AN: PSA: Practice safe sex, and don't send me anymore death threats. Those are laughed at and deleted. 5 or 6 more chapters after this one, so stick around for the big conclusion. Or don't. It's up to you.

Chapter 30

Eugene doesn't even bother making an excuse for himself. He drops Rapunzel off in the arms of her mother in the front entrance hall, then takes Maximus back to the stable to get him settled in, then he heads straight to his room to tear off his jacket, pull off his boots, and collapse face first onto his sofa. His body limp, one arm hanging off to trail on the floor, he groans for a minute, just because it makes him feel better. After the groaning, he shifts and kicks the dozen or so throw pillows off the sofa so he can have more room. Then he groans again, the elaborate, cream colored cushions muffling the sound of his pity party. He's going to miss dinner, but he really doesn't care.

He used to have two skills.

The first was stealing things. He was the greatest thief the kingdom – no, the world had ever seen. No job was too big or too dangerous. Not guards were fast enough or smart enough to catch him. He was a legend set to retire.

But now stealing was off limits. For the most part. He still took things every now and then, but they were little and he was sure no one noticed. They were never anything worth bragging about, and he didn't have anyone to brag to anyway.

The second thing he was good at was telling stories. It was a silly skill, but it was one he prided himself on anyway. Stories were great. He could entertain people long enough to cause a distraction. He could win people over with tales of his daring-do, great escapes, grand romances, or sob stories. He could wrap people around his finger until they would hand over their valuables, or tell him little details around which he could form a plan, or buy him another beer. He could get people to trust him. He could get people to do things.

But now there were very few people who trusted him, and the one person whose decisions mattered to him at all wouldn't go along with his plans. Hell, he couldn't even keep a group of children interested in a fairy tale.

What happened to him? Who is he? He wasn't Flynn because Blondie had crushed Flynn in her delicate, little hands. All that was left of him was a shadow that popped up every now and then to shoot off a sassy comment. He wasn't really old Eugene either. These past few months he's been blaming his softening on The Return of Eugene. But now that he's thinking (moping) about it, that's not exactly true. He's braver now, maybe from Flynn's influence. He's seen things and done things that Eugene couldn't have imagined even in his wildest stories. Yeah, he was still scared, but the desire to run when things got hot was fading. Yeah, he was protective, but now it wasn't just protective for protective's sake. Now he actually cared, when Eugene never had anything to care about except becoming someone else.

Who is he? And why did he have to live through such a sucky day?

He lays there for a very long time, telling himself that he's trying to find an answer to these questions, but in reality he's just repeating all the things he's upset about at the moment. It's not clear how long he stays there, but when a distraction finally arrives, the embroidered pattern from the cushion is imprinted on his forehead and cheek, his arm has fallen asleep, and his bare feet are getting cold.

The door to his room opens and someone comes in, but he refuses to sit up or even lift his head.

He knows it's Blondie. No one else would come in like this and set something that smells really good down on the table with a metallic clunk. No one else would take a seat next to him on the floor. No one else would brush the hair from his face ever so gently, only to have it fall right back into place.

He groans.

"Are you awake?" she whispers.

"No."

Her hand runs up his arm to rub his shoulder. He stiffens at first, then eases against her touch.

"You missed dinner, so I brought you something to eat. It's Cornish hen and mixed vegetables, and I even got you some apple fritters. You like those, right?"

She lowers her face close to his, watching him for any sort of reaction, hoping to tempt him with food and her cooing voice.

He stays pressed into his cushion. "Thanks, Goldie."

Her hand slips up to the back of his neck to rub gentle circles against the kinks there. It sends a trickle of pleasure through his shoulders, through his spine, contracting his lungs with anticipation, warming his belly with desire. He holds himself very still as he tries to control his body's responses to her touch. The renewed tension in his neck doesn't help her massage.

She's silent for a long moment, and when she finally speaks her voice is fragile and soft, like a cobweb, like she no longer has any tears to shed.

"I was wrong today, wasn't I?"

That gets him to turn his head to look at her, her deep eyes focused on the needlework along his shirt sleeve and holding all the world's sadness.

"It's alright to be wrong sometimes."

"But I hurt you. I was wrong and wouldn't listen and you tried to help and it hurt you." She traces the needlework with a finger, sketching over his wrist in a way that he would have never guessed would feel so nice.

"You were scared and you overreacted," he says. "That's understandable."

"But..." She trails off, letting both her hands fall away from him to clasp together in her lap.

He props himself up enough to get a better look at her. "But what?"

"You didn't over react."

He scoffs. "I've seen people cough up blood before, Blondie. It's old hat for me. And besides, I'm bold and courageous." He shoots her a grin that he doesn't really feel and it falls flat as she lifts her eyes to meet his.

