A/N: For reasons of incompatibility I had to cut most of Rumple's back story, as awesome as it is, from this AU. I couldn't see Rumple's quest for Bae and Belle's mission to keep her people safe being compatible at all, so I had to remove Bae from Rumple's past. He may figure in his future, though.

He'd been waiting for that moment for a long time, ever since he felt, roughly ten years ago, his immortal existence forcefully entwined with that of another, an innocent and frightened little thing, barely a flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness. He'd been waiting for that soul to grow up, to loose the purity of infancy and develop the thirst for power that all who possessed the ability to command him sooner or later had. He had known it was only a matter of time before the child, now a budding female, called upon him, wishing to command him to do her will. He was prepared, he thought, to twist her wishes into regrets, her orders into heartache and pain till she, like her father before her, understood there was, really, no taming the Dark One. The dagger's control was but an illusion, one he was sure to cure the pretty little thing of.

He materialized inside the tallest tower of Lord Maurice's castle, a big, round room with cold stone walls and floors covered in some places by rugs. A fireplace provided the main source of light in the room, next to a few bookcases. There was a large, ornate bed with dark blue drapery in a corner, and two large windows. The rest of the room was bare, no pretty tapestries or other furniture in sight, except for a chair currently being used to bolt the only door shut.

In the middle of the room stood the girl. She had long brown hair that tumbled down her back and startlingly-blue eyes, large and framed by thick lashes. She wasn't skinny nor plump but did look paler than what seemed healthy, with dark bags under her eyes. She was wearing a linen nightgown, a bit short for her as the hem didn't quite reach her ankles and her feet were bare and dirty. She was more curious than frightened, her decision to call on him clearly the result of long hours of careful consideration and not just a spur of the moment.

"Ah, so my mistress finally succumbs to the calling of her blood," the Dark One bowed, a mocking gesture and looked down at the girl, all smugness and condescension hidden under a veneer of fake humility. She didn't react at first, staring at him as though she wanted to drink him in, to have her fill.

"What's the matter, sweetling?" the imp taunted, a tad unsettled by her silence and her eyes "Did your father never tell you it's rude to stare?"

That seemed to hit home, making the girl blink.

"My father is dead," her voice was accented, and just a touch low, not the voice of a child but of a woman "And his lands die with him. In a day or two, when news have spread, people will storm the castle to try and take me prisoner, to possess that which can control the most feared creature in the realms," she paused, a glint of steel in her eyes as she look at him "And I'm not about to wait for them. My father's people are now my people and they're dying. I must do something for them."

There was no grandiose pose, no heroic speech about duty and honour and bravery. There was a small woman, young and in her nightclothes, telling the truth as she saw it. The Dark One felt miffed, for once things not really going the way he'd envisioned them. No matter, really, intent was meaningless. What was important was for his mistress to understand she'd never truly control him. Whatever problems she had she'd do better looking for a solution elsewhere.

"Command me then, my Lady, to do your will," he urged her, his eyes glowing with glee. He couldn't wait to receive her order and twist it into something dark and ugly that'd make her regret ever calling on him at all. But she shook her head, a wary look in her eyes.

"No. I know what happens when someone tries to command you. I won't make the same mistake. My father taught me better."

The imp was getting impatient and resentful. It seemed he was not to get what he wanted out of the meeting. He'd been prepared to spin the girl around till she was dizzy and uncoordinated, lost and frightened of him, like countless others. But the little daughter of the late Lord Maurice didn't look like she wanted to play his game at all. He was just wasting his time and it didn't settle well with him.

"Then, little girl, what am I doing here?" his words were clipped and simmering with anger, even though he strived to show only mild displeasure at her antics. To show himself truly was to display his weaknesses.

"I want to make a deal."

Those were the magic words to vanish his churlishness and awaken his curiosity. A deal... what a lovely prospect, from such a desperate soul. He eyed her with new-found interest and a hint of respect. This woman, pale and under-dressed, was not as simple-minded as he'd thought.

"What is that you want, doll?"

She spared him no details as she talked of what she knew of the ogre wars, the greed of kings and noblemen and the suffering of her people. She wanted him not only to end the war, which was tricky enough, but also to help her curtail the ambitions of men in power, to ensure no one else would seek to make war for profit. She was very specific in her wishes, leaving little to no room for him to make mischief as he was fond of doing.

"And, pray tell, sweetling," he extended his right hand, winding a lock of her long hair around a claw "What will you give me in return for such a tall order?"

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a brief second before answering.

"The day you finish accomplishing all that I've detailed I'll bid you to do what you will. Then you'll be able to kill me, thus ridding yourself of your one true weakness. No more dagger."

The words sounded like Heaven, far too good to be truth, to be trusted. He'd, in the early years of his transformation, explored possible ways to destroy his dagger without breaking his curse, but none of them had bore fruit, so he'd stopped trying, opting for hiding the wretched thing away and, when it'd been found, tormenting his owners by making regrets of their desires. Still, he knew there were people out there with enough sense or little conscience to be able to enslave him to their will, willing to pay the steepest of prices for the chance to have his power at their command. The girl's offer was more than tempting, and as such very suspicious.

