so? Well, I seem to remember another Lady at another ball where I heard you say that exact same thing. How did that end for you?”

Belle looked between the two men, confused what they were talking about.

It seemed to work for now. Gaston wished her a good evening and walked off. Belle smiled at Gold. “Thank you for that. He was terribly arrogant and intimidating.”

Gold stared into her eyes and nodded. “From what I have seen, I cannot disagree.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Well, I must be off. Give my regards to your father.”

And he walked away, leaning on his cane. – Gold rarely attended social gatherings. If he did, it was for good reason. Balls were tedious affairs, but visiting the Gentlemen’s Club was even more exhausting. Listening to men boasting about their lives was… interesting to get to know their weaknesses, but exhausting nonetheless.

Right now, he was sitting in a corner, listening to the arrogant Lord LeGume, Gaston. And he was boiling with anger.

“I will tell you this, gentlemen. She is the one, the lucky girl I am going to marry.”

“The Marchland’s Baron's daughter? Isn’t she the odd one?”

Gaston shrugged. “She is the most beautiful girl in town.”

“I know, but…”

Gaston slammed his fist on the table. “I know she is the best, and I only acquire the best.”

He sat back, slightly more relaxed. “Besides, her father is practically bankrupt. He is desperate to marry his daughter. Her title will make it easier for me to get up in the social ladder. Once I save her father from bankruptcy, I will take his place and bam my family’s name will be entering the nobility.”

Gold had heard enough. In no circumstances would he let Belle marry that oaf. She deserved a handsome man, yes, but she deserved someone wanting to be her partner, making sure she was happy, appreciating her sharp mind.

In all the years Gold had seen Belle at balls, he had never seen her with a real suitor. He knew she was beginning to be considered a spinster. Gaston was her first real chance of marriage.

Gold hated himself to do this but he had no choice. He was selfish. He wanted Belle safe.

That’s why he stepped into his carriage and made his way to the house of the Baron of Marchland. –

Belle didn’t know how her father had arranged it, but she was marrying. To Lord Duncan Gold, Earl of the Frontlands of all people! She could scarcely believe it.

It was a quiet affair: a priest in a small church, her father at her side, an exchange of vows and a small kiss on the lips.

She was a Countess now! Who had ever thought Odd Belle would be married to an Earl?

Her new husband was quiet on the way to his estate. He just looked outside the carriage window. When they arrived, Belle saw a gigantic mansion. It would seem the Earl of the Frontlands had a lot of money.

Gold helped her out of the carriage by offering his hand. A small boy came running down the front stairs.

“Papa! You are home!”

Gold smiled at the boy. Belle had never seen him smile like that before.

“Hello, Bae.”

The boy hugged his father. Gold nudged him to look at Belle. “Bae, may I introduce you to my wife, Lady Belle. Belle, this is my son, Baden Neal Gold.”

The boy looked at her with big brown eyes, the same colour as his father. He had black hair that was slightly curly. He seemed to be around the age of eight.

“Welcome to the Gold estate, my Lady.” Bae gave a small bow.

“Alright son, why don’t you give Lady Belle a tour of the house while I will see to her luggage being brought inside.”

Belle was slightly disappointed Gold wouldn’t be the one to lead her around, but the small boy before her was a good guide.

He showed her the drawing rooms, the dining room, the ballroom “which we never use but it’s here”, the studies, the gallery, the library (which Belle absolutely loved).

She could see herself living in this place. – Gold had made it clear to Belle they were only married in name and for financial reasons. Belle had stayed alone in her chambers on her wedding night. She knew it would be a marriage like that, but she couldn’t help being disappointed by his absence.

The days following their marriage she remained her only company. Bae was mostly occupied with his lessons with his governess. Belle took her meals alone, her walks alone in the gardens. If she encountered Gold in the corridors, he nodded briefly and hurried along. When she was in the library reading a book, he would enter, see her and walk out again.

He was avoiding her. Only, she had no idea why. – It was one winter evening when she entered the drawing room, she saw Bae play with a set of wooden soldiers in front of the fire. Gold was sitting in a chair, reading a book.

Upon seeing her, he went to sit up and close his book. Bae noticed, looking between his father and Belle.

“Papa, look at my general!”

Gold looked and nodded. “I see it, Bae.”

Belle saw an opportunity to enter the conversation.

“Can you introduce me to your soldiers, Bae? I haven’t played with soldiers ever before. Can I join?”

The boy happily showed her how to play and appointed her to be the captain of his troops while he was the general. From the corner of her eye, Belle saw how Gold was watching them. And for the first time since their wedding day, he didn’t run away. –

It was the first ball they were attending as a married couple. Belle was wearing a green dress with gold embroidered on the top. Gold was wearing a black suit with gold pin on his lapel. They matched.

It was the first time they would dance together, as was expected of the new Earl and Countess of the Frontlands.

When the dance floor cleared and a new song began, Gold took Belle’s gloved hand and brought her to the middle of the dance floor. His cane was still in his hand, but he had mentioned earlier he could still dance. Placing his hand on her waist, he started to lead the dance. Belle was careful with her steps, knowing how clumsy she was. She found they fell perfectly in sync with each other. She hardly had to take glances at her feet. The music faded away. Gold kept his gaze on her and Belle felt she could drown in those beautiful amber eyes.

When the music slowed and the dance stopped, Gold and her stood still, hands clasped together, their eyes not leaving. Belle felt her chest rise and fall as if she had run miles. His mouth was open and for the first time since her wedding day, she wanted to kiss him again. Her husband was handsome.

The clapping of people brought her back to the surface and she let go of Gold. He seemed to not know what to do with his hands. He opted to walk away, excusing himself to get her some champagne.

Belle nodded. She could use the refreshment.

She walked away to the side, off the dancefloor. She noticed how another person came to stand next to her.

“That was a beautiful dance, my Lady.” Belle looked up to see who was speaking. She did not recognize the woman. She had red hair and had blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” She seemed vaguely familiar though.

“Oh my apologies, my name is Penelope. I am the wife of Colin Bridgerton.” She gestured to the corner with the food. “He loves a good snack in between dances.” She smiled at her husband who seemed to take an extra scone.

Belle suddenly understood. Viscount Bridgerton and his wife were the hosts of this party. Colin Bridgerton must be his brother.

“I remember us standing together once at the side of a ballroom a few years ago. Two wallflowers as they called us. And look at us now, both married. Who would have thought?”

Belle smiled, remembering the woman now. “Indeed, I certainly hadn’t seen it coming. But my father arranged it.”

Penelope cocked her head to the side. “You know, it is touching to see you and your husband so smitten with each other. The love was palpable from where everyone else was standing. You are a lucky woman.”

Belle didn’t know an answer to that. Her husband was smitten with her? Love?

Before she could open her mouth, Penelope was called by another lady.

Her husband soon joined her side again to give her the glass of champagne. Refreshments indeed. –

The weeks following the ball and the conversation with Penelope Bridgerton, Belle had noticed how Gold was more open towards her. He no longer avoided her during meals, now they took every meal together. He didn’t run away when they met in the corridor. He invited her in his study to look at his work. He even brought her tea when she was reading in the library. It was very sweet and Belle loved this small attendance. One day, she invited him to read with her. Soon they began talking about the books they were reading. Heavy discussions followed, each sharing their thoughts and opinions. Belle had never met a man who was interested in her thoughts like that. He really listened to her. And when she challenged him, it seemed like he came alive and brought more material to the table. It was wonderful.

And as his library was very large, the conversations never seemed to stop.

This afternoon he was reading from a book called Fairytales. He had opted for the story of Rumplestilskin. To make her laugh, he used silly voices and made extravagant hand gestures.

“And while you are my servant, you will skin the children I hunt.” Belle gasped, not realising the story would turn so dark and her hand that was holding her cup of tea let loose. The cup fell on the ground, spilling the tea over the carpet.

She looked in shock at her husband, while he looked almost sheepishly at her.

“That was a quip, that is not seriously on the page.” “Right,” Belle let out a sigh of relief. She looked down and realised the mess she had made. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she picked the cup up, “ it is chipped.” “It’s no matter. It’s only a cup.” Her husband set the book aside and stood up. “We can fix it.” –

Things only improved for their small family. Bae was home for the holidays and Belle loved nothing more than to sit with her husband and Bae in front of the fire reading stories. Mostly it was Gold who read, but sometimes both father and son looked at her with their big brown puppy eyes to convince her to read. She gladly did.

