Wicked Fantasy
The Booke of Dreams.
Belle found the book soon after Rumple had kissed her goodbye and gotten on board the Jolly Roger. After she had done as he had requested and activated the cloaking spell over Storybrooke, she had gone back to his shop and started looking through some things there, because doing so made her feel closer to her missing beloved. She located their chipped cup in the secret cabinet and found also inside of it an unremarkable leather journal, with some ornate writing on the flyleaf and the pages were the kind of heavy parchment used back in their old world.
It was called the Booke of Dreams.
Belle had taken it back to her apartment above the library, because she enjoyed the feel of its pages between her fingers and just touching this book, which she knew Rumple had put there, made her shiver all the way down to her toes. She suspected the book was far more than it looked, but was unable to figure out what it did until a tear of hers fell on a page one night as she flipped through the blank book, missing Rumple dreadfully. The tear spread out on the page . . . and was absorbed into the heavy parchment even as she watched.
Words appeared in graceful calligraphy upon the page.
Think it. Write it. Dream it.
She repeated the words to herself, puzzled.
Lonely and her heart aching more than she ever thought possible for her missing beloved, who might never come home again, Belle picked up a pen and closed her eyes. She imagined herself with Rumplestiltskin again, being clasped in his strong arms, his fingers running through her silky hair, his breath hot upon her cheek, pressed up against his whipcord body, lean and lithe like a racehorse. . . .She smiled wickedly just thinking about it. And he was hung like a racehorse too, she thought naughtily.
She imagined him standing before her, his eyes alight with passion and the love he only showed to her alone, because she was the only one he trusted with his heart. With her, he had naught to fear . . . and he allowed himself to indulge in his own playful love games to his heart's content.
And yours, she reminded herself.
Heat curled through her as she imagined his hands all over her, touching her in her most intimate places, and she returned the favor, gliding her hands over his sexy sleek leather-clad thighs and bottom, before her fingers found the single button and undid it . . .
She opened her eyes then, almost gasping as her imagination ran full throttle with this most wicked fantasy.
Think it. Write it. Dream it.
She set the pen to the parchment and began to write, pouring out all her illicit longings onto the thick creamy parchment.
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The Jolly Roger:
Rumple detested the close quarters aboard ship, hating the way it made him feel like a mackerel packed in oil, squished uncomfortably into a bunk against a wall that seemed two sizes too small for him. They were circling the island now, and had been for a day, while Hook determined some safe spot to put in.
Rumple could have told the bloody pirate had he bothered to consult him that Neverland had no safe place to land, and they should just take their chances. But Hook would never consult the man he'd tried to kill just days before, and Rumple didn't trust the bastard as far as he could throw him over the side.
The sorcerer wasn't sleeping well, despite the protection spells he had about his cabin to prevent that scummy bilge rat from murdering him as he slept.
He missed Belle, missed curling up next to her at night in his king sized bed with its satin sheets, listening to her breathe, wrapping himself about her, feeling her mouth on his, while he nibbled on her tender skin, working his way down her shoulders, and the soft sounds she made when he stroked her just so . . .
Dammit! I have to stop this! he told himself futilely. His longing for his brilliant beauty was driving him insane, and not all of his lessons in meditation and concentrating on becoming a rock was working. Or rather, it was working on only one part of him, he thought ruefully. He knew that the others probably considered him well past the age when such things bothered him, since he was technically over 300 years old and the Dark One. But they were wrong. Dead wrong. Age was no barrier to lust, though what he felt for Belle wasn't just lust, but a fierce love coupled with a very healthy sex drive.
Gritting his teeth against the infernal swaying of the blasted boat, he turned on his side, one hand gripping the side of the bunk lest he be thrown ignominiously to the floor, and tried to imagine himself somewhere else, preferably in his big bed, with Belle on top of him, teasing him with her hair . . . he fell asleep with that image dancing provocatively in his head. . .
The dreamscape:
Belle found herself walking across the room towards Rumple, her eyes glowing with love and desire. "Rumple!" she purred, rolling her R's in a sweet sexy burr.
Rumplestiltskin sat upon their bed, dressed in his gold silk shirt and leather pants that clung to him like a second skin, his hair tumbled carelessly around his shoulders, his graceful long-fingered hands beckoning her with a crooked finger, a seductive naughty grin upon his lips, his eyes alight with wicked passion.
"Hello, dearie. Come over here and sit on my lap."
His voice was like rough silk, it caressed and teased her, promising her the fulfillment of every wicked fantasy she could imagine. It glided over her, like rich clover honey, sweet and satisfying. She knew of no other man who could make love to her just by varying the timber of his voice.
But Rumplestiltskin could.
And did.
As if pulled by an invisible string, Belle drew near him, and she shivered in ecstasy as he drew her down on his knee. She perched there like a contented cat while he carded his fingers through her thick silky hair, massaging her and then moving lower, circling her neck and shoulders, creating a slow burning heat that moved from the crown of her head through her body, like the embers of a banked fire stirred to life by his touch.
