Title: A Price To Be Paid

Rating: M

Word count: ~107,300

Characters: Belle, Rumplestiltskin, minor appearances from Maurice, Gaston, Regina, and sundry original characters.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.


He comes to find her that evening, after they've parted for the night. Belle is in her bedroom when he knocks on the outer door, and she catches up a shawl to wrap around her shoulders, to add a little more modesty. She's wearing only her nightgown and slippers, her hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, and when she opens the door to him she sees naked longing on his face for a moment.

He doesn't speak at first, his distraction evident. He's trying to keep his gaze on her face, but she sees the way his eyes flicker down, and she flushes, holds her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

"I'm disturbing you," he says eventually, and clears his throat awkwardly. "I'll go."

"No – no." Belle releases her shawl so she can reach out to him, grasps his sleeve lightly and offers him a smile. "You're not disturbing me," she says. "Come in."

"It – no," he says, and he shrugs half-heartedly, not enough to dislodge her hand from his arm although that seems to be his intent. He shakes his head, and his smile is thin. "It would not be wise," he says. "With you…thus."

Belle's cheeks are hot, and she feels very conscious of herself. Her nightgown ties at the neck with a ribbon, but she's not tied it tightly and so it's falling off one shoulder. She's not wearing corset, drawers or dress – nothing but her nightgown and a shawl, and it's scant protection, scant modesty. She feels bare before him, as she had that very first time they'd met.

But he is her husband now, and she has thought of this.

"Come in," she repeats, and he inhales, lifts a hand as if to touch her, stops just before his fingers would brush against her hair.

"I told you," he says, "that I'd not come uninvited."

Belle knows what he means, of course. He's been invited in before, has several times sat with her in the sitting room beside the fire, but this isn't the same thing. On those occasions there has been nothing like the undercurrent of…of desire she feels when she looks at him now. She'd been clothed and he'd been careful of her, respectful of the boundaries he's placed upon her and upon their relationship.

And, she thinks, he'd only been in her sitting room. She is inviting him further, tonight, and they are both aware of it.

There will be no turning back, and Belle knows she must be sure. If she so much as flinches away from his touch, once she's invited him in, he will assume she is still unwilling, assume she's doing this from some idea of duty. But duty is not the first thing she thinks of, when she thinks of inviting him into her bedroom this night – even though she doesn't know exactly what to expect, duty doesn't really seem to come into it. This man standing before her is her husband, and she has kissed him and has felt a longing to be in his arms.

"Come in," she says once more, and she steps aside to allow him entrance. Rumplestiltskin looks at her for a long moment and then obeys, comes into the room and closes the door behind him.

Belle's hesitant now, not sure what will happen next, and she wraps her shawl tighter around herself, lowers her head and feels very young and very foolish. Very ignorant, and although she's invited him in, she has no idea what to do now.

Rumplestiltskin steps close to her, puts two fingers beneath her chin and lifts her head so she has no choice but to look at him.

"Are you afraid?" he asks softly, and Belle bites her lip, shakes her head. "Be truthful, my lady."

"I'm not afraid," Belle tries to explain. "But I – I think I'm nervous." She's worried he won't like her answer, but his look isn't disapproving or scornful; he traces his fingers up her jaw, cups her cheek in his hand, and Belle turns her face into the touch. "Do I please you, then, my husband?" she dares, and she knows he remembers that night as vividly as she does, when she'd come to him in the great hall wearing nothing more than she's wearing now, and had asked if she displeased him. She knows he remembers; his hand falls from her face, and his expression is grave.

"You have always pleased me, my wife," he says. "More than I ever expected." His directness almost leaves Belle breathless, and he smiles then, a soft, private smile. "You please me," he murmurs, and he reaches for her, grasps her waist between his hands and brings her closer to him. Belle goes willingly, wraps her arms around his neck and lifts her face for his kiss. He doesn't disappoint her, lowers his mouth to hers and kisses her, soft and gentle and Belle closes her eyes, lets herself drown in the sensation of being in his arms and of kissing him.

She gasps for air when at last they part, and it feels like there's heat running through her veins. Rumplestiltskin presses kisses to her cheeks, nips at her jaw, returns to her mouth before she's caught her breath and kisses her again. Belle presses closer to him, wants to be closer still, cups his head with a hand and feels daring when she follows his lead and darts her tongue out to taste him.