One evening, Bae was already gone to bed. But Belle wanted to read to her husband. So while going through the study of Gold to get the book for reading -she had left it earlier there in the day while Gold was working- she saw a letter lying on his desk.

Normally she wouldn’t look at his desk, but something about the handwriting caught her off guard. It was her father’s.

Her father had practically never let anything heard from himself after she had married Gold. So it surprised her to see a letter addressed to her husband instead of her.

She read it. And gasped.

Her father had practically sold her in turn for money to raise his standing in society. He was only letting Gold know how much money he still owned him for his daughter. It hurt to see her father write about her like that. Was she nothing more to him? A price for a suitor to be won so he could forget about her and go on about his life?

And her husband… she had known from day one she was only in this marriage for financial reasons, but still Gold had never mentioned anything about this. Was she really only a price in his eyes? She remembered how cold and distant he was in the beginning.

Confused and heartbroken, she went to sit on the settee. – Gold entered the study to see his wife distraught.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” It was the first time he used the endearment, but it slipped from his tongue.

Belle let out a sob. Suddenly, Gold saw the letter she was holding and understood.

Her father had been so cold the day he had gone to ask for Belle’s hand. He knew he was only accepted because he was an Earl. The Baron of Marchland was only too happy to accept it. But he had a price. A steep one. He had wanted everything Gold could offer him to give him the opportunity to further his social standing.

Gold knew he was being blackmailed. But he didn’t care. He realised Belle was surrounded by men who didn’t care about her at all.

He knew he was buying her and hated himself for it. He wanted to give Belle everything she deserved, but he couldn’t even do that. At least he could save her from her fate being married to Gaston. So he did pay the price.

Only, Maurice started to demand more and more money each month. It was exhausting and illegal. Gold knew that, but he was afraid and a coward. At first, he paid because he felt guilty for shackling Belle to be his wife. But lately since they had grown closer, he had realised just how much out of pocket the Baron was acting.

He was planning to put an end to it.

How to explain all of that to his wife? – Belle stared at her husband, her eyes full of tears.

“My father doesn’t care about me.” She sobbed.

“No, he doesn’t,” Gold answered. “I recognize the patterns with my own father now.” He went to sit next to her. “At first, I didn’t realise it, but it’s true.”

And he explained to her what her father had done. What he had done.

She didn’t know why everything surprised her so much. Except the story with Gaston. She had always known he was an oaf.

Gold looked at her and smiled. “I should have told you this sooner. I am sorry, Belle. It was never my intention to do this to you. I have grown to care for you so much and…,” he seemed to breathe in, “I love you. I want only to protect you.”

Belle stopped breathing. “You love me?”

He nodded. “I love you with every beat of my heart. You brought so much life into our home. With me, with Bae. I am so thankful for you, my Belle.”

Belle laughed. The tears still in her eyes, she went to hug her husband. “I love you too!”

She thought back to what Lady Penelope had said. “How is it that it took us this long to admit it to each other?”

Gold laughed. “I genuinely don’t know.” He looked serious suddenly. “May I kiss you, Belle?”

She nodded in her enthusiasm. “Yes, yes!”

And they sealed their lips again. Finally. – It was late in the night. The moonlight shone on their bed. She was finally truly married to Duncan Gold. They had shared their bodies for the first time. Belle hadn’t realised how much she had missed before. She loved being intimate with her husband. He had jokingly suggested they would only make use of one bedchamber together from now on. Still naked, they were cuddling in bed watching the windows. The curtains were still open.

It started snowing heavily.

Gold whispered in her ear. “Bae is going to love this.”

Belle laughed. “What? The snow or us being together?”

Gold kissed her ear. “ Both.”

[notalwayslate]

There Can Only Ever Be

My Rumbelle Secret Santa gift for eirian-houpe.tumblr.com/

Prompt: There can only ever be

I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Over the years he stays in the shadows watching over her in case she needs him, but he soon realizes he needs her even more.

AO3: There Can Only Ever Be... - notalwayslate - Once Upon a Time (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

There can only ever be…protection.

Rumford Gold slipped into the pawnshop as his ankle throbbed from the harsh February snowfall. He was so tired that he almost missed the envelope that lay near his feet. Crouching down he snatched it from the floor. It was the wrong size to be any official city document, and too light to be a rent payment.

Curiously, he slid a finger under the flap gently tugging it open. He was surprised to pull out a pressed red rose with a small blue ribbon tied to the stem, along with a small handwritten note.

For your kindness

Belle

He stared at the note with a mixture of surprise and awe before making his way to the back of the store. He reached for the unbleached muslin fabric, a luxury he reserved for the shop’s most valuable treasures, placing a yard of it down on his desk. With trembling hands, he gently placed the pressed rose onto the fabric, along with her note.

Kindness was a gentler emotion that had long fallen by the wayside over the years, a casualty in his rise of becoming the town monster…or so he had thought. When he had seen the girl outside his shop a few days prior selling roses on Valentine’s Day in the blistering cold he felt an unwavering connection to her.

He had no doubt her father, Moe French was warmly tucked away at the Rabbit’s Hole, in a drunken haze, as his daughter tried to make ends meet for that month. He knew all too well a life with a father who shirked his responsibilities in preference for a carefree alcohol induced neverland.  It had made him the cold ruthless man he was today.

He did not want the same outcome for her. She was pure hearted, and he wanted to protect the light within her before life snuffed it out.   

With an overcoming surge of protectiveness, he had gone to her, buying the entire stock of flowers for double the asking price, wanting desperately to get her out of the cold.

Having not thought his plan out thoroughly, he refused to take the dozens of roses he had just purchased drawing a quizzical look.

“Give them to any desperate soul you see fit, and go get yourself warm, Ms. French,” he had instructed leaving her without a second glance.

It was not until the next day, when he entered Granny’s for a cup of coffee, did he learn the town was abuzz with chatter over his generous flower donation to Storybrooke hospital. It appeared that Ms. French was not aware that such an act of kindness did not match his monstrous reputation, or perphaps she saw something within him that others did not.

That evening as he climbed the wide grand staircase of his pink Victorian home with a heavy step, he could not help but think of Belle French. At merely twenty years old with her petite frame and twinkling innocent eyes it was hard for his desperate soul not to be drawn to her.

  Her simple words of his kindness sparked a flame that burned away the cobwebs wrapped around his bitter heart. In that moment, he made a deal with himself. He would protect her from the darkness of this world and give her the freedom to escape the mundane life that awaited no matter the cost.  

There can only ever be…distance.

It was not the responsibility nor cost of his decision that scared him, but the careless misjudgments she would face, if anyone ever learned he was helping her. He had to be meticulous, every plan, every action needed to be guarded with strict anonymity.  

He acted quickly, crossing every T and dotting every I to get the historical Storybrooke nonprofit up and running. Months later it was announced during the city council meeting that an anonymous donation had been given for the renovation and reopening of the Storybrooke public library, along with a two-year scholarship for a future librarian.  

He could not contain his sheer joy when a few weeks later his foundation received her application and personal essay for the scholarship. He knew the girl who always had a book in hand could not resist such an opportunity. He had hoped she would apply, but if not, he would have produced a thousand and one different opportunities for her until he found the right one.

A knot formed in his throat as he read the words of the vibrant beauty whose life was darkened by the silent tribulations of her mother’s passing, and her father’s addictions. Her love of books is evident as she speaks of their power and wonderment carrying her through a life of loneliness and heartbreak.

Images of her flicker through his mind, her on a park bench, her at granny’s, every time he pulls up another memory, he realizes she is always alone. He admires her isolation. His own has made him hard as a rock, but hers is more of a closed book, waiting for another to open it.

He wastes no time in selecting her for the scholarship.  Knowing she will need to start classes in the fall, he uses his contacts in the restaurant and hotel industry to keep her father’s flower shop in high demand for the foreseeable future. No longer would she need to stand on the corner selling roses, as there would be an abundance of income for her father to squander away while still maintaining the bills. In two years, the library renovation would be complete, she would graduate, and he would be there to see it all from the shadows.

There can only ever be…crippling desire.