She arched against his hand, her breath catching and releasing, aroused to a near fever pitch by his hands. "Rumplestiltskin!" she hissed, speaking his name as if it were her secret talisman against the dark, murmuring the syllables like they were a conjuring, summoning to her a fantasy lover that could satisfy her every desire.
He grinned at her, that impish smirk she loved so well, his brown eyes reflecting his secret mirth, as he whispered, "Like that, do you, dearie? You know, love is a mystery to be uncovered . . . and I plan to uncover every inch of you tonight."
"Go ahead," she said, reveling in the way he touched her, so gentle and so passionate, undoing the buttons on her blouse and sliding it down her arms until it puddled upon the floor inbetween their feet.
Then his fingers found the clasp on her bra and suddenly it too was gone, leaving her bare from the waist up.
His eyes roamed over her appreciatively. "Exquisite."
She shifted upon his lap, and he threw back his head and whimpered, and her mouth sought his, kissing her way down his neck, branding him with her desire. Her hands tangled in his hair as she pulled him forward, sharing the pleasure he aroused in her with him, kissing him as if there was no tomorrow.
She set her hands on his shirt, and the silk melted away beneath her fingers, revealing his lean rangy chest, his skin kissed with the slightest hint of gold. Her fingers traced his well-defined muscles, circling lower and lower, until they met the waistband of his dragonscale pants. They paused as he sucked in a breath, his eyes gleaming like darkest velvet as they met her cerulean ones.
Without a word being exchanged, she stood up, and he unfastened her skirt, the fabric shushing against her legs as it pooled about her bare toes. She twitched her hips in a barely restrained shimmy before tugging at his pants, giving a soft half-growl as she did so.
Giving her a wicked smirk, he rose as well, and as her hands caressed him, the leathers were whisked away, in wisps of purple smoke, and he curled a hand about her, pulling her against him.
They landed on the bed, with her on top of him, her mouth teasing and caressing, making him gasp for breath as she reaffirmed her endless love for him with each kiss.
His fingers danced over her back, promising unending ecstasy, making her burn with his own brand of magical fire, worshipping her with his hands and his body, celebrating his love for her in blissful silent velvet seduction.
Slowly, like weaving threads in a tapestry, he coaxed her to the heights of ecstasy, joining with her until they became one, and she flew high above the earth, a being made of light and joy, entwined forever with he who was her opposite yet whole reflection, her beloved, her wicked fantasy. . .
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The Jolly Roger:
Rumple groaned softly, his arms wrapping about his pillow, hugging it to him, as he came awake, his brain still muddled from sleep . . . and the incredible dream he'd had of himself and Belle . . . naked and making love among satin sheets strewn with roses . . . and he yawned and closed his eyes, seeking solace in sleep from his aching heart and the knowledge that he might never see his beloved Belle again if things went as he assumed they would.
I will see you again, she had whispered to him just before they parted upon the docks.
Sure we will, dearie. But only in my dreams.
Then he was gone, returning to that twilight world, where dreams became flesh, and the deepest desires of your heart became reality, if only for a night, as the ship rocked to and fro upon Neverland's agate waves.
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Storybrooke
Belle's apartment:
She woke with a gasp, the sheets tangled about her, her hair flying across her face, her hands clasping . . . nothing save thin air, as Rumple faded from her grasp like a spirit fled with the rising of the sun.
Her blue eyes crinkled as motes of sunlight danced across the bed, and she squinted against the light.
That dream! It was like nothing I've ever experienced before . . . it was almost more vision than dream . . . and certainly the most erotic one I've ever had since he left to rescue Henry.
Just recalling it made her blush, heat surging into her cheeks, tingeing her fair skin a dusky rose.
Her hand came to rest upon the kidskin leather journal, and she remembered how she had written in it just before falling asleep, mourning the fact that Rumple was not beside her, wishing he were somehow here again . . . and then she had dreamed, a dream unlike any other, a dream that had seemed achingly real, where she and Rumple had been together again, enjoying each other in ways they hadn't done since before she'd lost her memories.
Ah, Rumple. My sweet sexy badass babydoll . . . God, how I need you. You are my shining star amidst a dark curtain of loneliness . . . and I will never stop longing for you . . . until you return to me.
Sighing, she stretched, feeling as if she had spent all night making love . . . they way it used to be . . .before everything had come undone . . . and her eyes fell upon the Booke of Dreams. She bit her lip, tempted to pick it up again, write some more in it, and fall back to sleep, indulging herself in yet another wicked fantasy.
Think it. Write it. Dream it.
Reluctantly she threw back the covers. She needed a cold shower. It was time to go to work, the library wouldn't run itself.
Her hand lingered upon the book for an instant, and she could almost feel the heat radiating from its pages. And was that a sparkle of violet light twinkling above the cover?
She shook her head at her own foolishness. It was just a journal. Wasn't it?
A/N: I got inspired by the picture of Rumple I used as a cover for this story. . . .because really, who wouldn't be with those sexy leather pants? This was meant as a one-shot . . . but I might do more with it if anyone's interested. Thanks for reading!