It's times like these that Belle wishes she could turn her brain off.
It's inappropriate, really, and she knows it. They are planning for the next battle-all encamped in tents, surrounding Regina's castle-and the next step is invasion. In Prince James's tent-the largest one by far-their leaders huddle around an enormous oaken table, its surface covered in ancient maps with fading ink. Someone drew them, worlds and centuries ago, and Regina hadn't hid them very well, as it turned out, and incidentally revealed all the secrets of her palace to little Henry, who'd just gone searching in her desk drawer weeks ago for an extra pen. Smart boy he was, snatching it up and keeping it until they needed it.
Belle tries to keep her mind on this. The war, the upcoming battle, the wicked queen who shut herself away, surrounding her own castle with a twisted magic wall of thorns to keep them out. And Belle knows that she wants revenge as much as the rest of them do-James, Snow, Emma-the generals of this little war, kindly obliging Belle by setting her free and, once she'd gotten the situation straight, letting her fight, too. She bears the scars of Regina's tortures still, scarred by scourges and flame across her flesh. And the dark-she hates the dark. So she supposes she should want to kill the queen as much as any of them, should probably pay attention to the plans being made.
Her fingers graze the sword at her hip. Its iron hilt is simple, but fits her grip perfectly. Custom made for her, along with the heavy chain-mail she's clad in. A certain someone refused to let her fight without it.
That same certain someone who is being particularly distracting at the moment, Belle notes.
Rumpelstiltskin keeps striding around the table-his bad leg is gone, now that his magic has returned-peering at the map and pointing out entry points, and what the various traps there could be. Something to that effect, Belle thinks, probably something important she should be paying attention to-but as hard as she tries, she cannot take her eyes off of Rumpelstiltskin's ass. He's taken to wearing leather pants again in place of his pristine suits, which she certainly approves of, but never expected to approve of this much. Every time he bends over the table, the supple leather tightens in all the right places, and Belle tends to imagine herself on that table, imagines that it is her whom Rumpelstiltskin is bending over, instead of wartime maps and plans.
She tries to suppress a pleasant shudder at the thought.
"Belle?"
She looks up and meets Emma's questioning face.
"Are you all right?"
They're all looking at her now, expressions askance at their scarred warrior princess. Especially him, eyes dark and gleaming, and she wonders if he can read her mind. "I'm fine," she manages to say, cheeks turning crimson. "Just tired, is all."
And suddenly the Dark One is all concern and fluttering hands. "Perhaps you should go to bed, dearie," he tells her, slipping an arm around her waist. The others avert their gazes, pretend that their fearsome sorcerer is not truly this tender, ignoring this glimpse of sweetness and care that isn't meant for them.
Belle nods, and barely resists the urge to fall into his arms right then and there.
"Well excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. My lady needs her rest. Shall we continue this discussion in the morning?" Without waiting for their answer, Rumpelstiltskin bows theatrically, and escorts Belle from the tent.
Her own tent is nearby, smaller and nearly falling down. He giggles. "Struggled to set up camp tonight, I see?"
Belle elbows him lightly in the ribs, and collapses onto her little pallet covered in a mess of blankets and pillows. She stretches out her limbs and tries to give him her best inviting stare, but he disappoints her when he simply sits down beside her and squeezes her knee.
"Are you all right, dearie?"
"I already told you, I'm fine," she insists.
"I'm worried, that's all. All this war and killing and death-it can't be good for you. I knew I should've taken you back to my castle before all this got started."
Belle rolls her eyes and grabs his collar, drags him down to where she can reach him. "I'm no innocent, Rumpelstiltskin. And you may be the all-powerful Dark One, but you clearly don't know everything." She leans forward, propping herself up her elbows, and encloses her teeth upon his lower lip, hard.
He yelps and tries to jerk away. "What are you doing?"
She bites him once more, for good measure. "I'm trying to have my way with you, clearly."
"Now?" He pulls back from her, takes a good long look at this girl-no, this woman-his fragile little flower that he's hell-bent on protecting no matter how much she tries to argue with him. She's still in her armor, it rattles with every shift of her body, and she hasn't yet bothered to take off her sword belt, either. Belle gazes up at him, blue eyes hungry and feral, and she's grinning, and oh, how he wants her, but he didn't think this would be the time or place. Maybe after the war, when things have settled down and he doesn't need his magic anymore, but Belle has grown tired of waiting.
She sees the moment when he acquiesces, when the tension in his shoulders grows, and she rolls over onto her stomach and stretches like a cat, arching her back in a way she knows will only tempt him further. "Now help me out of this damned armor."
His hands shake as he reaches for her, and he's barely capable of undoing the buckles. The mail falls off of her arms first, and then her legs, revealing the soft blue satin that Belle wears underneath to keep the iron from irritating her skin. She sits up, fumbles with the clasp of her sword belt while Rumpelstiltskin lifts her chain-mail up and over her head, and tosses it to the side.