Rumplestiltskin makes a sound, deep in his throat, and his hands are tight at her waist. Belle wants to laugh, her heart filled to bursting with emotion, but her mouth is too busy and she barely notices when Rumplestiltskin lifts a hand to push aside her shawl. She notices when he stops kissing her, when he trails a finger across her collarbone, and she shivers a little. Her skin feels too tight, too sensitive, for his touch – and yet she wants it.

But he doesn't know that; he stop at once, lifts his hands from her and frowns, and Belle recognises his darkening mood. She reaches for his hand, brings it back to her exposed shoulder.

"No," she says softly. "Don't think that. It's just – it's so new."

"New," he echoes, and he traces a line across her shoulder, touches the gold chain she wears around her neck, and she thinks he wants to touch lower, to touch where no man has ever touched. "Then you would truly give yourself to the monster, my lady? I'm nothing to look at."

"You're not a monster," Belle denies at once. "And you're not ugly, Rumplestiltskin." He lifts an eyebrow, makes a scornful sound, but Belle stands her ground. "Not to me," she says, qualifying her statement, but it's true. He is unlike any other man, but she's grown used to the green-brown of his skin, the blackness of his eyes, his sharp nails and his leanness. "Besides," she says, and she's flushing now, embarrassed without quite knowing why, "what have I to compare you to?"

He's silent for a moment and then he laughs, a soft sound, gentle amusement that lacks any edge of scorn or mocking. He's amused but not cruelly so, and Belle bites her lip as she looks up at him.

"My innocent wife," he says. "I've nothing of innocence left in me." Belle isn't sure that's quite true, but she says nothing, lifts a hand to cup his cheek, moves her thumb across his lips. "I'll ruin you," he murmurs, and Belle shakes her head but can't say anything. She's not sure exactly what he means, not sure she understands, and without understanding she doesn't quite dare try to form words.

He shakes off his momentary melancholy, tangles his fingers in the ribbon that ties her nightgown.

"Shall I ruin you, then?" he asks her, his expression all hopeful expectation, and Belle's mouth is dry but she gives a slow, shy nod. Rumplestiltskin exhales, steps close once more, tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses her again, slow and languid. The heat from before has faded, but he reignites it now, a slow burn spreading through her, making her limbs heavy. She clutches at him, slides a hand between them and fumbles the buttons of his waistcoat free from their buttonholes.

He huffs a laugh as he stops kissing her, turns his head so his face is half-buried in her hair. "Bold girl," he murmurs.

"I'm sorry," Belle says at once, but Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, kisses her jaw.

"No, no," he says. "No apologies, dear one. Not now." Belle takes a breath, closes her eyes for a moment. Dear one. She likes that more than dearie, more than my lady. More even, perhaps, than her name. Dear one. "Your bed," he says softly, "would be more comfortable."

"I – yes." Flustered, Belle steps away from him, glances at her open bedroom door. She feels languid, feels half-estranged from the things around her, and she doesn't quite like it. There's heat curling in her stomach, and lower down, and when she moves her nightgown brushes almost uncomfortably over sensitised skin.

He waits, silent, for her to take the lead. Belle reaches for his hand and, making herself brave, takes him through the doorway. Her bedroom is well-lit by the candles in sconces on the walls, and the blankets are turned back, waiting for her arrival. Their arrival.

One by one the candles go out, extinguished quickly and effectively until only one still burns, barely enough to see by, and Belle turns to him questioningly. But he doesn't answer her unspoken question; instead he turns to close the bedroom door, to shut out the light spilling into the bedroom from the fireplace. Then he holds her close again, buries his face in her hair and seems to breathe her in.

Belle lifts a hand, strokes his hair, tries to push away her nervousness, to recapture the feeling of being in his arms and being kissed. It's easier when he lifts his head and kisses her, her anxiety abated by his tenderness. She concentrates on kissing him, on learning better how to kiss him, and what to do to coax from him the sound she loves, the groan from deep in his throat when she does something to please him. She likes to hear it, likes to know that she's doing this right, that he feels the same pleasure she's feeling.

Suddenly he breaks away, lifts her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing. Belle makes a startled sound, clings to him tightly as he carries her to the bed and lays her out on it. She feels horribly exposed, lying there in just her nightgown with Rumplestiltskin leaning over her still fully-dressed, but then he kisses her again and she wraps her arms around him, brings him closer.

