The winters in Maine were severe. Storybrooke, prior to the return of magic, remained relatively secluded – somehow exempt from the storms and great nor'easters gripping the rest of the region. It just figured that Regina, ice bitch supreme, would make a move on their home while the rest of the town was fragmented by drifts and snowbanks.
The sound of battle still woke her sometimes, accompanied by the sickening crack of magic, bones and trees. At times, those could all be pleasant things; but not this time, not this memory.
Regina. Regina took him away. The Queen held his heart in her hand, with her usual black clothes were stained a slippery red. Cutting out a man's heart had been clean in the Old World – not so in Storybrooke, it seemed.
Regina said something, but Belle couldn't listen. She couldn't hear anything, just the slow sputtering of blood leaving his arteries. Regina looked condescending and trite, mocking her pain. The Queen offered her the heart like an apple, and Belle – to the Queen's horror - snatched it away.
Blue eyes met black, and – for the first time in her life – Belle thought the Queen looked worried. She would always remember that face, because that face told her that she – the little blue-eyed maid – was intimidating her enemy. It told her she could win this fight.
So, Belle did what any enraged, grieving woman with a history of mental illness would do: she lifted her lover's heart to her lips and took a bite. Then another. Regina was running – she knew now that she wasn't walking away unscathed.
When she caught her, Belle cut out Regina's heart with a satisfying knife-slice. She ate that too. It was bitter, but that didn't matter. They were even, as even as they were ever going to be, and Belle's body was humming. She was a wild-thing, a winter-thing. Then she was running.
Ruby might have been able to chase her down, or Emma given enough time. But none of them were coming for her. It was a law of magic: everything had its price. But another law would capture the citizen's minds, make them think it was better if certain circumstances remain undiscovered: you're as black as what you kill.
Belle preferred to think of it differently. She thought: you are what you eat. She'd just eaten the hearts of the two strongest sorcerers in the realm, so that put her pretty high on the food-chain. The barrier around the town didn't stand a chance, and Belle just kept on running. Part of her knew she had to leave Maine, but another, larger part was simply happy to roam freely.
Three months later, she met Ives in Mexico. He was feasting on the leavings of a drug cartel, or some sort of local gang, by looking at their clothing. Smelled like executed prisoners, mostly, though a few looked like they might have – prior to Ives claiming them – been the executors, cut down mid-flight.
When Ives saw her, he attacked. She was black. Pitch black. Night. The kind of blackness that looked back out at a man from somewhere in the abyss and made him harden with a fearful joy. But she was also encroaching on his territory, eyeballing his meat. The hunger was never-ending, and the blackness called out to him to come and take a bite.
Everything intensified when she dodged his knife and knocked him backwards over a pile of bodies. The little one was fast, and she smelled... right. Familiar. Windego, plus the smell of charge-laden air from the black storm gathering in her eyes.
When Belle looked at him, really took the time to see, she came alive again. Out of all the carrion, torment and agony she'd faced in her long journey, finally – finally – there was someone whose face looked right. They fought. She knew they were fighting for their lives, but it felt more like foreplay or a game.
He was different, too. Not a human. Older somehow, like he should have been stronger than her, but magic in this world reacted unpredictably. It helped her compensate, heightened her senses and ignited the brain. He was strong, but she was fast. They matched.
For the first three days, all they did was eat, fuck and fight on Ives' pile of slowly putrefying bodies. Eventually, the fighting stopped – at least most of the time.
Ives wasn't used to women whose bodies could match him thrust for thrust and punch for punch. Sex was an exhilarating, if messy, way of killing someone. They often died choking, sometimes disemboweled.
He'd always been alone, since the first failure. After he ate Boyd he ate Slauson, then every lone settler he could find. The years trickled by – just so. But he didn't fancy himself a monster, a family-wrecker. Sometimes it was unavoidable, but he felt vindicated in eating the human waste currently furnishing his little love-nest with their bones. After 200 years, Ives wasn't going to start losing sleep over his eating habits now.
He was losing sleep, though; the woman kept him awake with her clawing and moaning, and her petite body wrenched around him so tight that he thought his cock might be in danger of bruising. He couldn't envision a world in which some part of him wasn't buried between this woman's legs.
When they did finally sleep, it was a kind of dreamless coma brought on by too much eating and too much exertion. When they didn't sleep, which was often several days at a time, he could only bear to stop long enough for a midnight run or hunting.
Bell matched him. It was his own personal miracle, but somehow – nearly 200 years since ridding himself of tuberculosis and faking his own death (twice) – he was with someone who wouldn't whither by his side.
Sex with Belle – he hadn't learned her name until their second or third go-round – was a delight. The first time he came, he wrenched a bite of flesh away from her breast, and Belle screamed – he thought maybe she hadn't anticipated... – but she returned the favor in kind. Both of them healed so fast, it didn't hurt long. But the taste... if there was ever a God above, he'd outdone himself seasoning this one.
They went on like that for about a fortnight, moving from town to town and cleaning out the gangs. He didn't know how she'd handle it if they didn't cloak themselves in the guise of vigilantism, but Ives didn't mind their selective targeting. Belle still looked occasionally appalled by what they'd done, but the hunger kept her going. The hunger, and that delectable darkness that she kept bottled up inside.