"I meant at the orphanage."

His grin fades and he blinks once before turning his attention back to the sofa cushion.

"Eugene?" she asks, scooting ever so slightly closer to him. "…Thank you. For looking after me. I know that I can be difficult sometimes, and I know that it must be hard to look after me when you have to think back on the way things were after your whole life gets turned upside down-"

"Hey, no-"

"Yes!"

She glares at him for a moment, and he stares at her in mild surprise until her eyes widen and she claps a hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks. "I'm doing it again! I'm not listening to you."

He stares at her for a few more heartbeats then starts to laugh. She's just so cute. She's so cute that it makes him think that none of the crap that happened today matters anyway.

"It's not funny."

"Yes, it is."

She huffs and he grins, sweeping over to plant a kiss on her freckled cheek before he faceplants back into the sofa with a sigh.

"Eugene?"

"Mmmpf."

"I've been thinking."

"Again?"

"You know how my etiquette instructor said that you'd try to steal my virtue?"

He groans. Loudly.

She hesitates a moment then slips up to sit next to him, causing the cushions to shift against her weight.

"I was thinking. She also said I could give it away. Then it's not really stealing."

He holds very still, because she can't be saying what he thinks she's saying, and even if she is it's a bad idea.

"What do you think?"

He turns his head to the side to answer her, but keeps his eyes firmly closed. "You give up on your weird bribery plan already?"

"Well..."

"Uh huh."

"You were really nice to me today."

"Oh, Goldie, don't put out for everyone that's nice to you."

"I don't know what that means. And you're not everyone. You're sweet and…" she blushes. "… and I like your arms."

He cracks one eye open, unsure if he should be weirded out or amused. "You like my arms?"

Her blush deepens and she averts her eyes off to something terribly uninteresting over the back of the couch. She shrugs. "They're nice."

"My arms? Not my face or my ass?"

Her eyes dart down to his butt then back up to meet his gaze. "Those are nice too, I guess. I just…"

He sits up slowly, planting one hand beside her on the couch so he can pin her in place without actually touching her, so he can fluster her, so he can keep this newly found attribute as visible as possible, so he can lean forward and smirk. "Yes?"

"Never mind. It's stupid."

He drops his voice to something warm and sultry. "I don't mind." He shifts his shoulders to emphasize the muscles in his bicep.

She is transfixed, staring at the point where his forearm would press against her hip if he would only move ever so slightly. "It's just… sometimes I think about them… and I feel…" She searches for the right word. "Weak?"

He grins, and he leans in to presses his lips to hers. Once. It's brief and chaste. Twice. Her eyes slide closed. Her lips part.

And she throws herself at him, her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, pressing her small frame against his chest, warming him with her breath as she gasps between kisses. He fills his arms with her - her waist and her back and her shoulders and all her love and pain and need. He squeezes her and she moans, grabbing at the muscles in his arm so ravenously that it hurts. It hurts like the burn in his lungs as he holds himself back while she rakes her fingers through his hair and her tongue presses into his mouth.

She shifts closer, further into his lap, and he drags his hands up and down her sides trying to feel the warmth of her skin, the beat of her heart, the give of her flesh through her corset. He squeezes her between his fingers in an attempt to hold more of her, to be closer, and she pulls at his arm to urge him on, nearly begging for him to touch her.

Her hunger's like a drug, siphoning away his reservations as she sucks on his lower lip. She drains away his rational thought as all the heat in his body runs to his cock when she pulls his shirt from his pants with a quick burst of friction and a groan. He works the thousand hooks down the back of her dress with one hand as he holds her breast and covers her neck in greedy kisses. She pants, head tilted back, eyes closed dreamily, fingers digging into the bare skin of his shoulders.

He peels her dress down to crumple at her waist and he sets to work on the ribbons of her corset. Through the hot fog of her arched back and needy little noises, he notes that they're a pale, baby blue satin, but he immediately forgets it in favor of holding her tighter. He strips the ribbons away cross by cross, in an effort to control his urge to rip the damn thing apart and leave it in tatters on the floor. His carefulness is not appreciated and she whimpers against his ear to get him to work faster.

"Almost got it… There."

The last few ties fall away and the corset opens like a clamshell from which she's stepped free, one that's growing more lifeless by the second without the benefit of her heart racing within it or the magic of her touch gracing its features. She rears back and tosses it aside before grabbing the thin, cotton sleeves of her shift and shrugging her arms loose with a frantic wiggle. The shift joins her dress at her waist and before he can get a good look or yelp out a startled, happy comment she's wrapped herself around him again, her warm, bare flesh against his, her greedy lips on his own.