"You'd leave one such as myself with so much power, little one?" he'd asked her, truly intrigued.

"You're not the greatest evil that plagues this lands, Dark One, nor the most vicious. Man can do worse with far less power."

The little thing was clever, the imp ascertained. Not a martyr, not really, she'd just seemed to come to the conclusion that there was really no future for her other than as a war price and object to be fought for and used. The spell done to her all those years ago was quite irreversible.

He giggled, feeling deliriously happy and already imagining his hands plunging inside her, tearing her ribcage apart and pulling her insides out, the blood coating him whole. He'd find freedom in this girl's entrails and she was willing to offer herself up on a silver platter.

Splendid.

"Do we have a deal?" she asked, her stance firm and unwavering. Oh, she'd be a delightful little thing to break.

"That we do, mistress," he purred, bowing down in a mocking way as the girl tilted her head.

"Belle. My name is Belle."

He soon learned that his mistress had a good head on her shoulders for strategy. He delivered to her everything she requested, from maps to information. He'd also deliver her meals, since apparently what little food was left outside her door- since no one in the castle dared enter her room save to clean it once in a while- was of substandard quality at best, not something out of the ordinary in a castle besieged by war.

He hadn't had much faith in her at first, thinking he'd be forced at first to follow every one of her commands till she started failing, painted herself into a corner and turned to him for help. But, for someone kept so far away from everything and everyone, she had clear and precise ideas of how to go about accomplishing what she wanted, though she always took pains to ask his input before all important decisions were taken.

At the beginning he had thought the questions aimed at him where more to use him as a sounding board than to actually get his opinion on things. He couldn't remember the last time that had happened, and at first it left him uneasy and unsure. He grew used to it soon enough, like he accustomed to everything else about his mistress, with the exception of her appalling lack of attire. He had, at first, thought that the girl was trying to distract him with her wiles, but the nightgowns she had, all two of them, did not fit her properly any more and were quite worn.

The day he had presented her with a dress she'd stared at it for the longest time before asking what she was supposed to do with that.

"Put it on, dearie. I can hardly be taking orders from a girl dressed in her childhood sleeping attire. It's unbefitting."

He had made sure the gown would not require another person to assist her, since there was no one to assist her. Besides the food all his mistress got from the servants remaining in the castle was a pitcher full of icy water and a basin to wash herself with, so he decided to also provide her with a copper tub that would fill with hot water at her will.

"I can't have you sick, dearie. Even if you can't die the natural, proper way, you can certainly run an inconvenient fever that would only delay us, and I mean to be free as soon as possible."

She'd changed behind a oriental screen, and the sight of her in clothes that fit was rather striking. The dress was of a fine quality, layered to be warm even if the fabric was flimsy and with an outer layer of much more resistant fabric. It was a simple dress, the materials the only thing truly befitting her station as a lady, but he rather liked it on her. The colours were light, a flight of fancy of his, since he wanted to symbolize her innocence, to remind himself of what she was: a girl whose purity kept him caged and bound.

As her only contact with the world Rumplestiltskin found himself in her company a lot of the time. For some foolish reason she'd granted him free access of her little tower. He'd come and go as he pleased, and at first he'd tried his damnest to make her feel uncomfortable, waking her up in the middle of the night and trying to frighten her by appearing behind her and startling her. He soon grew tired of his new game when it became quite clear his mistress did not mind his company all that much.

"I get rather lonely up here, to be honest," she'd told him once while they'd been pouring over maps. She was startling honest once she'd grown used to him, having had not enough contact with the world to know of the ways of deceit.

He'd thought her so pure, and so good, that it had come as quite a surprise the first time she'd smiled over a kill. He'd dispatched a small troop of King George's men while they'd been on their way to pillage a third town near the front lines, ready to blame the ogres for the carnage and burn the evidence of rape. Once the deed had been done, with quite a bit of glee, he had immediately gone to her tower, wanting her to see him bathed in blood, eyes wild and grin feral, and recoil from him. When he'd appeared inside her room, sinking mockingly on one knee and telling her that her will had been done and the soldiers were dead, she'd smiled. Not a tremulous quirk of the lips but a full-blown smile that lit up her eyes and made her beautiful. She had tenderly stroked the side of his face with the back of her hand, not paying attention to the blood that now coated her skin.

"You've done well," she'd said. The part of him that loved nothing more than to do as she commanded had revelled in her praise, practically purring in pleasure at her touch. And the part of him that was beast and monster and darkness had caught a glimpse of something utterly dark and wonderful in her eyes and sighed. She had such darkness inside her, so pretty as it mingled with her light, that it would be a loss to kill her, but his freedom demanded the price of her blood.