He was going to meet that thing some day. And, if he survived, he was going to ask this new, darker Belle to let him always hunt by her side. Thoughts like that.. well, it wasn't love, but it still happened at first sight.
They had a bed tonight. He liked sleeping under the stars, sometimes sharing his kill with the other predators prowling in the night, but this was nice. Belle liked it, and seemed to enjoy the hot shower as much as he enjoyed a cold mountain creek. So ladylike – for a Windego.
Ives was relaxing, digesting, and enjoying a cigarillo on the bed when Belle emerged from the small, somewhat shabby bathroom. She was wrapped in a towel, and holding a wet dress she'd peeled off their entree. Most of the bloodstains looked like they'd rinsed out under the spray and soap, along with the dust and grime she'd accumulated. That should please her. Her own clothes had been nothing more than a string of mis-matched men's clothing since he'd ripped her original outfits to shreds on their first night.
He looked at her then. Really looked, with a different kind of appetite. Belle was beautiful. She had pale moonlight skin, sky-blue eyes that occasionally turned black as midnight, and a full head of chestnut curls that he had yet to fully appreciate.
She smiled and looked his way. He had his blue-eyed girl tonight. The black one loved it rough, liked to bleed and regenerate, then feed some more and buck up to meet him as they started the whole ritual over again. Blue-Belle liked things a little more sweet, and deigned to let him make love to her. He didn't mind. A Windego fuck was invigorating, but the slow, torturous burn of Belle's touch against his skin and his taste on her lips burned Ives alive. He was more than happy to throw himself on the pyre and press kisses into his lovely lady tonight.
"Hello, blue-eyes," he greeted, taking a long drag of smoke. "I don't suppose you'd tolerate kissing a smelly old monster tonight?"
Belle laughed and wrinkled her nose. "You could do with a shower, you know."
"Join me?" Ives was already on his feet, walking toward the humid room.
When he bent to start the water and adjust the heat on the ancient tub with visible pipes running up to a half-hazard shower head, he heard Belle's bare feet padding up behind him. She traced her fingers down his spine, curling one through a belt loop on his pants and tugging at the waistband.
"You're wearing too much clothing," she whispered into his ear when he finally stood upright.
Ives turned, meeting her gaze, and he held it intensely as he unbuttoned his shirt – slowly, one button at a time. "Far be it from me to deny a lady's request."
And she was a lady too. Belle, if she'd been alive in his time, would've been so far above a poor immigrant-turned-soldier-turned-cannibal that he'd be run out of town for even looking at her this way. She had manners and propriety still, not like he had at her age. Even when they were up to their elbows in a fresh kill, with her blackness caressing him and driving him wild, she still managed to look elegant and serene. Now that was a real pleasure – watching Belle eat.
Shirt undone, he shrugged it off – first one shoulder, then the next. Belle's eyes were clouded in a lusty haze, and he thanked whatever deity might be listening to an old devil like him for letting her find him in the Mexican wilds.
She leaned in to kiss him, and he savored the taste. It had been so long since he'd tasted her alone, without his own fluids or their dinner's lingering flavor to mingle in her mouth, he'd almost forgotten what a sweet opiate it was. Belle's lips, Belle's tongue. She twined her fingers into his hair and leaned into him, worrying his bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it.
Then she moaned. "Rum..."
No. That wasn't right.
He pushed against her shoulder gently, and lifted her chin so she would look him in they eyes.
"What's my name, Belle?"
"I'm so, so sorry. It just slipped out."
"What is my name?"
"Ives. Colonel Francis Ives."
"And who's going to be with you tonight?"
"You are."
"Yes," he replied. "Is that going to be alright?"
Belle paused, to think. "I loved him very much, you know."
Well that was unexpected. He'd heard bits and pieces from her, usually augmented by a feeding frenzy. Not the clearest mode of communication. But they needed to talk about the ghost who crept into their lives eventually, and it might as well be tonight. "Your Rum, you mean?"
"He was... he was my first. In a lot of things. An enemy killed him and I ate his heart. To intimidate her. I'm... we're monsters."
"We're Windego," he corrected. That might have been the most erotic thing he'd ever heard. "And you're a brave little warrior. Did you kill her, your enemy? I could do it for you, if -"
"I did," Belle told him. "I killed her, and then I ate her heart as well. Normal people don't do that."
"No, but you did. And I don't need normal people, except for dinner. But I do need you." It was the closest he'd ever come to telling someone I love you.
"I need you too," she said, embracing him. His erection pressed against her abdomen, but satisfaction could wait a while. "I just... needed you to know, I guess," Belle continued. "You look like him. A little younger, and he never wore a beard, but the similarities... I'm not pretending, not always. Sometimes I can't help it, though; it's harder, when you're so sweet like this."
"I can be cruel, if you'd like?"
"No, not tonight. Tonight, I could really do with a little bit of nice. I'm sorry about before. I won't forget again."