He was a monster. As hard as he tried, he could not quench the pangs of lust and desire that filled his mind and loins as he vigorously sought his own satisfaction alone in his bed. Every time he swore it would be the last, but visions of Belle’s long pale legs, and crystal blue eyes chipped away at his sanity leaving him in a sticky mess.

In hopes of tampering down his degenerative thoughts, he tries desperately to ignore her presence whenever she is near, but he cannot help but notice how her eyes light up, and a rare smile graces her lips when she sees him.  He knows that she purposefully awaits his arrival Saturday mornings at Granny’s, waiting till he sits at the counter for his cup of coffee, to place down her beloved book and update Granny on her schooling so that he may hear it as well.

She is a clever girl, and he knows if anyone could dig through the mountains of paperwork to discover the identity of the anonymous donor, it would be her.

 More than once he caught himself staring at her lips, wondering what her mouth tasted like. Emotionally drained from fighting his primal desires, he had no choice but to close himself off from the temptation of her. He stopped frequenting Granny’s, spending his days and nights in solitude feeling excruciatingly tired and old.

He had gone seven months without a glimpse of her until the night he heard a scuffle coming from the alleyway near the back of the pawnshop. When he went to investigate a blinding fury rushed his veins as he saw Belle struggling to break free of the grasp of Keith Nottingham. The drunken creep was no match for the ferocity of his cane, as he pummeled him blow after blow. He does not stop until he catches her frightened face out of the corner of his eye. His focus turns to her, allowing Keith to scurry away in a bloody heap.

 Without warning she embraces him, and he in return wraps his arms protectively around her shoulders, ensuring her that she is safe now. He moves to pull back so he can see her face, but she squeezes him tighter to her. He can feel each of her fingers pressed tightly into the muscles of his back, as he leans his temple on the top of her head, murmuring comforting words into her hair.  He does not let go until she releases him first. He takes a moment to scan over her for injuries and lets out a relieved sigh when he does not see any.

Blood roars in the hollows of his chest as he listens to her recount how she was on her way to the Rabbit Hole to check on her father, when Keith had approached her in search of a good time.

The muscle in his cheekbone twitches as he dreams of all the ways he is going to make that bastard pay for ever laying a finger on her. So consumed in his thoughts of vengeance, he is startled as her warm hand slips into his own.

“But I’m okay,” she reassures him clearly sensing the frenzied tension radiating from him. “Thanks to you.”

Gazing upon her heavenly face, guilt seeps into his bones. It was his job to protect her, but how could he do so efficiently when he also had to protect her from himself.

“You need not worry about your father. Leroy knows to contact me if Moe gets…” his words tamper on his lips, as her brows furrow together in confusion from the revelation. Tilting his head to the sky, he looks toward the stars, cursing his loose tongue. He never wanted her to know that to ease her burden, he had a set ears and eyes on her father’s indiscretions.  

“Can you call Leroy and see if he is, okay? It is just…,” he watches her chew on her bottom lip struggling to continue. “It’s the 10th anniversary of my mother’s death, and I know how hard it can be for him.”

Closing his eyes he nods silently, relieved that she did not immediately hurl disgust and accusations upon him for his stalker intrusion into her family life. Pulling out his flip phone, he calls Leroy.

“Where is he?” he asks acutely aware of her worried gaze upon him. He can hear the low murmurs of the bar in the background, as Leroy provides an update. Hanging up, he informs her that her father will be home shortly, safe and in one piece.

 He could sense her mind was flickering with so many questions, but she gave not one a voice. Instead, he found himself in her arms of gratitude once more. The hairs on the back of his neck stand upright and his heart races at the feel of her pressed tightly against him. It is he who pulls back from her this time, wrestling for self-control.

 She had just experienced a traumatic event and was merely looking to him for comfort, and here he was trying to tame the growing erection in his pants. He could feel his resolve crumbling, and knew he had to get her home safely before he or his tented crotch revealed his true feelings for her.  

He would have gladly walked behind her giving her a wide enough berth as to not taint her reputation, however she chose to walk along side of him.

His mouth forms a small sheepish smile as he watches their shadows move together in time along the pavement. It had been so long since he heard her voice that his ears soaked up every syllable as she mutters of her upcoming graduation, and the library’s opening.

All too soon they reach her home above the flower shop. With a sigh he runs his hand through his hair forcing a painful smile, knowing that his time with her has come to an end. 

There is a curious note to her voice, a barely hidden hope lingering beneath, when she asks,

“Mr. Gold…would you...” her words are cut off by slurred hooting and laughter in the distance.

Turning his head, he could make out Leroy’s small figure holding up a clearly inebriated Moe French. The sight soothes his worry that she will not venture out again that night in search of her father.   With a curt bow, he bids her farewell, pretending not to see her eyes, searching his own with his fleeting glance.

That night as he lay in his bed, his mind pondered what it was she was going to ask him. He thought of her rosy, red cheeks, and the adoring innocent gleam of something more in her eyes when she had gazed upon him that night. As much as his heart dreaded it, he knew what needed to be done.

There can only ever be…goodbye.

He was there when she graduated. A silent shadow in the stands mixed among a hundred other faces. He watched in awe as she took her first step towards a new life with her diploma in hand. Her father and others gathered around her in congratulations after the ceremony, but he kept his distance.

It was a month later that the tiny town of Storybrooke gathered around Main Street in anticipation of the grand opening of the Storybrooke Library. Mayor Mills was there of course, forever camera ready to cut the ribbon and take credit for the entire project that he had funded. He did not care really, he did not do it for the spotlight, he had done it for Belle.

Peeking through the blinds, he could see her, in a dress of blue standing on the stage with the mayor. Although she was smiling, he could see a gleam of sadness in her eyes, as she scanned the crowd. His breath hitched at the sight, and deep in his heart he knew she was searching for him.

He cast his eyes downward ashamed that he was too much of a coward to attend. Turning, he shuffled to the backroom, where balls of crumpled paper lay littered across the floor. Running a hand down his face, he tried in vain to wipe away his fatigue. He had stayed up much of the previous night, putting pen to paper, searching for the right words to let her go. He had given her his kindness, and protection, and now it was time to give her freedom.  

Sitting back down at his desk, he was lost as the faint scratch of his pen against the paper consumed him for the next hour or so. He growled in frustration, and he waded up his latest feeble attempt, tossing it to the floor, before slamming his head down to rest atop his arms in exhaustion. He hears the bell ring above his shop door, and the click of heels approaching. He snaps his head up, just in time to see Belle pulling back the curtain.

“Mr. Gold?” she calls for him, her voice laced in concern.

He ungracefully flounders in his chair before stumbling up to stand.

Her eyes gaze around the disheveled state of the room, before landing on him.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can think of saying.

“No, I should be the one who’s sorry, I didn’t mean to just burst in here, but it’s just you weren’t at the dedication today, and” she pauses a moment before her doleful eyes bore into his. “You weren’t there.”

His heart yearns to go to her, show her the briefest bit of comfort. It was clear by the look on her face, how hurt she was by his absence. This had gone too far. Despite his best wishes he had distorted her sweet soul into believing he was anything worthy of her time and affection. He had to end this now. He swallowed the bile in his throat, looking down, as he did not have the resolve to face her.

“Oh, was that today,” he waves his hand as though it was inconsequential, “Dearie, I find it wholly inappropriate that you…”

“Mr. Gold?” she gasps, cutting off his cruelty.

He looks up, to see her gaping in astonishment, at the pressed rose and handwritten note, displayed on a pedestal in the corner of the room.

Closing his eyes, he shook his head knowing he was exposed.

“You…,” he can hear her voice crack with emotion but still cannot force himself to look up. “You still have it.”

He shakes his head dumbly. “Yes, and now you must go.”

“Why?” she asks, her voice raw with emotion.

 He turns from her with a thousand excuses to her question at the tip of his tongue, but he settles for the truth.

“Because I am a monster.”

He felt the weight of her hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to face her. With great reluctance he turns as a ripple of warmth courses through him as her lips find his in a soft feathery kiss.

As she pulls back, he feels the tears rolling down his cheek.

“You don’t owe me anything Belle.”

Her long and delicate fingers trace the lines and angles of his face, as her radiant smile captivates him.

“I know.”

It was a foreign feeling to be looked upon with such an adoring gaze. He had fought pulling her into his world for so long, that he never considered she would pull him into hers.

He reaches up cupping the back of her neck with his hand as she willingly moves forward locking her lips to his.

