Alright, from now on I'm not gonna promise pre-determined update times, because I obviously can't stick to them. Stupid life always gets in the way. I'm sure you know the deal. But needless to say, I made it up to you guys by giving this one quite the 'happy ending' – if you know what I mean. It goes out with a—ahem—bang.
Alright, I'm done with the innuendo.
AND FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T LET YOUR KIDS READ THIS. Also, it took a lot of alcohol to write this chapter.
They stood amid the wreckage of the Dark Castle. It was as Rumplestiltskin had feared—the Queen and her men had demolished the place looking for the wretched dagger. The source of indomitable power and catastrophic tragedy. He and Belle meandered in solemn silence through the foyer, stepping over shattered glass, marble shards, and fallen tapestries. As they moved through the house, he could tell the Queen had grown more and more irate as their search progressed. Even a few ceiling beams had been torn down in some places.
"You know," he finally uttered to Belle, "without my powers, it's going to take forever to clean this place up." He leaned on the walking stick he'd picked up during their trek home, feeling like a weary old man. He was sure he looked about the same. She glanced over at him as she stooped to pick up a large vase that had been knocked over. She was clearly dismayed by the state of the house.
"However," he continued, a mischievous smile pulling at his mouth. "I was thinking that perhaps, maybe, we could start the process…in my chambers."
Belle dropped the fallen vessel she'd been trying to right. Despite his roguish tone of voice, he looked at her seriously. She stared back at him, eyes wide. Her clever tongue seemed to have momentarily escaped her.
"You told me something a few days ago," he continued, disregarding her speechlessness. He took her by the hand and led her through the debris, weaving around and winding through the mess. "You mentioned that you couldn't be here for eternity without feeling compelled to go 'poking' around. Well, I should also point out that it can't be expected of me to not have a few stray thoughts about the beautiful housekeeper residing in my house."
They reached the bedroom at last, and he manually opened the door (he was used to flinging it open with magic). The bed was a wreck. The canopy had been torn down, and the mattress thrown from the large ornate frame. The brocade window dressings had been ripped from their fastenings and flung over ruined banisters. The sun streamed in, particulates of dust sparkling in the beam of light.
Belle was the first to enter. Rumplestiltskin remained in the doorway, taking in the sight and quivering in fury at the act of violation the Queen had committed. She had destroyed his home. His sanctuary.
Well, there wasn't anything he could do about it now. She was dead, and that was good enough for him.
"There is a silver lining to all this, dear," he said as he watched Belle sadly paw through a pile of damaged books. Pages had been carelessly torn from them, plucked out as though they'd been unruly chickens. She glanced up, her eyes watery and sympathetic. This had been her home too, he realized. He never considered that she truly thought it home, perhaps more of just a dwelling or residence. But he could see in her face that the place had been much more sentimental. He smiled to reassure her.
"Despite the fact that I'm now magically-disinclined," he paused, noticing a pair of his boots hanging from the rafters. "…I still have lots and lots of money." He had enough to make repairs. He had enough to hire workers to make repairs. Belle had been right—he'd spun more gold than he could ever spend. They could easily have new furnishings, new clothing, new books….
"But perhaps this time, we should just do away with the bloody curtains altogether." He scowled at the piled wads of torn brocade. Belle had done such a superb job un-nailing them and hanging them properly. With a sigh, she rose from the little nest of demolished books she had stacked around herself.
"That's fine and all, but…I want to hear more about these 'stray thoughts' you mentioned," she plied, changing the subject. "And if you think you can draw me in with your exorbitant amounts of money, you're sorely mistaken," she joked. "You're already stuck with me."
He felt he wasn't as amused as he should have been. He tilted his head at her. "You felt sorry for me. You took pity on me because I told you I lost my wife and son."
Her eyes narrowed at him, surprised by his off-putting response. "I don't pity you. I love you."
"You thought I was lonely."
"Well, weren't you?"
They stared at each other for several moments, the air now becoming contaminated with unwarranted tension. He'd brought her back here to finally reciprocate his love, not start a fight.
"I absolve you of our contract," he finally said with a dismissive gesture. He was powerless to enforce it at this point, anyhow.
"I was under the impression you'd waived our agreement long ago the first time you sent me into town."
He remained silent, his fists tightening around his stick.
"Why are you behaving this way?" she demanded. "You know I love you. The kiss wouldn't have worked otherwise. Both times." She angrily stepped towards him, knocking over a neat stack of books. "And I dare say, Rumplestiltskin, that it wouldn't have worked if you didn't love me in return, but I have yet to hear the words from your wretched little lips."
His gaze flickered as he watched her, and for a moment, it seemed as though some force had sucked all the air out of the room.
His walking stick fell to the floor. In three quick, long strides he was upon her, one hand at her cheek and the other at the small of her back. He held her tightly, his mouth hovering just over hers before he spoke the words. She watched him, trembling, with wide, eager eyes.
"I do love you, Belle. With all my heart."
She breathed in a little happy gasp, a smile as bright as day lighting up her face. He kissed her then, savoring the warmth and softness of her gentle mouth. "How do you like my 'wretched little lips' now, dearest?" he asked with a playful smirk, his fingers gliding lightly over face.