Ives kissed her, unwrapping her towel and wriggling out of his pants without breaking contact. The water was hot, beyond what would be comfortable on their eternal winter-skin, but it had filled the room with a thick fog that reminded him of the old steam lodges.
He had more than enough money hidden away over the world – maybe they'd travel somewhere new, somewhere nicer than this war-torn hell, where they could hole up in a sauna and live for a few weeks of perfect winter under the midnight sun. It was a pleasant dream, but he wouldn't mind carrying on with her forever like a vagabond either – anything, for as long as she would have him. Blue eyes, black eyes, it didn't matter. They were both Belle, and tonight he was going to show her how deep his need for her went.
When the water was finally a manageable temperature, Ives scooped her up and deposited her under the warm stream, then stepped over the claw foot tub to join her. They started slowly, him covering her neck and face with kisses, and her rubbing slow circles over his skin – exploring as much as washing.
Ives had to bite back a growl as she brushed over his nipples and slowly started working her way down. Other people, he supposed, needed fancy lotions and little blue pills to satisfy themselves. He wasn't so far removed, such an old woodwose, that he didn't know these things. Ives had even lived in New York City for a decade, in the 80s, when it was easy to feed amidst the homelessness and growing spread of AIDS.
But he didn't like the city, he liked wide-open spaces. He liked the thrill of the chase, the cool of the night, and Belle. He really, really liked Belle.
She ordered him to his knees and stood behind him, letting the water roll down into his face. She could break his neck so easily. He'd heal, but there would be pain. Fortunately for him, Belle was not in a spine-snapping kind of mood (though she did have her days, just like anybody, he supposed).
Belle began washing his hair, working up a lather with what was left of their soap bar, and she didn't stop until the water running down the drain looked clean. He must have been filthy. The sensation of Belle's small hands teasing at his scalp and combing through his hair made Ives want to purr, but he settled on a low groan. He could feel his cock twitching, and when Belle finally stepped back around in front of him he lunged for her.
They were going to do this the nice way – mostly. Using their innate strength and speed, Ives had Belles thighs wrapped around his shoulders and her torso draped over the tub, bringing his lips to rest at the thatch of curls between her legs. It wasn't a position that could work for a being without their superior stamina and strength, but for them it was an old stand-by.
Ives licked and nibbled Belle into a frenzy, careful not to bite hard enough to break her skin, and he devoured every drop of her when she finally came. Then his tongue traveled northward, laving generously at each hardened nipple before claiming her mouth as his.
Belle dug her heels into his back and balanced her weight on the tub's edge. This man was driving her insane, bringing her close to begging with his slow, lush pace. When he finally looked her in the eye again, she wasn't sure what he was seeing.
Ives was a mystery. He looked like her Rumpelstiltskin, certainly, but the two men were nothing alike. Rum was always so hell-bent on power and property like a magpie hoarding trophies, and Ives devoured everything in his path with a ravenous joy that bellied his dark intensity. On the other hand, maybe they weren't all that different. But she was. Belle had changed, and whatever mad fit of rage had compelled her to eat and defeat her enemies was now as much a part of her as her soft, kind memories of a land populated by imps and faeries.
No, she didn't know what he saw when he looked at her. But she supposed it didn't matter, because she did know one thing – when it came to these obsessively strong and virile men who shared a face and filled her life, their gazes would never stray.
Loyalty. That meant something. One had destroyed worlds to reunite his family, and she had no doubt that Ives would do the same. They were a pair now, a matched set of monstrosities, but Belle had always found herself drawn to the monsters and the dark things.
Ives kissed her again, suddenly. More fierce this time. Whatever he saw reflected back at him in her face, he liked it.
The pair of them rolled into the tub, letting the slowly cooling water continue to wash over them as their soft touches grew claws and they raked over one another, melding their bodies into one.
Belle found it hard not to bite when Ives entered her, but they'd agreed to be nice. And she liked nice. Didn't want to spoil the treat. They were both thrusting and writhing together, joined at the hips and mouth, with hands splaying over breasts and buttocks in even measure. He was reaching a place inside her that perfectly fit her need, and Belle could feel herself beginning to tense.
She dragged her lips away from his mouth and began peppering his neck with small love bites. That was clearly all the incentive he needed. Ives moaned, almost whined, and set a more frantic pace.
He could feel her walls starting to roil around him, pulling him in deeper and tightening as he withdrew himself to push back in again. When Belle's orgasm hit, time stood still. For a man whose life consisted of stalking from decade to decade reliving all the same things, that moment of weightless eternity meant everything. With Belle by his side, he could go on living infinitely and the world-weariness faded away.
"Oh Francis.."
Hearing his name, his first name, escape her lips in that raspy, spent voice brought the Colonel over the edge, and he rode out the final waves of her climax with his own.
When the pair finally dragged themselves from the then-cool shower and collapsed on the tattered mattress, it was all they could do to stay awake. To talk, whisper secrets, and kiss softly. Finally, they rested. There would be time for hard, rough and bloody in the morning. That was what Ives had, his one commodity: time.
Things were changing, though. Now he had two things, he'd added Belle to his inventory – or she'd added him, maybe – and absolutely no intentions of letting either of them slip away.