There can only ever be…her.

Clutching the small velvet box he tiptoes across the cabin floor, kneeling at her bedside. He gingerly reaches his knuckles out to caress her cheek. She stirs as the blanket shifts down her naked form. He holds a breath of anticipation as her glistening blue eyes lazily flutter open, as she greets his presence with a warm smile.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart,” he whispers, plucking a kiss from her pink lips.

He still cannot believe any of this is real. Ever since that night at his pawn shop 8 months ago, they have been inseparable. Although her father, along with most of the town, granted them no acceptance, they found a peaceful solace in each other’s arms.

Night after night, with her head nestled beneath his chin, her heartbeat drowned out all the inner turmoil that once plagued his sleep. His thoughts are now consumed only by her, and the future he craves, more than his next breath.

Hands shaking, he places the box on the mattress, as her startled eyes gaze upon it. He has practiced the words for weeks but in the moment, as he gazes into the blue eyes that have become his home, he cannot wait a second more to utter those four words.

“Will you marry me?”

His question was instantly answered as her yes echoed in his ears filling him with the warmth of a thousand suns. He had only a moment to slip the ring on her finger, before she was entangled in his arms. He feels her pulse drumming beneath her skin, her heartbeat against his ribs. His hands rake over her naked body with an eager hungriness.  

Her mouth is on his, as their bodies tumble backwards onto the bed. Entwined and locked together her moans are echoed by his own. Begs of harder and faster fill his ears, a need that he devotedly complies with.

Her fingers entangled in his hair, her new ring digging into the back of his head, the new sensation bringing him closer to the edge. With one last thrust he falls into a sensation of unrivalled euphoria as she reaches her own bliss.

Panting he moves to her side, his arms wrapped protectively around her as she snuggles into his chest. No words are spoken as she raises her hand gazing at the ring. His heart swells with emotion, and he cannot wait for her claim to be on his finger soon.

From this moment on, there can only ever be forever.

[rumbellesecretsanta]

Two days to go!

You have about two days left to sign up for Rumbelle Secret Santa! The sign-ups close on Friday night around midnight (EST). So far, there are just a handful of participants. It’s (barely) enough to make the event work, and it’d be wonderful if some more people signed up! The more the merrier, and all that.

Thank you so much to everyone who has signed up already! Your prompts have been excellent, and I’m so glad we’re able to keep this event alive together. 🧡

Have I not convinced you to participate yet? Let’s play dirty, then… If you want me to let our Rumple out of this cage, all you need to do is sign up. Don’t keep him waiting…

[thestraggletag]

The Dinner Guest

Summary: After Belle escapes the clutches of the Evil Queen Rumplestiltskin vows not to waste another opportunity with her. But it turns out Evil Queens are not the only obstacles in the path to true love.

Prompt: time for giving thanks, annoyed.

Added preferences: Charming as a foil for Rumple.

AN: Hi, @spottytonguedog it is I, your Secret Santa! I hope you enjoy this! This December has been crazy what with the heat wave (damn your Southern Hemisphere!), the myriad of birthdays and such and the World Cup (WE WON WE WON WE WON) so I’m sorry this is a couple of hours late (for me, I think it might actually be on time for you). Have fun and Merry Christmas!!!

Rumplestiltskin scanned the trophy room, trying to focus on every single detail at once. The fireplace was roaring, and the torches on the walls provided good ambient light: soft, the soft of light that flattered his scales, if there was such a thing. The tapestries were newly-washed, their tale a particularly fitting one, he felt: a unicorn, chased by hunters with their rabid dogs and saved by a beautiful maiden. He had obtained the tapestries in a deal with some minor king over a hundred years ago, and had forgotten all about them for decades. Belle had despaired over their sad state and had restored them, to the best of her abilities. He had let them gather dust after she had gone, and when he had thought her dead. But now that she was back he wanted them looking their best, if only for the smile it would put in her face.

The table was laid with golden plates and fresh flowers in all the many vases that adorned the centre, with candelabra at a safe distance to add to the ambiance. He had picked her favourite blooms, which had been suspiciously abundant around the castle.

He had also procured the food. Roasted pheasant with vegetables, followed by a palate-cleanser orange-flavoured water-ice and two choices of souffle, raspberry and chocolate. He had had to cash in a favour from a cook, once an undercook in the kitchen of a faraway king with dreams of proving himself and snatching a promotion. Rumplestiltskin had made it so he succeeded- by giving almost everyone else in the kitchen terrible food-poisoning in the eve of a big banquet. He had done it mostly out of boredom, but now he was glad that he had collected that favour.

He, of course, could not be outdone by his own dinner table, so he was dressed in his best attire: dark brown leather pants tucked into polished boots, a soft cream blouse with gold stitching and a gold-and-burgundy vest, the sort he favoured with flaring collars and plunging necklines. He had opted out of a coat of any kind, not wanting to have too many barriers between himself and Belle’s affectionate touches. His only nod to jewellery was the bracelet around his wrist, made from his and Belle’s hair, braided together with his own golden thread. 

He had thrown himself into the research on a way to nullify the effects of true love the moment Belle had come back to him, bruised and thin from her enjoyment of Regina’s brand of hospitality but blessedly alive and, surprisingly, willing to give him another chance. 

Surely, he reasoned, if there was a way to bottle true love, something that previously people had thought could not be done, true love could also be… blocked. Or its magical effects nullified. He threw himself into his research, wishing to prove himself worthy of Belle’s trust in him.

In the end two strands of their hair, braided along his gold thread and fashioned into bracelets, one for each, was all it took. It was, in many ways, the same alchemical principle that had allowed him to bottle true love, only it contained instead of condensed. He had presented the bracelet to Belle along with a painfully honest recount of what had happened with Bae, how he had spent the past three centuries trying to find his way back to the son he had abandoned in a moment of weakness. He had owed it to her, both to explain why he had to hold onto his power and would not consider giving into their feelings unless he could do that. Not that he expected anything, he told her. 

He needn’t have feared she would reject him, or that she would be reluctant to kiss him again, burned by what had happened the first time. She had given him a kiss that night. Fleeting, a tentative brush of her lips against her, standing on tiptoes because she was such a wee thing, no matter how large her presence was in every room she stepped into. 

Soon her bravery asserted itself and her exploratory pecks became long, deep kisses. Became late nights in front of a roaring fire, laying boneless in the settee she usually liked to lounge and read in, with her practically on top of him, tilting her head this way and that way, seeking out the angles she liked the most, the pressured and intensity that was had them both in a near constant state of tension. 

It was heavenly. Rumplestiltskin was not a man accustomed to touching. He had seldom been touched as a human, and even less in an affectionate way, barring his brief time having Bae around. As the Dark One touch happened much less, both as a personal choice and as an inevitable side effect of being the thing monsters were afraid of. But he was addicted to it now, with the way Belle flung himself into his arms, the way she boldly wrapped her arms around him, tugging at his hair as she slanted her mouth across his, a demanding little thing, seeking her pleasure out of him.

But as much of a delightful little explorer as she was, Belle was also a maiden. A noble lady raised modestly, safe inside the walls of her father’s keep. Her experience with men was constrained to garden parties and galas, and later on, once the ogres began threatening their land, to the soldiers wounded in battle that she would try to tend to, always chaperoned by at least a maid, if not more. Belle was innocent, and as brave as she was with him, there was a limit to what she would do. A lack of knowledge, an honest ignorance of what came after, but the way she moved in his arms, and the noises she made, let him know she felt like him. Unfulfilled. Eager.

He was the one with experience. He should be the one taking the lead, guiding things to the next step, but he was a coward, terrified of a hundred different things. Of being so vulnerable in front of someone else. Of disappointing Belle, or not being enough for her. Of hurting her too, with the way the demon in him burned for her, the way it whispered to him to consume her, to rip the innocence right out of her. No Dark One had ever felt carnal lust, not like this. Not so focused on one single person, so fixated and possessive. He felt that if he ever lost control the curse would swallow Belle up.

So he did what he did best. He ran, telling himself he was protecting her. Doing the right thing, keeping the monster away from the beautiful maiden. But it was a cowardly excuse, and only took him into consideration. Belle deserved better, deserved to choose for herself how far she wanted to go, how she wanted things to be between them. 