She's so small. So delicate. Her breasts compress against his chest. Her stomach flickers against his abs, like the hesitant brush of a hand, like the flutter of her eyelashes. He can feel the thin cage of her ribs in his hands, the slender planes of her shoulder blades, every gentle prominence of her spine, all covered in skin so soft he can't help but revel in the fact that he's the first to touch it. She's his. All his. And she wants him. Even though she could have anyone she wants him.

He pulls her close and flips them, pressing her back to the sofa, felling her body held tight beneath him, whacking her head against the arm rest-

"Eep!"

"Shit, are you alright?" He's breathless as he runs a hand to her cheek, then buries his fingers in her hair to caress the back of her head.

She winces briefly, but then her eyes roll back and she turns to kiss his wrist. "Yes," she gasps, pulling his head down for another kiss. He tangles his hand in her hair, because it's just so grabable now, so easy to ruffle up and tousle. He scoots them both down away from the armrest to protect her from any more of his flailing stupidity.

He forgets about it quickly enough, because now he can touch her. He can let his hands roam over the tension of her stomach, the swell of her breasts. She shivers against his fingers and arches into his touch before dragging her hands over his chest, pausing at his nipple, the hollow of his solar plexus, his navel, slipping lower and lower, driving him wild. Her fingers slip teasingly beneath the waist of his pants, her hand pressed flat against the valley between his abs and his hipbone, her thumb scrawling desperate circles against his skin.

He buries his face against her neck and swears, rocking into her hand. She's so close he can barely stand it and he grabs on to her waist for support, for something to ground him, but the way she squirms under his hand throws him off balance again.

He moans pathetically when she draws her hand away, until he feels her shift beneath him, both hands at her waist in an attempt to free herself of her skirts, her hips lifting in a way that's far too appealing. He pulls at her dress too, finding the ties on her petticoats and yanking at them until they come loose, then shoving her dress and her underskirts and her shift down her thighs until he can't push them any farther away and she kicks them off in a massive flurry of noisy fabric.

He pulls a leg around his waist and runs a hand over her smooth thigh, up to her ass to squeeze and pull her flush against him. He can feel the heat of her, or maybe he's imagining it, and she can feel how hard he is, how much he wants her. They moan together at the feeling and hold each other tight, not wanting to let go even for a moment. He's never seen her this naked before. He's seen parts of her naked and it's not like she wears that many clothes to begin with, but still there's something awe inspiring about it.

Their eyes lock.

He swears to God he's never seen anything so beautiful.

Then he moves, squeezing his eyes closed and biting his lip as she gasps. He knows that dry humping isn't the most sophisticated thing in the world, but honestly, what choice does he have?

Her skin starts to shine with a fine coat of sweat and she presses her face against his as if trying to hide from the pleasure building inside her.

"Pants. Off. Now."

"That's not such a-"

"Eugene." She whimpers his name in a way he just can't ignore. Then she bites his earlobe and the next thing he knows, he's grabbing at his belt. His pants are starting to rub him raw anyway.

"I need to get a-"

"If you get up," she pants, "I'm going to strangle you."

Well, no arguing with that, he agrees, kicking off his pants. It doesn't really matter anyway because he's going to marry her and she's going to have his annoying, handsome babies.

Wait.

What?

She pulls him down for a kiss that makes him completely forget what he was just thinking about. He hooks his fingers in her underwear and peels them away, kissing down to her navel, where he's able to reach her foot and pop off the last of her clothes and throw them across the room, hopefully they land somewhere where she won't be able to find them.

He pushes himself up, to look her in the eye, and suddenly he understands the fear of the moment before your dream becomes reality. He cups her cheek and kisses her, softly, distractingly, and she kisses back so tenderly that he feels more complete than he has in his entire life.

His hand trails from her hip to between her legs, and he strokes her once, eliciting a shiver. He presses the tip of his cock against her, and she tenses. Then he guides himself in, as slowly as he can.

It's bliss.

Absolute bliss.

She's warm and wet and she clenches around him so tightly it's painful. Painful in all the right fucking ways. He breaks off the kiss to moan and press his forehead against hers, trying to remember how to breathe.

Then she whimpers.

He opens his eyes to see her face crumpled in pain, tears leaking out of the corner of her eyes.

"Ra-Rapunzel," he chokes because he can't breathe and he can't swallow and – oh God – he's hurting her. "You alright?"

"Oww," she cries, a single, painful note that rips into his chest.

"Rapun-"

"Oww, oww, oww, oww, oww." She pushes against his shoulders, shoving him away, and he pulls back immediately, sliding out of her in a way that he will never admit feels good. He's left hard and needy, damp and sticky, but he really needs to not think about that.

"Rapunzel." He presses a shaking hand against her face, brushing back her dampened hair and brushing away her tears. She pulls her arms away from him and shifts to wrap them both around her abdomen.

She lies there trembling and Eugene has no idea what to do.