Her cheeks flushed. "I quite like them indeed." She reached up to curl her fingers around his hand, and kissed his palm. "And I do believe, good sir, that you were supposed to elaborate on those stray thoughts of yours. In great, great detail."
On spontaneous impulse, he stooped and swept his arm behind her knees, whisking her off her feet into his arms. He cringed at the foolish movement, his knee nearly making him regret the action. It held steady though, as he concentrated most of his weight on his good leg. He maneuvered her over to the relocated mattress and gently set her down upon the disheveled mess.
She tittered with delight as he crawled over top of her in a playful, predatory sort of way, and he suddenly remembered the evening they'd shared in the tent—the way she'd toyed with his clothing, innocently sneaking her clever little digits into his shirt…
He settled beside her, propping up his head with his hand as he trailed his fingers down her forehead, her nose, her chin, her throat…and then he slyly began to fidget with the laces on her bodice. Her breathing was quick…she'd gone quite quiet, but didn't seem compelled to object in the least. One by one he pulled the laces through the eyelets, the garment growing looser and looser. He finally reached the bottom, and, without hesitation, he ripped the laces clear and freed the blouse from where was tucked into her skirt. She sucked in a breath when his hand met her skin; his fingers trailed up her bare stomach and glided across her ribs.
Ahhh, sweet revenge.
Her body arced. She immediately seized him, her fingers curling tightly—almost painfully—into his hair. It was exactly as he'd imagined, that night in the tent. She met his mouth with ravenous determination, her eyes falling closed as his fingers kneaded into her skin.
He thrust his tongue through her lips, and she opened her mouth wide to meet his fervor. He pulled her on top of himself, his hands finding her hips with pernicious precision. The rolled and heaved against each other, never quite being able to get close enough despite their already negligible proximity.
He was so overwhelmed by her hair and her face and her lips and her scent, that when she suddenly ground her hips against his pelvis, he let slip a little ecstatic groan. She wasn't wasting any time in getting down to business, he could see. Admittedly, this was something he'd been yearning for, for a long, long time.
Without warning he sat up, clutching her shoulders as he delved once again between her lips.
Belle curled her legs around his waist, stradding his lap, and roughly began claw at his vest buttons. She made her way through them quickly this time, already familiar with the technique. She shoved the garment back over his shoulders, and immediately grasped for handfuls of his shirt. With his eager assistance, she worked to pull his shirt over his head. Once she succeeded, she flung it haphazardly in some irrelevant direction and buried her fingernails in the warm, soft skin of his shoulders. He gnawed at her neck, kissing and sucking and raking his teeth across her soft skin as she clung to him.
Her shirt was next, but she had already gotten ahead of him; he tried to wrestle the pesky cloth over her head as she vigorously fumbled with his trouser buttons. When he finally freed her of the blouse, he paused for a moment to take in the sight of her. She was truly lovely…he, of all people, certainly did not deserve her. As far as he was concerned, Belle was, by all accounts, the fairest in the land. And she washis.
He caught her hands as they worked at his trousers; a quick nudge and shuffle later, he had flipped her over on her back beneath him. He kissed a line down her chest, beginning at the hollow of her throat and making his way down between her breasts to her stomach.
Slowly, he slid the skirt down over her hips. He discovered then, much to his surprise and delight, that she was bare of undergarments. His gaze darted up to hers in surprise. She raised an eyebrow and shrugged demurely.
When he finally entered her, he nearly punched a nearby pillow in constrained frustration. It had been years since he'd been with a woman, and he could tell with immediate certainty that this was just not going to last long at all. She sensed his hesitation; her hands brushed down his shoulders and ribs. When her fingers met the small of his back, that was the end of it. All control was forfeit. He lunged forward into her again, every trace of control and consideration rapidly slipping away from him.
Her muscles flexed and tightened around him as he continued, provoking a shiver that ran through his entire body and raising gooseflesh along his skin.
She curled her knees against his sides and clutched at his face, silently begging him not to stop. He panted over her, the muscles in his arms flexing and quivering in their tension.
The climax was upon him quickly; it rolled through his core…a long overdue thunderhead of delicious paroxysm. He adored this woman; she had driven him into a violent craze dozens of times during her stay, but her company, oh her company. Her sheer presence in his house, her essence, her spirit, her charisma had brought something to him that he'd neither anticipated, nor believed possible. Something he'd yearned for but could never seem to feel or hold or even acknowledge. He wouldn't let himself. He couldn't let himself. She had pulled him from the hole, the cave that he'd dug for himself. She had freed him.
He buried his face in her shoulder, gasping in her delicate scent of sweat and euphoria. She clenched her fingers into his shoulder blades, drawing a sharp inhale as she gazed at the ceiling with parted, flushed lips. He settled against her, his body limp and exhausted.
He lay there atop her while his panting dwindled, their two breaths slowing to synchronized quietness.
"…I'm sorry," he finally mumbled into her moist neck. He licked his lips, finding he was rather thirsty. "I couldn't help myself."
"It's alright," she murmured with genuine sympathy. "I'm sure you'll be ready again in just a few moments. And when you are," she smiled, gently combing her fingernails through his damp hair, "I'll be ready to make a deal."
THE END