So he decided to plan a dinner. A slow seduction over music, food and cosy intimacy. A lovely night of romancing where he would press her just as much as she would let him, where he would guide her as far as she wanted to go. He would be brave for her.

The thought of bravery made him go to the wet bar in the corner, picking up a decanter of whiskey and pouring himself a healthy three fingers worth of the amber liquid into a solid crystal snifter, gulping the drink down before helping himself to seconds. As he did he tried to take his mind off things. He needed to be calm, cool and collected and he could do neither of those things if he thought about Belle, soaking in the tub he had set up for her, the water scented with orange blossoms, ready to slip on the lovely dress he had made for her, a magnificent golden confection with a sweeping skirt and, dare he admit it, a rather daring neckline, the colour surely to highlight the peachy shade of her-

Fuck. He needed to get a fucking hold of himself. Three hundred years barely feeling anything for anyone, and now it was as if all that pent-up want was slamming into him at once, turning him into a slobbering animal. Perhaps it would not be such a bad idea to-

A knock interrupted his thoughts, though he thought at first that he might be imagining things. It was a cold winter night, no one who had any sense would even think to be anywhere near the Dark Castle. Yet the knock came again, one followed by another till it became clear that someone was banging rather insistently on his door. Miffed beyond reason and ready to dispatch whoever was stupid enough to interrupt his planned night he yanked the door open, finding what he thought at first might be some overgrown dog drenched by the snowfall that had barely stopped half an hour ago. But once he lit the nearest torch he saw that it wasn’t an animal at all. It was Prince fucking Charming, wet, muddied and looking like sleep was a foreign concept he had never encountered before.

“Do you, by chance, have any peaches?”

What.

The.

Fuck.

“The devil you say?”

Rumplestilskin frowned, sure he had heard Charming wrong and disgruntled at the interruption. The prince was likely there due to some Regina-shaped emergency or some other magical inconvenience that he thought the Dark One could solve because, apparently, fairy godmothers were there for decoration. Couldn’t he spend one evening not babysitting one stupid monarch or the other?

“It’s just… I’ve noticed you have an orchard where the trees seem to be indifferent to the passing of the seasons.”

The pretend prince was right, of course. The orchards inside the Dark Castle grounds always bore fruit. Belle liked fruit, for one. She had been deprived of it for long during the Ogre Wars and later on when she had been captured by the queen. So he made sure the orchards were gripped by a never ending summer, the trees heavy with juicy fruit and the bushes dripping with berries that she could simply pluck and eat as she passed by. Pears, peaches, oranges, tangerines, blackberries and raspberries. Everything except apples. 

“I need peaches, and this was the only place I could think of to get them in the middle of winter.”

Yeah, that didn’t really answer any of the questions he currently had. He was about to tell him so, right before he told him to fuck off, but an unexpected and uninvited twinge of pity settle on the pit of his stomach. Charming looked a wreck, truly. Sodden to the bone, looking like he might have torn chunks of hair out of his scalp, with clothing that he seemed to have put on while blindfolded. Like some pathetic, ran down Adonis.

“Just… go stand by the fire. I can barely understand you, the way your teeth are chattering.”

He reluctantly ushered the prince into his home, thinking that he could speed up his recovery with a bit of magic, get quickly to the bottom of whatever fever dream had gripped the idiot and dispatched him back to the loving arms of his white-as-snow bride before Belle had finished arranging her hair. Surely the man would be as eager to be on his way as Rumplestiltskin was to kick him out.

But Charming bypassed the fireplace in the main hall completely, striding deeper into the castle as if he owned it, his steps leading him to the trophy room.

“It smells great in here. And so warm!” The lumbering idiot went straight towards the table laden with food, only making a last-minute detour when he spotted the wet bar.

“Oh, I could use a drink. It’ll warm me right up.”

“So would a fireball to the face.”

His fingers twitched, eager, but Charming was then too close to the dining table, and he could not risk spoiling all his hard work. The boy grabbed the heavy crystal decanter he had poured his own drink from, and the Dark One frowned, uneasy. That whiskey was not ordinary. Alcoholic beverages could not do little to his Dark One physique, so he tended to lace his drinks, making sure Belle knew not to touch certain bottles. That particular decanter was itself enchanter to enhance the potency of whatever drink it contained, and he had been letting that particular whiskey macerate in there for years. It was his “drink in case of emergency emotional breakdown” drink, so to speak.

“Dearie, I don’t think you should-”

He thought he’d have more time to warn him. That, as a prince now, Charming had grown to acquire at least some of the mannerisms of the nobility, like their appreciation of fine liqueurs. But it seemed that you could take a man out of the pigsty but you couldn’t take the pigsty out of a man. Charming downed the drink almost blindly, hardly reacting to the way the alcohol burned its way down his throat. By the time the Dark One could blink, aghast and also a little bit more respectful of Charming, he served himself a new glass, which he drank just as fast as the first one. In an instant he had transported himself next to the man and, in an uncharacteristic act of generosity, yanked the decanter right out of the fool’s greedy hands.

“Let’s try some water for a change, dearie.”

“What about some food? I’m starving.”

The prince’s eyes were already glassy, a clear indicator the whiskey had been as powerful as he’d feared. Otherwise he imagined he would have cowered at the sight of a scowling Dark One, clearly one small comment away from turning him into a snail.

“Oh, everything looks delicious and it looks like you have more than enough. You don’t mind, do you?”

Rumplestiltskin didn’t need to strain himself to catch the way the princeling was beginning to slur, nor pay extra attention to notice how he dropped himself into a chair like a sack of potatoes. With manners that clearly outed him as a person who had grown up in a barn he tore through his carefully-arranged table, casually tearing a leg off the roasted pheasant and piling his plate high with the vegetables, uncaring of the bits that fell to the soft cream tablecloth, staining the fabric a muddy brown.

“Do they not feed you at home, dearie?” He could not even bring himself to be outraged for his ruined efforts, so appalled was he by Charming’s voraciousness. “Does your snowy wife forget to drop the kitchen scraps into your pen at night?”

The princeling mumbled something, made entirely unintelligible by the pheasant drumstick still protruding from the man’s mouth. Rumplestiltskin began to feel that comparing Charming to pigs was an affront to pigs everywhere.

“I just… It’s been a difficult couple of days. Week. Month and a half.”

To his credit he looked like he had had a rough few weeks, his eye-bags alone attesting to sleepless nights and frayed nerves.

“Trouble with the missus?”

Charming had the decency to swallow this time before speaking, going as far as to wash the food down with a long drink of water. At least he was getting hydrated.

“She’s pregnant, as you must know.”

He did, of course. The future saviour was swimming about in Snow’s tummy as they spoke, right on schedule. A blonde, blue-eyed little thing, if the glimpses he caught of the future, fleeting as they were, proved true. More like her father than her mother in looks.

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Well, it… It hasn’t been easy. She’s been so dreadfully sick, so of course I can’t sleep knowing that she’s suffering so. We’ve been trying to find things she can keep down, or things she’ll be tempted to eat, but it’s never something that we have readily available. It’s either some spiced sauce from Agrabah or a very rare mushroom growing atop the Forbidding Mountains, or, in this case-”

“Peaches. In winter.”

Snow White was rarely the stereotype of a spoiled princess nowadays, after her rough living as an outlaw and a bandit, but pregnancy had apparently brought the haughty royal in her. At least when it came to her pregnancy cravings.

“Yes. I was going mad, tried everywhere to find some, until I remembered about your orchards.”

Desperation did strange things to people. In the case of Charming, it seemed to have made him reckless beyond reason. He could not detect an iota of fear in the man as he continued to grab chunks of the now poorly-looking pheasant and serve himself helpings of every side dish.

“There are some hot bread rolls in the basket with the red napkin, if you want some help cleaning out your plate.”

“Oh, that would be lovely!”

Clearly Charming was beyond sarcasm too. That was going to be a problem.

“Rumple, are we having company?”

Rumplestiltskin stood stock still for a second, wishing that he had misheard. But it wasn’t meant to be, judging by the way Charming’s attention focused on something behind him, the man doing what looked like a halfway decent attempt at looking semi-sober, though he wobbled when he stood to bow.

“Greetings, my Lady. Sorry, I didn’t know there was anyone else here.”

He tried to straighten up, but he wasn’t sober enough for it, stumbling almost into Rumplestiltskin’s arms. The Dark One turned around, immediately relieved upon realising that Belle had not put on her gold dress but rather one of the winter frocks he had made for her, the fabric a soft lavender that complimented her hair and skin. If Charming had seen her in the gold dress, he would have had to kill him.