It took them two years to come close to a final and precise course of action instead of merely dedicating themselves to gathering information and containing the situation. It had been hard to fish out all the key players that helped maintain a state of constant war to profit from it. Most of them stayed in the shadows, puppet masters hidden from the main stage. But Rumplestiltskin, under Belle's guidance, had followed each and every string back to its owner. Though he knew he'd have been able to do all this without her aid he had to admit it had been easier with another sharp mind helping.

By the time they'd devised their plan the beast had found it impossible to keep hating his mistress. She was unusually interesting for a simple human, raw and contradictory in ways that fascinated him. Her manners were genteel as well as gentle, and she felt nothing but love and kindness and fierce loyalty for those she considered her people, even though she'd grown up isolated from them. She was wilful, though, for all her softness, and had a sort of detached ruthlessness about her that drove him mad whenever he caught a glimpse of it. She'd order the deaths of hundreds with nary a blink and rejoice when he sunk to his knees and announced her will had been carried through.

She didn't shy away from him as much as he thought she would, not minding it when he was bloody and dirty from some wicked deed. Though she didn't object to his slightly-mocking deferential treatment she encouraged informality between them, and for him to speak his mind at all times. She also had the annoying habit of somehow making him lower his defences and blurt out random things about his personal life, what little there was to tell.

She came to learn he'd once been but a man, an ordinary man, living his ordinary life as a spinner and a farmer. He'd been married and seen with his own eyes the beginnings of the First Ogre War. He'd enlisted, full of mistaken notions of bravery and worth, only to quickly see the world outside his little hut and his modest village was not as he'd thought. Eager yet to save his young bride from ever knowing the darkness he'd seen at the battlefield he'd concocted a plan to steal the Dark One's dagger from his duke, knowing a man who held such power but allowed his subjects to suffer as they did was not worthy of any consideration, and had taken the monster's magic for his own, slaying the ogres and bringing peace. His young wife, however, had taken one look at his changed visage and recoiled, calling him a beast. It was then that he'd learned she hadn't been faithful to him and so had cast her out with her lover to a deserted, unknown wasteland full of perils, to live or die, he hadn't cared which. He'd then sough solace in his new-found powers and had been his own master for most of the time. Then Lord Maurice had happened upon his dagger and the man had proven to be less easy to trick than all the others before him.

She hadn't shown him pity after he'd told her his story, for which he'd been grateful. There had been no special treatment, no walking on eggshells around him. They hadn't the time in any case, and long centuries had passed since he'd been a poor, cuckold spinner in any case. He had told her then other stories, happier ones of his travels and deals, unable to shake off his surprise when she laughed at his bouts of dark humour. His mistress was a rare creature, sometimes too good for him to even gaze upon and other times deliciously and unapologetically wicked and seemed to trust him wholeheartedly.

He'd tried to keep his distance once he'd realized there was no scaring her or making her uncomfortable with his presence or the reality of their undertaking. He'd stopped popping up at random times or lingering after their discussions. It was for the best, not to get overly-familiar with someone he'd end up killing. And for a while it'd worked. He'd pretended not to notice the light pain in her gaze whenever he cut their meetings short nor the wonderful little smile that she tried to suppress whenever he'd come visit.

To take his mind off of his mistress he had begun to think what he'd do with his freedom. He built great scenarios in his head of the things he'd do with his power once more in his complete control, the deals he'd strike, the new treasures he'd acquire to tuck safely away for a rainy day. And the revenge! He'd seek whoever had had a hand in telling Lord Maurice about the dagger and then seek the unfortunate soul who'd come up with the idea of a binding spell. He'd have them in chains for days, months maybe, letting a mixture of pain and small slivers of hope slowly rot away their will to live. It'd be good to rebuild his reputation, though it'd take much more than that to...

An acute pain somewhere next to his spleen had him doubling over, his vision blurring for a second as he sunk to his knees in the middle of the open field he'd been walking by. His blood burned, a furious itch spreading across his skin. He pressed a hand against the area above his right hip, expecting to feel it wet with blood, but he wasn't injured. Confusion stole over him, his magic scanning him over and coming up with nothing to report. He was completely fine.

He heard it then, inside his head. A muffled whimper, full of fear.

Belle.

He materialized into her tower with nary a thought, his eyes immediately finding her huddled form near the bed. Her clothes were torn, her skin scratched and her face tear-stained and in her hands she gripped an old, unsharpened sword that he recalled seeing hanging up as decoration. Dirty, rough men surrounded her, some holding scraps of her clothing and others whatever few trinkets his mistress had, her silver comb, pearl hair pins and the like.

For a second time froze, the surprised soldiers gaping at the sudden presence of the Dark One, who only had eyes for the half-naked noblewoman. Belle's eyes were wild as they focused on him and the utter, raw relief he saw in them when she registered his presence filled him with deep satisfaction. His mistress was pleased by his presence, she felt safe now that her devoted servant was there to do her will, to protect her.

"Rumplestiltskin."

