His nails click along the walls of the Dark Castle. Rumplestiltskin does not sleep, he is restless. The darkness will always keep him awake. Without sleep, there is much more time. The thoughts that can be pushed away in daylight come spilling forward, demanding acknowledgement. Now, he has more time to think about her. These are not happy thoughts, they torment him. Belle is so fresh and new and beautiful, sweet and light—all forbidden things. Want burns inside of the Dark One's chest like a fire. It rampages and tears. Fear does not enter her eyes when she looks at him, only a disturbing kind of curiosity. Part of him wants to drive it away, but also to push, to see what it would take to finally set her screaming. Now that she is here, never has he felt so alone.
Belle dreams of Rumplestiltskin. The dreams come from a secret place inside some hidden corner of her heart: it compels her, this place, dark and glistening like onyx. She can hear him walking at night, pacing throughout the castle, the way he does when he grows tired of spinning. The footsteps wake her, leaving her with the dreams still lingering, with a desire that is dark and thick and smells like smoke and roses. Why, she wonders, why is the pull so strong? Why does she want him? Something must be wrong with her, she thinks in these quiet lonely moments when the air seems so much colder, when she wants to be closer to him in ways that she has only read about. Is it compassion? Empathy? Pity? Or does she love that darkness?
Why does she imagine what his his long fingernails would feel like against her skin and why does she hope that they would leave a mark? A heat lives in her now, simmering unchecked. It began slowly, even from the first moment that she saw him. It was partially this that made her agree to stay with him forever, and now that she has been here with him for some time, it has only grown. First it was a spark, then a flame. Now, Belle fears it might become an all-consuming blaze. She is certain that the Dark One feels it too, she thinks she has seen it in his eyes when he looks at her, in the rare moments that they touch-but he locks it away, along with everything else that is human or painful.
He is pacing in the hall one night, and Belle knows that he is there. She can hear the clicking of his nails against the stone walls. The darkness lets neither of them rest. Belle feels, this particular night, like not being a good girl. Good girls, she has been told, don't do what she is doing, now, as she slips her hand up underneath her nightgown, tentatively brushing her fingers against this secret place that aches. But she is beginning to think that good is a relative term, or at the very least, a nebulous one.
She bites down on her lip and keeps exploring, moving her fingers in a circular motion. She has never touched her bare skin there before—but now she delves inside of her underclothes and her whole body trembles at the stimulation. Belle closes her eyes, and there he is, waiting for her in the darkness. Her hand moves faster, wetness coats her fingers and she knows that she is lost.
Rumplestiltskin stops outside her room, as he often does, and leans against the door. He can hear her voice, muffled sounds, soft whimpers. He thinks that he recognizes those noises, knows what they mean, and at first it takes him by surprise but then sends a torrent of heat along his skin, flames licking him from head to toe. He presses harder against the door, listening close.
She is not very discreet in her pleasure; she realizes that sound might carry, but she does not care. In fact, she does not think that she would mind if he hears her. She wonders what he would think if he did, or what he would feel. She hopes that he will be stirred, the way he has stirred her, coaxed forth all of this wickedness. Belle thrashes, moans louder, prompted by visions of his hands holding her still beneath him, the wide dark pools of his eyes searing into her. She belongs here, she is sure of it.
The Dark One is stirred, his cock is completely hard, pressing uncomfortably against his tight leather breeches. What is she thinking of, he wonders? Not you, not you! shrieks that manic little giggling voice inside his brain. Ought to go in there, just fling the door open, hear her scream pretty screams and cover herself; serves her right for being so naughty and making those pretty naughty sounds. Rumplestiltskin digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand and turns away instead. He can't listen any more.
She makes him feel like he is bleeding. This is not a happy story.
In Storybrooke, he still does not sleep. Neither does she. Not well, anyhow. This place is strange, home and not home. But him, him she would know anywhere.
Mr. Gold looks different than the imp she had fallen in love with, but if Belle gazes close enough, the darkness in his eyes is the same—comforting and familiar. She has been living inside of a dream for years, kept locked away with nothing but walls and shadows but now she is awake, and she has found him, and she sees now that he has always been the realest thing in her world. Remembering him felt like oxygen flooding her starved cells. So long, she thinks, it's been so long. Her body, seeming to have been suspended in a kind of numb limbo, reanimates: she feels her bones, senses the boundaries of her skin. A beating heart.
And then, that heat, the pulse thrumming, a fire from another time, one that never died.
Now, they are back together, but Belle still cannot rest. It is all too hard to wrap her mind around, this first night, after she remembers her name, and his, after she tells him that she loves him, after he has wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. Now she curls under the blankets, the pillow almost too soft beneath her head. She closes her eyes and travels back to another world, a place they both once were, together, alone. He has given her a bed to sleep in, but she wishes that he would come lay beside her in it, finally, after all this time.