“It’s no trouble. I’m Belle, nice to meet you.”

The idiotic shepherd took a few steps forward, stumbling less than he should have, given his state, and bowed rather dashingly, crumpled wet cape and all. Damn his natural charisma, he wondered if he could bottle it somehow. Would likely come in handy for one of his deals. Luckily, Belle did not seem taken in by it, though she remained cautiously welcoming.

“I seemed to hear you need… peaches?”

Relief rolled off Charming’s shoulders as he directed his sheepdog puppy-eyed stare at Belle, having obviously decided she was the answer to his prayers.

“Yes, my lady. For my wife. She’s pregnant, you see, and has strong cravings. I’ve been looking everywhere for peaches but it’s not the season for them. This is my last hope.”

He smiled at Belle, looking so insufferably lost and needy that Rumplestilskin almost reconsidered that fireball he had nixed earlier.

“Oh, you poor dear. I’ll go get some peaches, it’ll only take a few minutes. Rumple will look after you till I get back.”

The moment Belle was out of the room, going towards the kitchen to access the orchard quicker, Charming’s expression changed, a roguish smile taking over his features before he slapped him hard on the back.

“What the fuck?”

“You old dog!” His slurring got more pronounced now that there were no ladies present to impress. A sort of strange joviality took over the man, erasing some of the tiredness from his face. “I didn’t know you had company. Lovely company at that.”

It was a testament to how endearing the idiot was that he could call Belle lovely and not have it be perceived by Rumple as a declaration of war. But the poor sod was besotted with his whiter-than-snow wife, and too goody-two-shoes to even glance at another woman in that way.

“Belle is…”

Charming made a sound of encouragement, pouring him a glass of the damned whiskey and prompting him to sit down beside him and share a bit of himself.

“She’s a flicker of light, am I right? Your flicker of light?”

The pretend prince nudged him on the side and wagged his eyebrows, in what appeared to be some male-bonding gesture of some kind. He hated that he didn’t hate it.

“Yes.”

“I thought you said… I mean, you said she was dead.”

Damn the man for lowering his voice in concern.

“I thought she was. Regina told me she was. Turns out she had her. Imprisoned her in a tower, a chess piece to be used if there was ever need of it.”

“Then I’m surprised Regina is still alive.”

There was something about the way that Charming said it, with a hint of harshness and a twinge of regret, that surprised the Dark One. The man was sad he hadn’t offed Regina, apparently. Then again, Charming of all people understood what it was to have your true love threatened by the likes of the Evil Queen. 

“Belle doesn’t want me to kill her.”

It still irked him, even though he would not have killed Regina either way, needing her as he did for the curse to be cast. But he disliked that Belle had adamantly told him not to retaliate in any way. 

“Can’t even maim her a bit. Unfair.”

Charming patted him on the back with a bit more gusto perhaps than he would have done sober.

“That’s tough.” He put on an understanding smile, unbearable in its sincerity. “Women, right? Can’t live with them, can’t live without ‘em.”

“I could live without you, dearie, so touch me again at your own peril.”

The shepherd raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, but he did not seem afraid at all by his very grave warning. Instead he leaned over, smelling strongly of spirits and pheasant, and whispered to him.

“So, old boy, how are things going with this Belle of yours?”

For the umpteenth time in the past half an hour Rumplestilskin wondered how necessary Charming really was to his future plans, the saviour having already been conceived and all.

“Where the hell is that girl with those damned peaches?!”

Belle found him around half an hour after he had managed to send a still-drunk Charming on his way with a basket of perfect peaches, moodily sitting down on the bearskin rug in front of the fire and staring into the flames and thinking about how his carefully-planned dinner had gone up in smoke.

“Your sulking is keeping me awake.”

He grumbled, fighting the urge to grab the throw from the settee and hide himself underneath it. It would be beneath his dignity as a Dark One, but it was very tempting all the same. He had chucked off his vest and boots, and had magically cleared the table. No use pretending their cosy little dinner was going to happen.

“Just a few more thunderclaps and I’ll let the storm move on.”

As if on cue lightning split the sky outside, a crashing sound accompanying soon after, satisfying in its intensity.

“Is the prince at least out of range of your temper-tantrum?”

He smiled half-heartedly.

“Where do you think the storm’s going?”

He heard Belle tut behind him, but he could tell, without having to look at her, that she was at least partly amused by the whole thing. When she finally entered his line of vision she was holding a tray containing the two souffles, which had been blissfully waiting in the kitchen for them to finish the dinner that never happened. Charming hadn’t gotten his greedy little hands on them.

“Come, I don’t think these will keep. Might as well eat them now.”

She handed him a spoon, keeping the other one she had for herself. There were no serving bowls, but his prim little former-servant did not seem to mind, grabbing a bite right out of the souffle, unbothered by the notion of eating out of the same place as the Dark One. 

He grabbed the spoon and sunk it deep into the chocolate souffle, humming in appreciation once the rich taste of chocolate exploded on his tongue. Fuck, it was good. Next to him Belle moaned as she savoured a mouthful of the raspberry dessert, which left him enchanted. That favour had been well worth the deal.

They ate in companionable silence, the dessert and quiet company doing a lot to smooth out his anger and frustration. Fucking Charming and his inopportune timing and sleep-depriveness. Damn his complete refusal to be cowed by his power and his dark and well-earned reputation.

“It was lovely, by the way, the dinner. Or what I got to see and smell of it. And the dress, it’s beautiful. I look forward to wearing it some other time.”

He glanced at her, noticing now that her hair was down and loosely braided for bed, her cotton nightgown peeking from beneath the soft blue shawl she had draped over herself. It was endearing, the braids making her look younger than she was, the whole scene, down to her bare toes, incredibly domestic. He was suddenly struck by how intimate it was, to see her so unbound, so free. He reached out, unable to deny himself, and gently ran a finger through the nearest braid, catching his claw on the ribbon she had secured at the end of it. He tugged, taking the piece of silk with him, watching as Belle’s curls struggled to assert themselves as the braid dissolved. 

“You smell nice.”

She smelt like she always did, a heady mixture of lavender, iris and vanilla, but it was more concentrated then, turning his head. He could finally feel the effects of the whiskey that he took, a loosening up of mind and body, not strong enough to leave him as senseless as Charming had been, but enough to lessen the fear that bubbled up whenever he was too close to Belle, quieting down the part of him that urged him to flee. Feeling rather content he leaned close, nosing the side of her neck, seeking out more of that lovely scent. He felt her tilt her head to a side in voiceless approval, letting his mouth trail up and down her soft skin, ghosting over the shell of her ear and down towards her shoulder. 

“That’s nice.”

Her voice was unnaturally low, like he imagined she would sound when she woke up in the morning, and it made heat pool low in his belly.

“Rumple,” she sighed, sounding a bit drunk herself, her hands letting go of the shawl so it fell to the floor between them. He tasted a flicker of desperation in the air, heady in the knowledge that it came from her. 

“What do you want, dearie?”

The demon in him purred, recognising the siren song of a desperate soul, eager to give up anything for the thing they wanted the most. 

“Kiss me, Rumple.”

It took less than a second for his lips to be on hers, and even less for her mouth to open to his. He groaned, pressing her body firmly against the solid wall of books behind her, feeling every curve of her body against his own, and it was both a relief and a source of the most acute pain imaginable. She tasted like the raspberry sauce of the cheesecake they served at Granny's, and he immediately had a new favourite dessert. He lapped at her, his tongue darting up the roof of her mouth and exploring every hidden crevice, lingering on those spots that made her moan and arch against him.

"Sweetheart", he growled into her mouth, the word affectionate but the tone inhuman, almost angry. Belle felt one of his hands fist into her hair and the other slide from her hip to her upper left thigh, sneaking under her billowing nightgown and tracing the skin there with the lightest of touches. Her whole body jerked in response, her hands going around his shoulders and slipping into the collar of his shirt, caressing the nape of his neck with her fingernails in a way she knew drove him mad. She loved her independence, and their slow courtship full of new things they learned about each other and tiny baby steps towards a mature and unique understanding of one another, but ever since Rumplestiltskin had first kissed the back of her hand she'd understood that, for them to go slowly and do it right, there needed to be a form of release, or else a strange sort of tension followed them around everywhere. The deeper their emotional intimacy went the more she needed their physical release to be, and she knew he felt the same, except he kept running from her at the worst possible time. But he wasn’t running now.