His name from her lips was like a caress, travelling down his spine in a slow, delicious way. He took a moment to enjoy the feeling before he let the peasants know of his presence, unsheathing a sword from nowhere and slashing the closest man almost in half in a way that ensured most of his blood and guts spilled over his companions. For a moment there was only silence as every eye turned towards the imposing figure of the Dark One.

"What is your will, mistress?" he purred, idly caressing the blade of the sword, coating his fingers in thick blood. Belle looked at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"Kill them all, my beast," she whispered, the barest trace of affection on her voice "and be quick about it, if you please."

The air filled with screams of fear and pain as he brought down the blade over and over, barely conscious of the fact that he was practically preening in front of his mistress, delighting in the opportunity to let her see him in action, to please her. It was such a rush to feel her eyes on him as he obeyed her command till the only two people left alive in the room were Belle and himself. He dropped to his knees then, leaning slightly forward towards her till both her hands rested on his hair, petting it.

"Have I pleased you, mistress?" he asked, feeling dazed and oddly content, fighting the insane desire to rub up against her legs.

"Very much so." she replied quietly, lowering her face to plant a kiss on his forehead. He caught a glimpse of her scratched, bleeding arms then and snapped out of whatever dagger-induced stupor he'd fallen into, his claws digging into her upper arms as he rose up and inspected her from head to toe, livid.

"Why didn't you call for me, you stupid girl?"

He spat the last word as if it was an insult, sneering down at the small, stubbornly-unafraid girl. She shrugged, trying not to let the tattered remains of her gown come undone.

"I can't be killed."

It wasn't the bloody point and she knew it.

"You have the Dark One under your thrall and you almost allow some poor mercenary soldiers to defile you?!"

She flinched away from him at last, lightly pressing herself against a corner and avoiding his eyes.

"It would've been a command outside the deal, and I know better than to order you willy-nilly."

He wanted to roar at her, to destroy whatever remained of her room so she'd see the extent of his ire. Stupid, wilful girl, with little to no sense at all. He concentrated on his magic to quench his anger, vanishing the dead bodies of the slaughtered soldiers with a flick of his hand, making sure to make the blood stains disappear from the furnishings as well. Only his mistress's clothes remained bloodied, a way to remind the chit not to be so foolish next time.

"We can't have people thinking they can storm into the castle and do as they please, that they can get to you without going through me. You are my mistress, under my protection, you should have called me!"

She turned her back on him, stripping to her chemise and curling up under the mused covers of her bed.

"I'm tired," she murmured, voice flat and hollow "Thank you for everything."

It was a dismissal and it only served to add to the imp's anger till he could barely think. He drew a breath, ready to describe in full colour and with abundance of detail all that those men had been prepared to do to her nubile virgin body when he noticed her shoulders shake. Actually her whole body was shivering, and her breathing was loud and halting in the silence of the room.

This is what his mistress looked like when terrified, and even though he'd waited eagerly for such a moment he loathed it and wish for it to go away. The world was a harsh, miserable place, full of people that deserved nothing but hardship and tragedy, but this little girl was not one of them. His mistress was a precious soul, worthy of happiness but never meant to experience it. The least she could have was peace for whatever time she had left.

Without giving himself time to think it over he crawled into the massive bed, arranging himself at the foot and wrapping his peasant cloak around him. He said nothing, knowing that his mistress would get the message without words needing to be spoken. The mattress was soft and warm and the sheets beneath gave off a soothing, delicious smell that soon lulled him to sleep. He woke up several times during the night, as the Dark One he was a very slight and alert sleeper, but pretended not to notice Belle had moved closer and closer till she was all but plastered to his back. Her hands held fistfuls of his tunic, as if afraid he'd disappear and leave her alone, but her breathing was even, peaceful. She'd need her rest in order to keep up with the strategizing, he reasoned, it only made sense to let her be.

It became an interesting game of chess to fulfil his part of the deal. A tricky task she had demanded of him, but surprisingly entertaining. By the time five years had passed they had settled both into a comfortable routine. They'd settle on small, specific missions. Some were trips designed to gather information, or to spread it. Others were meetings with powerful men and women with whom the Dark One would strike deals. Then there were days meant for fighting, for slaughtering. Those days he'd go back to his mistress's tower drenched in blood and aching in a wonderful way and she'd draw him a bath with healing salts, surrounding the copper tub with enammeled screens to preserve her modesty, if not his. Then, after he was clean again, she'd insist on brushing his hair as he gave her a complete report on the matter, trying hard not to purr when she laid the brush aside and just stroked her fingers through his mane. Sometime around midnight she'd excuse herself to go to bed, and an open, unspoken invitation was issued. If he felt in a particularly good mood he'd take it, casually climbing onto the foot of the bed, stretching and adjusting till he felt the tip of his mistress's toes against his back. The contact, along with being enveloped in her scent, calmed him in ways he'd forgotten since taking on the dark curse. It was like the screaming, angry voices inside his head got muffled, almost completely silent and the feeling was strangely addicting. He wondered if he'd find anything with quite the same effect once she was gone.