He murmurs her name against her lips, and tangles one hand in her hair, plucks at the ribbon of her nightgown with the other. Shy, nervous, Belle almost wants to stop him, but she's chosen this, and he is her husband, so when he loosens her gown and slides his fingers beneath she makes no protest. She gasps though, when his nimble fingers skate across her breast and tease at her nipple, and Rumplestiltskin hums and does it again, circles his thumb and then lowers his head to kiss the skin bared by her loosened nightgown. Belle can't breathe for a moment, overwhelmed by the new sensations, by the feel of his hand on her breast.

"You are," he says softly, "quite lovely."

Belle flushes, shakes her head. "You're still dressed," she says, choosing not to answer him. "That's not fair."

He grins, an expression that's almost savage in the flickering light from the single candle, but Belle is too preoccupied with herself to be afraid, too busy trying to understand the tightness of her skin, the tension that's coiling in her stomach, the damp between her thighs.

"Fair's fair," he agrees, and he leaves her, rises and strips with quick, efficient movements. The light's so dim she can hardly see him, gains nothing more than an impression of his dark skin, of a leanness she'd only guessed at when he'd been clothed. She kicks off her slippers, hears them land on the floor, and then he rejoins her. He kneels beside her on the bed and kisses her again, frantic kisses now that make her head spin.

He slides a hand beneath her nightgown, up her leg, and Belle jumps, hides her face in his shoulder, certain he'll laugh at her innocence. But he doesn't laugh; he tickles his fingers across her skin, behind her knee, and she shivers and twists away from it. That makes him laugh, soft and deep, and Belle doesn't mind that laughter.

"Ticklish," he murmurs, and she nods.

"A little," she says. She reaches for him, trails her fingers across his face, down his neck, across his chest. He has nipples too, and she repeats what he'd done to her, flicks her fingers across the nub and is rewarded with a shudder, a groan. "Is this alright?" she asks softly. "Should I be –"

Rumplestiltskin takes her hand, links their fingers together. "There's no should," he tells her. "You – you wish to touch me?" Belle bites her lip, nods her head. Rumplestiltskin exhales, is quiet for a long moment, and Belle fears that she's done the wrong thing, that she isn't doing what might be expected of her. But, she reminds herself, how could she know what men and women do together in a bed? How can she do what Rumplestiltskin might expect?

She is, as he said, innocent.

"Belle," he says at last, and it's permission and benediction rolled into one, and Belle smiles, uses their linked hand to tug him closer so she can kiss him. It's messy and wet and perfect, and this time when his hand slides higher up her leg, up her thigh, she doesn't jump. He shifts then, releases her hand so he can lift her nightgown up, and Belle's cheeks are burning but she raises her arms so he can take the garment from her.

Shyness overcomes her once again, and she curls in on herself, wraps her arms around her chest to conceal her breasts.

"No, no," he croons, and he takes her hands, guides them to rest on his shoulders. "Let me see you, dear one." Belle's glad of the darkness then, glad she can't quite see him watching her, that her blushes cannot be seen. Rumplestiltskin cups her breasts in his hands, leans over her and brings his mouth to her skin, and Belle gasps, closes her eyes and arches up into his touch.

"Oh," she breathes. It's perfect, and he scrapes his teeth across her nipple, coaxing sounds from her, and Belle digs her fingers into his shoulders as he tastes her.

And then his hand goes between her thighs, and Belle can't breathe, his clever fingers delving into the wetness there, and he touches something that sends lightning through her, that makes her shudder, and she hears Rumplestiltskin's pleased sound but can't quite connect it with anything.

"You do want me, then," he says softly. "My remarkable wife." He stretches out beside her on the bed, kisses her once again, and Belle manages to coordinate her limbs enough to lift her hand to touch him. She brushes against something, and she'd known men were different from women but the hard length at his groin startles her. He huffs a breathless laugh, nips at her lower lip. "My want for you was never in doubt," he says.

Belle pauses at that, thinks back to that flash of something in his expression when he'd seen her in her wedding dress, thinks of the tender way he'd tied her hair back after she'd almost fallen off the roof. Thinks of all the times she's found him watching her, the times he's dared to touch her. He's wanted her from the beginning, then, and she marvels at it.

But then Rumplestiltskin is kissing her again, and Belle thinks of very little.