"Rum," Belle's words were slurred, and her accent, usually unnoticeable, was heavy. It drove the Dark One wild to know she wanted him as much as he did her, that he might not be the only one daydreaming of the scent of books during the day and tossing and turning at night, eager for a warm body that wasn't there. He struggled to remember why he had shied away from her so, from what they clearly both really needed. He could be gentle for her, could be kind and soft and make her feel nothing but pleasure. 

His thoughts halted to a stop when he felt her tongue in his mouth and he dimly wondered how she had gotten his own tongue to retreat from inside her wet heat. He felt her sigh and clutch him closer, her legs hitching around his hips, which made him thrust against her almost involuntarily. He was half about to apologise before he felt her nails scratch down his back, exquisitely painful even with the fabric of his shirt between them.

“That felt amazing. Do it again.”

"Oh, Gods, Belle!" he parted his lips from her with an agonised moan, his eyes black as they regarded her, from her dishevelled hair to her swollen lips and pleading eyes. The goddess who had been so defiant and brave in her golden gown, and resolute in her pretty blue dress was now vulnerable and open in his arms, unabashedly encouraging the touches of a monster. He went for her throat, using more teeth and tongue than anything to sate himself as well as her. Her hips ground against his, reminding him of the unfulfilled ache that drove his pelvis to find a common rhythm with hers.

"Yes, yes!" she hissed into his ear, bracing herself on his shoulders "Please, Rum, please, don't stop."

He laughed against the crook of her neck, the mere idea of him being able, let alone willing, to stop seeming completely ridiculous. But with her assurances as to what she wanted he allowed one of his hands to delve between their bodies, slipping past the now wet silk of her undergarments and into her welcoming heat. Her nails dug painfully into his shoulders in response and he marvelled at how much he liked it when she hurt him.

“This isn’t too much, right? This is what you want?”

He felt close to snapping, the thread that held him together frayed to an impossible degree but he needed her reassurance that she was alright, that this was alright.

“Yes.” The way she said it, so emphatic that she almost sounded exasperated by his questioning, made the imp inside him grin, victorious. Of course she wanted this. He could fucking taste how much.

"Hush, sweetheart, all is well. I've got you, I promise," he crooned into her skin, rubbing his cheek against her chest soothingly. She whimpered, her breathing harsh and quick. "Tell me to stop and I will. I will."

He felt her fingers in his hair, soothingly stroking his scalp and raised his eyes to see her staring at him with an open, tender expression.

"I trust you." She raised her head to brush her lips against his. "I'll always trust you."

She was a marvel, one of a kind. In three hundred years he had encountered no one quite like her, willing to place their lives in his hands without a deal in place to ensure their safety. For all she knew he could still be thinking of tearing her heart from her chest at any point in time, yet she let his hands shred the fabric of her nightgown with nary a protest, throwing her head back, uncaring of her vulnerability. As he peeled the garment off of her inch by inch he let his lips and tongue explore the new skin revealed to him, each inch softer than the one before. He could feel her fidget in her newfound nudity, unaccustomed to being so bare and vulnerable before him. But she made no move to cover herself, so completely trusting she was. So brave.

He parted his lips, catching a rosy nipple gently between his teeth before closing his mouth around it and suckling. He let the tip of his tongue play with the tip of her nipple before he released it with a soft pop, taking his time to scrape his teeth against the path between her breasts before mouthing the other one. Faintly he could feel her slim hands pawing at the fastenings of his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one until he felt it open completely, allowing him to simply shrug the garment off. Far from being displeased at the swath of green-gold skin revealed, Belle's eyes devoured him, her fingers reverently caressing his arms and shoulders before venturing down his chest. There was no revulsion in her eyes as he drank him in, only wonder and increasing confidence as he half-shuddered, half-purred under her ministrations. 

"You're... textured.” Her voice revealed her wonder, her utter fascination with him. “And so warm…”

She lifted her upper body enough to plant a soft kiss on the centre of his chest, one of her thumbs softly grazing a nipple and it was enough to snap him out of whatever stupor her touch had put him under. He pinned her down in a heartbeat, ripping the rest of her clothes away from her, desperate and crazed. She responded eagerly if a bit shyly, breathing heavily as his eyes took in every single inch of her skin, gaze lingering on the patch of curls that covered her sex. She was exquisite, even if her body still showed the faint reminders of her recent imprisonment in the way her ribs protruded a bit much.

"You're perfect," he stroked her thighs delicately, waiting patiently for her to part them open for him "So good. Too good. For me, for anyone."

His patience was rewarded when the muscles of her legs loosened up and she allowed him to settle between her legs. He continued to slide his claws up and down her thighs as he lowered his head to kiss just below her bellybutton, rubbing his nose delicately against the skin there, grunting when her hands fisted on his hair, tugging at it sharply, the sensation going straight to his cock. She directed his head back towards her left breast, letting the most exquisite little cries when he immediately started lapping at it, circling the hardened tip without actually touching it. He cupped her between her legs, wanting her to get used to his touch there, rubbing slowly, soothingly. 

Carefully, minding his sharp claws, the imp sought her opening and slid two fingers inside, trying not to notice how hot and tight she was, lest he lose control. She squirmed beneath him, not rejecting but adjusting and he forced himself to let her set the pace. It seemed like a lifetime before he felt her gently thrust against his hand, small, exploratory movements that he sought to respond, trying to set a rhythm that would please her. He tilted his head to the side, mesmerised as he read her face like it was an open book. There were no barriers between them, this Belle in his arms was all, she kept nothing from him. It was almost terrifying.

"R-R-Rumplestilt...skin," she panted, a pleading note in her voice. He obliged her by thrusting his fingers deeper inside her, curling them slightly till she nearly sobbed.

"I don't want your fingers, I want... I want..."

He didn't need her to finish. A bit of magic had him out of his leathers in no time and he adjusted his body over hers quickly, his clawed hands coming to gently grip her hips. He entered her in one swift stroke, feeling for the briefest of moments the resistance of the barrier that marked her as a virgin. He entwined the fingers of both his hands with hers, pressing their joined hands together above her head. Whatever happened in the future he would forever be her first. He committed the moment to memory, from the feel of her heat around his member to the dazed, needy look in her eyes. He was hers, had been for a long time, and now, for a few minutes at least, she'd be his in return.

"Say my name", he coaxed, placing an open-mouthed kiss on the base of her throat as he finally moved within her, pulling almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward again. 

"Rumple, Rumple, Rumple..." she cried out when he managed to hit a particularly sensitive spot "My Rumple."

“My Belle.”

He encouraged her to wrap her legs around his waist, groaning in relief when the new position allowed him to plunge deeper into her. It took but a few more strokes to make her come, feeling her teeth sink into the base of his throat to muffle her cries. The ferocity of the gesture drove him over the edge, his orgasm surprising him in its almost uncomfortable intensity. He made sure to keep their bodies joined as he lowered them both onto the rug on the floor, twining himself around the brunette, softly stroking her back, tender in the aftercare. Once they both got their bearings he would draw her another bath, one with soothing salves and scents and would start thinking about some other reason to have her wear her pretty golden gown. 

He would also start looking into Charming-proofing the castle wards.

[abovethemists]

Hi there! Santa is here!

How are things going?

I haven’t really started writing yet as I am still trying to make up a plot.

I do have an idea for the start and the finish. Anyway, it is definitely going to be Regency, that much I can tell you!

What are some things in historical fiction that just touch all your right buttons?

I know you want some angst, unrequited love that isn’t actually unrequited so that’s also being worked on.

And do you want Gold to be more mysterious, witty, secretly woobie?

What do you like most about Belle?

Oh and how do you feel about Bae being included?

Till next time!

Hi, Santa! It’s so good to hear from you. I’ve been alright, but it’s the most hectic time of year. I feel like I’m falling behind in 20 different ways.

Oooh I’m excited for a regency set fic! I think the thing I love most about historical romance is the UST, right? Every lingering glance, every brush of hands, it all hints at this seething pent up desire that they have to keep hidden behind cravats and petticoats. The idea that there’s this strict code of conduct that (especially women) are held to but there’s this simmering rage or desire or passion just beneath the surface. I live for the repressed feelings basically. And the men in billowing white poet shirts.