She usually didn't expect him past sundown when he wasn't out killing for her pleasure, but sometimes he liked sneaking in and peaking at his mistress while she did mundane shores around her tower room, from reading (he liked to procure her books on the bloodiest and most gruesome of subjects amongst those she requested to see if she'd touch them) to embroidering. One such night, after sealing a particularly profitable deal, he felt giddy enough to indulge the part of him that craved the presence of his mistress. Casting himself invisible he gleefully climbed up her tower, needing to burn some excess energy, and perched atop her windowsill, peeking into the warm room. He spotted her immediately by the bed, her back to him, fiddling with something in her hands. It took him a while to understand she was removing what little jewellery she possessed, a small diamond pendant on a golden chain. Next he saw her quickly untie the laces of her dress, carefully stripping off the layers of gauzy fabric. Her chemise was the next piece of clothing to flutter to the ground and the imp noticed with a small thrill of surprise that his mistress wore no other undergarments. The dress certainly didn't need petticoats or corsets as there was no lady's maid to help Belle in the mornings.

But he hardly thought of any of those things. His senses were full of the image of a naked Belle, skin pale and glowing in the faint candlelight of the room and hair acquiring a slightly reddish tint. But the most riveting thing about her, other than the delicious way her body curved and dipped, was the stark black tattoo etched on her back, starting between her shoulder blades and ending just shy of her tail-bone The shape was all-too-familiar, he'd recognize the engraved blade and cylindrical hilt anywhere. He could read his name clearly despite the slight distance, the Gothic letters looping, stark black against the creamy canvas of her skin. A side-effect of the bindind spell done so long ago, but one he hadn't been prepared for.

She moved towards the side of the room where the copper tub and screens were located. He smelled then vanilla in the air and saw the steam rising from that corner. Mesmerized he watched as she gently dipped a hand into the water to test the temperature, sighing in contentment before submerging into the slightly murky bath, letting her hair get completely wet before resting her head on the edge of the tub, grabbing a cloth, lathering it up with a raspberry-scented soap he'd brought her and washing herself leisurely.

He stealthily slid into the room, careful to silence his movements with a wisp of his magic. Soon he was kneeling at the side of the tub, following the path of the washcloth against one of his mistress's arms with his eyes. From up close the heady smell of the bath salts and the inviting smoothness of the woman's skin had an almost drugging effect, making his mind fuzzy in an exquisite way. He dared dip a claw into the water, tantalizingly close to her naked leg, letting his head fall gently against the side of the tub. He breathed in deeply, the steam making him drowsy and content. He wanted more than anything to strip bare and be allowed to nuzzle against his mistress, to take the cloth from her fingers and bathe her himself.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, enjoying the heat and the feeling of having his lady near him. When she rose to dry herself he ran the tip of his claw softly over the engraving on her skin, taking care not to apply enough pressure for her to notice. Later on, after she'd dressed and gone to sleep he made himself visible and crawled into her bed, taking his place at the foot and inching closer to Belle's body than he had even before been. Taking advantage of the fact that her bare feet popped out of the bundle of blankets she was covered with he circled one of her ankles with his fingers. When she didn't stir or protest he closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep.

Months drifted by, and Rumplestiltskin could sense the moment of his freedom drawing closer and closer. The idea of spilling her blood didn't appeal to him as before, but he fought against the doubts that started to creep up on him. But even he couldn't help but stalling a bit on a deal, or take his time gathering pertinent information. There was no rush, he told himself, and enjoying the comforts of a cosy bed or the gentle caresses of his mistress was not a crime. She'd taken to reading to him when she saw him weary or moody, gently coaxing his head onto her lap and petting him. She didn't question why he spent a large amount of his nights on her bed, nor did she seem aware of his new habit of watching her as she bathed. Whenever he could he'd get as bloodied as possible, knowing his Lady would insist he wash. He's spend half an hour inside the massive tub, trying not to rub up against the copper, eager for any trace of his mistress that might remain.

Belle had noticed, however, that something was amiss, that he seemed to shoot down her every suggestion and suggest "waiting" and being patient when before he'd have favoured a more direct approach. At first she'd said nothing, wanting to see if she could figure out what was happening, or trying to give him time to sort things out himself. Gradually, however, she begun to loose patience with his stalling.

"There's no need to wait, the time to act is now, while we have them retreating. We cannot allow them to regroup. You must see that."

They were standing on opposite sides of the map carefully arranged on the only table in the room. It depicted the movement of various troops, as well as the refugee towns and front lines. Belle stared at everything, becoming more and more convinced she was in the right. But Rumplestiltskin stubbornly opposed her idea, wishing apparently to act with caution.

"I see nothing of the sort, dearie. There's no rush, no need to charge recklessly into things. We can wait them out."

She felt anger rise inside her, even though she struggled to remain calm. They'd never disagreed so violently before and it unsettled her.