"All this undressing and I'm still fully-clothed," she teases. "And so are you. Tsk." She starts on the buttons of his vest, her fingertips dancing across his chest. He gets to work on her buttons as well, and allows himself to plant feathery kiss along the curve of her neck, takes pleasure in the soft sigh that escapes her. His lips follow his hands as he continues to unbutton her shirt, traveling down the column of her throat, lingering briefly at the little hollow at the base of her neck, and Belle moans and hurriedly pushes his own vest off of him when he's in between her breasts. She tastes like roses, but it's the tangy bit of her sweat, too, that reminds Rumpelstiltskin that this is real.
He peels her blouse off, finally, but suddenly Belle's hands are up, fingers outstretched and panicky as she struggles to cover herself. Rumpelstiltskin jumps back, fearful he's done something wrong. But then he sees the scars. Her small hands can't cover all of them, and he sees the angry white marks across her breasts-oh, her breasts, small and round and better than he imagined-and stomach, and the heavy weight of guilt threatens to crush him.
But he pushes it away, approaches his Belle again, green-gold hands entwining into hers as he gently moves her hands away. His lips meet one of the scars on her breast, and against it he murmurs a single word: "Perfect."
Belle squeezes his hands and the moment of fear and walls dissipates, and they are each other's again.
"Get this off," she says, tugging at his shirt. "No fair."
But Rumpelstiltskin has more important things to attend to, namely running his tongue across Belle's nipple, grazing it with his teeth, and listening to Belle's delicious groan. She bites her bottom lip, tears at his shirt, and when he hears it rip, he looks up at her in surprise.
"I told you I wanted it off," she says, and her laugh is low and husky. "Now come here." Belle buries her hands in his tangled hair, brings his head up to hers.
"Ah ah ah, dearie, no kissing on the lips," he reminds her. "Wouldn't want to undo the curse while it's still useful."
So she settles for biting his ear instead, and running her tongue around it, and nibbling on his earlobe. Her hands explore the flat, hard planes of his chest and back, and when his hand slides into the waistband of her pants, her nails dig into his flesh as she hisses in pleasure.
"Steady," he whispers, and uses his other hand to tweak her nipple with his thumb. "I've barely even touched you yet." He holds her there, basking in the feeling of how wet she is, and that he's somehow managed to accomplish that himself, and Belle bucks her hips against his hand.
"Please," she gasps. She's wriggling out of her pants, kicks them off and away.
"Not yet." He moves himself down her body, licks the sensitive spot behind her knee before kissing a trail farther up against her smooth thighs.
Belle knows what he's got in mind, knows what's going to happen now from all the books she's read, and her legs grip Rumpelstiltskin's head like a vice as he gives her that first long, slow lick across her slit.
"Oh!" she cries out, at the intensity of the feeling that washes over her, closing her eyes tight. Rumpelstiltskin smirks, licks her again, this time concentrating on that little point of pleasure, sucking and nipping at it with his teeth. When he slides a finger into her, he feels her muscle contract around him, and smiles when he hears Belle scream.
He pauses his ministrations, kisses the center of Belle's stomach. "Are you alright, dearie?"
"No," she growls.
"No?" His confusion is evident.
"No."
And suddenly Rumpelstiltskin is lying on his back and his delectably naked Belle is atop him. With one hand she holds his wrists above his head, and with the other she's fumbling at the laces of his pants, trying to get them off of him.
"Stupid tight pants," she mutters, giving them another ineffectual yank.
"Allow me." He easily disengages his arms from her grip, waves a hand and waggles his fingers, and his pants disappear.
Belle's eyes widen at her first sight of his cock. Her fingers brush it carefully, and now it is Rumpelstiltskin's turn to groan and push his hips into the air. "Is that good?" A wicked glint appears in her eyes, and she leans down over him, and he can feel her breath against him, and he whimpers. She gives his cock a quick, catlike lap, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on her. The sensation forces his hands into fists, and he growls. When she does it a second time, it threatens to undo him entirely.
"Get up here," he says, voice hoarse. And thankfully Belle obliges him, straddles his waist, hovering above him. Slowly-oh so slowly, and exquisitely-she lowers herself onto him. Her eyes snap shut as she feels herself stretching and it hurts and he would do anything to take away that pain. But then he's all the way inside of her, and she's so tight and wet and perfect. And then she starts to move, rocking back and forth upon him. He reaches out, teasing that little bud again, and she moans and starts riding him faster, harder, and Rumpelstiltskin knows she is a vision, a tousle-haired goddess writhing atop him. When he pushes her over the edge, she screams again, screams his name in a final gift to him, and then he is undone, too.
Belle collapses on top of him, doesn't bother to move, and Rumpelstiltskin doesn't want her to. She wants more than anything else to kiss him, to complete this bliss, but instead settle for a peck at the corner of his mouth.
"There'll be time for true love after the war," he assures her, as she snuggles against him and he runs his hands down her back.