As for Gold, I like him how he is in canon. Mysterious, steps ahead of everyone else, conniving, extremely hilarious, cloaked in darkness, but with a soft woobie center he only shows to a select few people.

What I love most about Belle is her ability to see through people’s bullshit. She’s not easily taken in by a pretty face (like Gaston). I know people seem to think she’s naive or too trusting of rumple but I don’t see that. She knew who he really was and she was right. She saw through his bullshit. I also love that she’s the smartest person in the room and she owns it. She knows her worth. I like a Belle with confidence (though I realize I write a lot of Belle’s who’ve lost said confidence).

I’m all for including Bae! He makes Rumple the character he is.

Thanks for checking in, Santa!

[elanorjane]

Screw The Roses, Send Me The Thorns (Pt. 1)

Gift for @kelyon for @rumbellesecretsanta

Prompt: Mutually horny at family event 

A/N: This is fiction, not reality, the romance is compressed into a very short time period. Remember: safe, sane, and consensual, friends. 

These people were only Gold’s family in the loosest sense of the word. 

Regina insisted on holding these mock “family” holiday gatherings every season. He’d rather be at home, with a bourbon, in his library. Or in his shop tallying his ledgers. Better company, either way. 

But Regina Mills, by a twisted set of events, was the adoptive mother of his biological grandson. A child Bae, and himself, did not know existed until fairly recently. His son had only recently reentered his life after decades of estrangement. Gold came to these little gatherings as a favor to Bae. It was one of the olive branches he could muster in their still fragile relationship. Unfortunately, rebuilding a relationship with his son included regularly coming in contact with the whole damn town. 

This performative family was not for him. And the "family" seemed to grow every year, much to his dismay. First Emma, his grandson’s biological mother. Then her parents, the Nolans, David and his equally insufferably sunny wife Mary Margaret. Then Regina and her idiotic sister, Zelena. In a display of her status as Mayor, Regina now expanded these events to now include Storybrooke’s most influential, at least by Regina’s standards, citizenry. Beside the “family”, their gathering now included Jefferson, her stylist and decorator, Sydney Glass, her counsel, Dr. Archibald Hopper, town shrink, and a handful of other rotating characters, depending on Regina’s mood. If he wanted to be with this many people he'd spend more time at Granny's. 

It was not lost on Gold how tragically ironic it was that the town’s feared pariah was now lousy with family. His eyes roamed up and down the long dinner table, a stark black and white decor that matched the rest of the stately manor. In a nod to the season, blood red poinsettias were sprinkled here and there to dramatic effect. He recognized everyone at the table, of course. He made it his business, both literally and figuratively, to know everyone in town. But he also made certain that none of them knew him, not really. Occasionally his and the mayor’s business desires lined up and they worked in tandem when it suited Gold. David Nolan acted like they were friends every time he saw him, much to Gold’s bewilderment. And he continued his campaign to regain the trust of Bae, or Neal, as everyone else at the table called him. 

Bae sat near the head of the table with Henry and Emma, with Regina at the head looking smugly down her line of descent. Honestly, she was worse than some men and their obsession with progeny and the continuation of their line of succession. Dr. Hopper would have something to say about that, he was sure. 

Gold sat further down the table, by choice. He didn’t need to exercise his power in this sham hierarchy. He knew who really reigned over the town, and it wasn’t the person in possession of the official title. But while Regina’s objective was to protect her power, Gold’s was to protect himself and his family, his real family. And he did that through maintaining control and influence. His desire was to protect himself and Bae. Anything, or anyone, else was meaningless.  

Gold looked at his drink, using his long fingers to twist the apéritif against the white tablecloth. Inane chatter created a tiresome buzz around him. Worse than that, he was bored. And when he was bored, he was left to his own devices to amuse himself. His eyes swept up and down the table again. Little pleasure to be had at this table. He knew he had to keep his sharp tongue in check for Bae. This gathering was meaningless to him, but important to his son. If he says something biting and Bae gives him one of those disappointed looks…he couldn’t stand the further disconnection. Gold fingered the ring on his hand, restless. Under the table his good leg bounced. Hired waiters reached at each guest’s right, removing the appetizers in readiness for the main course. Only a quarter of the way through the meal and his restraint struggled to find a release valve. 

“Screw the roses, send me the thorns.” 

A low-pitched accent had him glancing up. The newest addition to the “family” met his eyes. And what eyes. Big, round blue orbs twinkled at him. Miss French, the town librarian. Well, she will be if she ever got that mess of a library up and running. The eyes and the voice were in contrast to her innocent cherub face. Her eyes said she’d read some books in the restricted section. Her voice suggested she’d like to try some of the things she’d read. She was staring at him, as if she’d expected to get his attention with her comment.  

She was seated diagonally from him, next to Gaston LeGume. The librarian and the pet shelter caretaker. How quaint. They sat at the end of the table because that’s where Regina sat the newest, least politically savvy of the gathering. But as members of the community running town services under Regina’s purview, they warranted an invitation. Regina wanted to either impress them or put fear in them. The librarian, he noted, looked neither. 

LeGume was chattering away next to her, but Gold didn’t hear a word he said. Her remark was obviously in response to something LeGume had said, but the librarian kept regarded Gold across the table. Like she was challenging him to enter the conversation. Gold raised an eyebrow at her. She raised one right back. The insolent little creature.

The phrase that piqued his interest was one he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. She was too young to know the classic guide to sadomasochism, subtitled “The Romance and Sexual Sorcery of Sadomasochism.” Considering sadomasochism as “sexual magic” had always resonated with him. It was delicate, like he imagined a spell would be. It required the precise blend of trust, fantasy, and sensuality. Get it just right and SM could be intensely erotic and deeply intimate. Many many years ago he was active in that community. He hadn’t dipped back in in a number of years. Mostly because he couldn’t find the right partner to join him in the dark, to make the formula complete. It was always off, somehow, despite his efforts. The frustration over not being able to conjure the correct spell forced him to abandon SM and he’d begun to suspect the incomplete desire would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

Still, the contradictions of Miss French raised his suspicions. 

“Read any good books lately, Miss French?” He interrupted LeGume’s blathering, who blinked and gaped at him like a fish. 

Miss French didn’t seem to mind his rudeness. In fact she settled more comfortably back in her chair. 

“In fact I have, Mr. Gold.” It was the most words they’d exchanged since she arrived in town months ago. “It’s one I’d never considered until recently, but based on positive recommendations I finally tried it out. The Story of O. Have you ever read it, Mr. Gold?” She was all politeness.

He couldn’t help the tick in the corner of his mouth. “It’s an old favorite. I haven’t had reason to revisit it in some time. Are you finding it,” he let the word hang in the air, “satisfying?” 

“Oh yes.” She didn’t even blush. “Like any good book, it’s…” she mimicked his speech, “arousing some new ideas in me.” 

He sat back in his own seat, no longer bored. “Glad to hear it. You may have inspired me to pick it up again.”

“I have it on my bedside table if you need a refresher.” She broke eye contact to look up and politely thanked the waiter on her left as the main course dishes were placed on the table. 

“What book are you talking about?” Mary Margaret chimed in. She was on the other side of Belle and caught part of their exchange. “My book club is always looking for recommendations.” 

Gold looked down to hide his smirk. The idea of virginal Mary Margaret reading the erotic novel by Pauline Réage was laughable. But he looked at Belle to see how she’d handle it, positive she’d regret her recklessness and flush with embarrassment. 

“The Story of O,” Belle repeated for the benefit of the table, matching his challenging stare. “A French novel from 1954.”   

The title was met with silence. 

“Oh,” Mary Margaret said. “I’ve never heard of that one. I’ll have to look it up.” 

He knew it was more polite, empty words. Nobody at this table would look up the book. For one, Regina made them put their phones in a bowl on their way in. (He kept his. He knew how to act civilized at a dinner table.). Second, he'd be surprised if anyone in this town knew how to read. From what he could tell they seem to spend the majority of the time running around like idiots.

With much pomp and circumstance the main course, a turkey, was placed in the middle of the table. The legs were crossed and tied over the bird’s cavity with kitchen twine.

“Don't things look so much more delectable all trussed up?” Belle chirped across from him.

~tbc~