"My people continue to die, either by the hand of soldiers or from illness and starvation. They cannot wait, Rumplestiltskin. Therefore, neither can I!"

He overturned the table, letting it crash at his mistress's feet.

"So eager to die, dearie? To feel me plunge my hand into your chest and remove your heart, squeeze it between my claws and turn it to dust? Then, by all means, let's speed things up, shall we?"

He dissapeared from her sight immediately, trying to shake the pins and needles that having his mistress displeased with him made him feel. He fulfilled the ordered task, knowing that with an entire side secure the end of their deal was quickly approaching. As he bashed skulls and decimated entire armies he tried to get rid of whatever feeling was weighting him down. He was about to get everything he'd ever wanted: unlimited power with no drawbacks, no weaknesses. He'd live forever, and bow to no one.

For some reason that last thought made him shudder unpleasantly.

After the carnage was over he rushed back to his Lady's tower, knowing that according to her habits she'd be bathing. He found her as he hoped, submerged in vanilla-scented water, skin glistening and eyes closed. He couldn't see her hands and for a moment he thought she might be relaxing in the water. But, all of a sudden, her face tensed up, her whole body arching slightly. He feared she might be in pain, that she had somehow injured herself but then she moan, low and long, and, far from confirming his suspicions, it dashed them completely.

He didn't have much experience with female pleasure. His human life hadn't exactly been ripe with opportunities in which to see it, and as the Dark One he'd scratched his itch on willing women eager to exchange their bodies for gold, masquerading always as a common traveller. Those women had faked their sighs and moans, and he hadn't much cared. But somehow, some instinct deep inside him recognized his mistress's muffled groan as a sound of utter contentment. He stepped closer to her, as if in a trance and caught sight of one of her hands cupping between her legs and the other stroking one of her breasts. Her heavy breathing and small movements caused small ripples in the water that made what was happening beneath it more difficult to see, but it was still the most arresting sight Rumplestiltskin had ever seen. There was no artifice, no pretence The emotions on her face were raw, unaffected and they called to him, made the blood in his veins boil and an ache settle deep inside him. He watched her slide her hand from one breast to the other, alternating soft touches with rough kneading. She had two fingers of her other hands buried inside her, trying to find a rhythm that would bring her some sort of satisfaction and, judging by the way she started thrashing, he knew she was being successful. Her eyes remained closed and he wondered what she was thinking of at the time, if she was imagining some sort of dreamlike scenario, a fantasy lover or if she was just concentrating on her touch and the sensations it created.

He caught himself matching his breathing to her own panting, feeling the unfamiliar tingle of arousal spread through him in waves. His leather pants became almost painfully constrictive, but the pain helped him hang onto the last remnants of his sanity, sanity he needed to remember why it was a bad idea to drop his invisibility spell, sink to his knees next to the tub and beg and plead for her mistress to allow him to have her. There were a thousand and one reasons why that would be spectacularly foolish of him to do, ranging from the fact that he was meant to kill the woman in the very near future to the certainty that she'd never, ever want a monster's hands touching her body, sliding across the petal-soft skin, claws digging into the flesh above her hips, teeth nipping at the column of her neck, drinking in her innocence, tasting it on his tongue as it brushed against hers...

"Rumple..."

At first he thought he'd imagined her breathy whisper, but soon another followed. It was his name, whispered over and over again as she squirmed and thrashed inside the bathtub, too caught up in her pleasure to even notice her cries where getting louder and louder. A final, longing sigh reached his ears before she stilled, languid satisfaction taking hold of her, a small, contented smile playing about her face. The imp drank it all in, feeling unsteady and dizzy.

She wanted him. His mistress, so innocent and lovely and perfect, wanted him. Pictured him as she pleasured herself, no evidence of shame or disgust after she orgasmed. For a moment he just stood there and watched as she soaked in the tub, her skin glistening from the water, completely and utterly peaceful and fought the urge to become visible and grovel at her feet, begging her to nullify the deal. But the moment passed and as soon as he regained control of himself he dissapeared from the little tower, putting as much distance between himself and his "owner" as possible. It would all be over soon, the confusion, the contradictions and the inner struggle.

Too soon.

"It is done, my Lady," Rumplestiltskin's flamboyant gestures were somehow muted, and his tone was bordering on the hysterical, but his mistress didn't seem to notice. He had expected her to be either deliriously happy or understandably frightened, but she seemed to be neither. There was a sadness about her, however, that he could almost taste in the air "In two days time the deal will be formalized and my end of the deal will be fulfilled. No more Ogre Wars."

She sat down on her bed, looking a bit dizzy and he quelled the urge to go down on his knees and fret over her.

"It's all very... anticlimactic. It's taken seven years, and now that it's all done I can hardly believe it," she turned her too-blue eyes in his direction, a smile blooming on her face "Thank you very much, Rumplestiltskin, for everything. My people will live better lives because of you."