Belle can feel her body too much now, that pull, the lure of dark desire like velvet and wine and blood. It spills out from the core of her and she tries to release it, to make it stop. Down slides her hand, finding the edges and contours of herself—and then the place where she is most wicked, the place that wants him.
Mr. Gold hates being awake. A thousand thoughts swarm like insects. Something has carved out a place inside of him, a dead place, where nothing can live. But when he saw her again, when she came back to him, a small burning light appeared there, a flame. He paces his halls, stopping outside the door to the room where Belle is sleeping, he hopes. She deserves a pleasant rest. He leans against it, listening for something, breathing, anything, wanting to feel her warm aura, be touched by it.
A gasp, soft. Crying? No, not crying. This is a different sound. A desperation. A want. He remembers. And this time, he can't help it. He opens the door. Very softly. There she is, pink lip between her teeth. Pale skin, dark hair, small lovely breasts, hand moving between soft thighs, a blur of color. Her eyes open, very, very blue. Gold waits for her to stop, yell, throw him out. She is still new and beautiful and sweet and light, and he is just as ugly as he ever was, probably more. She said that she loved him. After all this time, that still fills him with terror as much as fire.
Belle does not stop. She looks right at him, and he feels a strange energy move between them.
Tell me to go, he pleads silently.
The only sound she makes is a soft gasp. It feels like sin, and something roars to life inside of him, pushing the terror back, locking it away. He moves towards her very slowly.
''Please,'' she whispers.
He reaches out and puts a hand against her face, gently. She closes her eyes at the touch, then opens them. ''Why?'' he asks.
''I've missed you.''
Gold wants to believe that. Wants to believe it so much that he lets her take hold of his hand and press it against her, lets him touch her. And then, he is lost.
There is poison in this wanting. It causes an uncontrollable metamorphosis.
He feels like he is tainting her. Belle knows this isn't true. He draws some deep and hidden part of her up to the surface.
Her skin feels like petals. Rumplestiltskin is still afraid, but too selfish to care. And she does not mind. She has many wants, living like butterflies inside of her chest. Quiet, creeping, secret things. Insects and serpents and firelight.
This is the night that things change.
Belle is not shy. This does not surprise Gold. What surprises him is the fierceness of her love, her trust, the way she lets him possess her—the way she wants him to. She kisses him with a breathless hunger, full of clinging. She tastes like tea and daydreams, and something else underneath.
She wants him to break her open and find it.
He feels like ashes, black tar oozing and spitting—and lies. Bitter ones. Somehow when she touches him, Gold feels this all the more strongly. Because he knows he cannot be good. But he keeps on lying because that way, she will stay and keep touching him and trying to make him better.
Pretty lies. Really, that's what most stories are. And she loves stories.
This world has lots of books. And pretty clothes. Different from what she is used to, but Belle finds a new style. And she's good at pretending that they can have a happy ending and stay together.
The darkness is part of who he is, whatever he calls himself now—Mr. Gold, to everyone else, but to her he's always been Rumple—it holds him together. Belle has never known him without the monster. Though he looks and seems like a man now—normal skin and no manic giggling, among other things—she can still see it underneath. And despite all of her protestations and pretendings, the monster is her secret delight. She fell in love with the Dark One, after all.
Pretending is comfortable. Belle gets used to it, like her new clothes. Sometimes, Storybrooke feels like a dollhouse, like cardboard scenery. She longs for the Dark Castle, vast hallways and rooms and bottled magic. A place where they were alone. She would have stayed there forever, and it would have been real.
There are lots of games to play in this world, too. Things that make her blush when she reads about them, growing warm inside. It is she who asks if he will tie her up. She likes the feel of having her hands bound.
Gold knows this is a dangerous game—it stirs something, rattles it loose as he binds Belle's hands to the bedposts with silk ties, sees her naked and waiting for him.
He always starts very slowly, dark eyes full of deliberation. Hands trace over her skin, memorizing, It drives her wild, these slow touches. Then his mouth, tasting everywhere, kissing her neck, tracing his tongue over her earlobe, her collarbones, her breasts, lips closing over her hardened nipples. Belle loses herself in it. It feels like drowning, being at his mercy. It feels safe. She is suspended in time, the past and present blurring around her. She closes her eyes, and she could be anywhere. So long as she can still feel his hands on her skin, she is anchored.
''You're so beautiful,'' he tells her over and over again. Sometimes he sucks too hard, blood rushes to the surface of her delicate skin and makes a mark. Belle hopes that it will linger awhile. She whispers 'yes' and he lets his teeth scrape against her.
The feeling is sweet. Rumplestiltskin has never felt more powerful. He kisses her between the legs, but not before he just looks for a long while, parting her with his fingers, watching that silken pink flesh grow wetter, then finally tastes.
Then, she flies.
Books don't teach you everything, all the pretty words in the world couldn't prepare Belle for this, for the way his tongue moves against her. She twists, pulls on her bonds. But she can't escape, and she is glad.