For a moment he toyed with the idea of telling her that he was getting his money's worth for all his efforts, but the words turned to ash in his tongue, so he just waved her thanks away with a fluttering movement of his hands. He saw her bite her lip and look down at the ground then, a sure sign there was something she wanted to say but didn't dare to.

"Something on your mind, mistress?" he trilled, cocking his head to a side, genuinely curious. His puzzled expression earned him a laugh before she grew serious again, and tentative.

"I..." she struggled for words "I wondered if I could ask you to do me a favour. Not a command, not a deal, just a favour."

He was intrigued enough to consider the idea and so motioned for her to continue.

"I wondered if you'd... take me out of this tower. Just for a day. I've... I've never been outside this castle. I want to see a bit of the world, just a tiny bit. Before... before."

There were no tears, no hysterics, no pleas for mercy. Belle looked poised and calm, a bit hopeful that he would grant her this one last wish but nothing else. There was a strength to her sometimes that overwhelmed him. He'd never been so strong, never so brave. He envied her.

"Well, it is a lovely day and it would be a tragedy to spend it cooped up inside." he giggled, extending his hand towards her. She reached for it, not a trace of fear or doubt in her, and he let his magic transport them both. He took her to the mysterious and exotic land of Agrabah, to the outskirts of a lovely oriental town, the lush meadows of an enchanted kingdom and the snowy mountains far away from her native land. Her eyes were wide as she took it all in, breathing in the foreign smells and touching everything she could. In the end he transported her to a grassy hill that overlooked her tiny village. There he made all sorts of strange blooms grow from nothing, filling their surroundings with colour. Belle laid amongst the grass and stray petals, laughing and rolling around, amazed by the littlest things. She encouraged him to rest beside her and he pretended to be surprised and offended when she threw blades of grass and leaves at him, like he hadn't seen her gather a neat pile minutes ago. She fell asleep as the sun sunk for the day, and he did not have the heart to wake her up, nor the courage to wrap himself around her, like he wanted to, and pray tomorrow never arrived. He carried her to her tower instead, gently tucking her into bed. Before he could leave her, however, she grasped one of his hands.

"Thank you for today, Rumple," she whispered drowsily, her voice raspy and delicious. He tried to come up with a quip, or a line, but he couldn't think of nothing to say.

The deal was struck.

The deal was struck.

The deal was struck.

Those words floated around the Dark One's head as he perched on the windowsill of her mistress's tower, his mind reeling. It was over, his freedom was within reach after over a decade of imprisonment. He'd have no weaknesses now, no dagger to fret over should he encounter powerful enemies. He'd never again feel powerless, or without choices. He'd be his own master.

Lady Belle was waiting for him, and stood up as soon as he saw him crouched on the open window.

"Well, my beast? What news do you bring me?" she asked, her voice soft, warm. He bowed his head.

"It is done, mistress. I've done what I promised I would. I hope it pleases you."

"As much as I hope my next words will please you," she answered, raising a hand and tenderly stroking his cheek, a farewell "Rumplestiltskin, for the rest of the day you may do with me as you wish."

He didn't know when he made up his mind, whether it was weeks ago or at the very moment he pounced on her. All he knew was that, instead of plunging a hand into her chest to remove her heart his lips found hers and he was devouring her, his claw-like fingers tearing at the gauzy fabric of her dress as he grabbed her around the waist and crushed her to him, soft and pliant. Somehow the force of his assault had them tumbling down into her bed, their bed judging by the amount of nights he'd slept there, and she didn't fight him as he climbed on top of her, dragging her to the centre of the mattress as he felt a wave of... something wash over him, powerful and dizzying. He recognized it as magic, but nothing he'd ever felt before. It was pure, and heady, refreshing instead of cloying, almost like electricity, and it seemed to have no visible effects. He wanted to linger on it, to explore it but Belle made a tiny mewl in the back of her throat and he completely lost his train of thought, his mind going deliciously blank as instincts took over.

His hands roamed her body, thankful for the flimsiness of the layers of fabric that covered her and the absence of petticoats or corsets. He could feel her warmth through the dress as well as her softness. She was a creature of contrasts and it set him aflame, to know her gentle curves hid a will of iron as well as a dark, harsh side. Her scent surrounded him, the sharp twang of her arousal mixing with the usual vanilla smell, letting the part of him that was somehow conscious know that she was a willing participant. She wanted this, as much as he did. Her hands confirmed his suspicions, sinking into his hair and angling his head just so before she parted her lips for him. He made an inhuman sound as his tongue delved deep into her mouth, lapping at her with abandon. There was no finesse to his movements, only urgency and eagerness. Need.

His mistress, his Belle, didn't seem to mind, matching his own frantic movements with some of her own. Her hands roamed his form, paying particular attention to the wide expanse of glittering skin revealed by the plunging neckline of his shirt. She gently scraped her fingernails against it, her motions deliciously tentative and unsure and he felt the need to moan gutturally in response, trying to make her see how much he enjoyed it. His tongue, meanwhile, patiently sought to coax hers to play, loving the chase almost as much as the surrender. His mistress was always so assured, so calm and in control, but under him, in his arms, she was fumbling in the dark, relying on his guiding touches and gentle encouragement to know how to act. The ease with which she had surrendered control to him was a potent aphrodisiac and he wasn't surprised when he shifted slightly his hips and felt his hardened member press insistently against her belly.

He abandoned her mouth with a sorrowful little cry, dragging his lips across her cheek and down her throat. She tasted divine the way he'd always imagined she would and he wondered how long he'd wanted her, when hate had turned into something else, something dangerous. He discovered a spot at the base of her throat that had her arching involuntarily against him and he hipped at, fighting the urge to sink his teeth there and mark her. To resist temptation he ventured further down, to her lovely collarbone, bared as it was by the gown's neckline. He lapped at the beads of sweat forming there, his hands stroking her sides, soothing her. He didn't want her frightened, or overwhelmed.

"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."

A part of him, the part that was all Dark One, raged against the idea. The deal called for a day of his will being done, his, and he was giving it up for the comfort of the woman who kept him in metaphorical chains. He struggled against that voice, shoving it to the far recesses of his mind where it was nothing more than a muffled whisper.

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 dress with nary a protest, throwing her head back, uncaring of her vulnerability. As he peeled the gown 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. When her breasts were bared to him she made the first distressing noise, her hands seeking to cover herself up instinctively. He gently took hold of her wrists, pressing them against the mattress before slowly nuzzling one breast and then the other.

"No need to be shy, my Belle. Not with me."

He parted his lips, catching a rosy nipple gently between his teeth before closing his mouth around it and suckling. Images of her in a throne, offering nourishment to him in such a way, flashed across his mind inflaming him further. It was like he couldn't decide what seemed to make him more aroused, having power over her or her controlling him. 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 stiff leather vest before she let out a displeased little grunt when the ties proved to be problematic. A thought and a wave of his hand took care of both the vest and his shirt and it was only when his torso was bare and he heard her take in a sharp breath that he remembered his unusual appearance. The spinner in him wanted to recoil and apologize but her hands on his skin stopped him short. Her fingers reverently caressed 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. He knew he looked more spooked than she at the moment, ready to flee at the slightest sign of her revulsion like the coward he'd always been but she made no mention of it or sought to exploit his fear.

"You're... textured, and soft," her voice was a low murmur "And warm. 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 he touch had put him under. He pinned her down in a heartbeat, ripping the rest of the dress away from her, desperate and crazed. She responded eagerly if a bit shyly, making a clear effort not to cover herself as his eyes took in every single inch of her skin, gaze lingering on the patch of curls that covered her sex. Suddenly seven years of constant and faithful servitude seemed poor payment for such a prize and had he been a better man he would have released her at once. But he was not a man, and he'd never before been gladder of that fact.

"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 bellow 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 groin. 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. He could feel how wet she was for him, and he dug the fingernails of his other hand her skin, drawing blood without meaning too. Belle moaned half in surprise and half in pleasure, eyes widening at the idea that pain could feel so good.

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, least 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 a side, mesmerized 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.

"Say my name," he pleaded, pulling his fingers away from her before plunging them back in with a little bit of force, just enough to make her keen "Say my name and I'll give you what you want. Just one word, it's all I want."

She nodded but seemed to have trouble getting her voice to cooperate. He let his thumb brush against the bundle of nerves above her opening, trying to cajole her into giving into him.

"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 "No, no, stop!"

His blood turned cold and he immediately removed his fingers from her, trying to choke down the panic he was starting to feel. He looked her over, trying to see if he'd somehow hurt her in his eagerness. Seeing the fear and confusion in his eyes Belle rose up, seeking his lips with her own.

"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, mistress," 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."

The way she's said that part was fierce and possessive and, far from displeasing him it filled him with delight.

"Yes, yes. Your Rumple. Your pet. Your beast. Forever. Say it."

And she did, over and over again while he marked her neck and drove into her mercilessly. A new deal took shape and the imp tried to visualize it completely. He'd make her a Queen, a glorious one both merciful and merciless, and he'd stay by her side, on his knees before her always, her most beloved servant, her right hand, her pet. Hers to command, hers to love for as long as she'd have him.

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 intensity. He made sure to keep their bodies joined as he lowered them both onto the sheets, twining himself around the brunette, softly stroking her back, where he knew his name was etched.

"I love you, my beast." she murmured, snuggling close to him as her eyes drifted shut and she fell asleep. the imp stayed awake till dawn broke. Once again he felt the compulsion of the dagger take hold of him and re reluctantly disentangled himself to take his place at the foot of the bed. He waited for regret or doubt to creep up on him, bitter and smothering but they never came. Sated and in peace he stretched out a hand to gently circle one of his mistress's ankles and closed his eyes, surrendering to the pull of sleep.