It turns out he doesn't need to wait for evening to see the girl again. Belle catches up with him on the stairs, taking hold of his arm to slow him down. He looks with awe at her slender fingers curled around his shirt sleeve as if they were some unknown artifact he had no idea what to do with.
"Wait. Would you mind having breakfast with me?"
Rumpelstiltskin cannot think of any decent reason to deny her, but he won't surrender easily.
"Is that your way of asking me to cook for you, dearie?" he scowls. "What next? I'll have to serve it to you?"
"Great, let's go then." Belle smiles at him as if his words were an affirmation instead of a taunt and even the shake of his shoulders doesn't discourage her. The girl is clinging to his arm like a fig and he makes a theatrical sigh and rolls his eyes, earning a giggle from her as they descend the stairs.
Rumpelstiltskin remembers his manners and allows her to pass into the great room before him, which is a mistake. Unwanted, his eyes drop down to her leather-clad legs and he takes in her slender thighs and her curved bottom before he closes his eyes tight. What was that about? He has never considered himself particularly randy and if he didn't know better, he'd conclude he'd been slipped some aphrodisiac. Except that he hasn't drunk anything from her hands. Could her lips have been covered in it? But that's ridiculous, he's the Dark One, he cannot be affected by love or lust-inducing substances. Nevertheless, he carefully sniffs the tea before putting a cup to his lips.
Isabelle, oblivious to his concerns, bends over to reach for the bread basket which gives him a glimpse down her shirt; he's getting distracted again. The man clicks his tongue in irritation and puts the cup on the saucer with more force than necessary.
"Why do you keep wearing…this," he waves his clawed hand in the direction of the girl and she looks down at herself to figure out if her clothes are out of order.
"What's wrong with it?" she questions, raising her eyebrows as she begins to butter her roll.
"Everything," he humphs, "Aren't ladies supposed to wear gowns?"
"Well, as you have kindly pointed out, I am hardly a lady," Belle replies calmly, biting into the roll, now generously covered with butter and a ridiculous amount of raspberry jam. She's not exactly the most graceful woman alive, so there is a little jam on her face left as she begins to chew. Rumpelstiltskin grabs a napkin but before he can pass it to the clumsy thing, she wipes her face with her finger and pops it into her mouth in the most indecent way. Well, truthfully, there's nothing preposterous about the way she's cleaning her digit but it just makes him think of… things. There definitely is something very, very, very wrong with him this morning, the man thinks as he squirms in his seat, quickly diverting his eyes from the mannerless girl.
"Don't you have anything more suitable?" Rumpelstiltskin grumbles after she has finished her finger-licking ritual. "By the way, there was a napkin for that," he prompts acrimoniously, but Belle simply shrugs.
"Forgive me, I had no idea it was a formal breakfast," she replies seriously but he can see the sparks of laughter in her eyes. "And no, Rumpelstiltskin, I do not have anything suitable. I am afraid, this outfit is the only one I own, aside from several shirts."
Oh no, she is not walking around his castle with those obscene breeches clinging to her like a second skin.
"The wardrobe in your room has plenty of gowns," he remarks casually.
"There is no wardrobe in my chambers," she argues back and he arches an eyebrow at her.
"So sure, dearie? Perhaps you've missed it."
"I think I'd have noticed if one was there."
"And I think not."
She snorts and stirs her tea. He finds her lack of fear and cheekiness are both enjoyable and off-putting, but Rumpelstiltskin likes the challenge. He wonders where her breaking point is and how long her wittiness will last; after all, he has centuries of advantage and more patience to vex her.
"May I visit your library again?" Belle asks politely and he's flattered that this time she found it necessary to seek his permission.
"Perhaps," he replies vaguely. "If you wash your hands." The girl gives him a puzzled look so he clarifies. "Your primary task this morning is filthy."
She groans in desperation and he quickly hides his smile in the cup. Really, it's wrong for him to take such pleasure in teasing her, but his life is usually so bleak he cannot pass on entertainment.
The first thing she notices when she returns to her room is the carpet. The modest-looking deep blue rug makes her smile so widely her cheeks begin to hurt. And, of course, there is a wardrobe to the right of her bed. When she opens its doors, it's stuffed full with gowns just like she imagined. Wondering why Rumpelstiltskin is so hung up on clothes, Belle picks the first gown and hurries off to the bathroom. If he cannot stand her current outfit, he would hardly approve of the odor that clings to her.
Feeling refreshed and as good as new, Isabelle skips off to the library. The bookshelves still hold the volumes in random order and it takes her a while to find what she requires. Perhaps the sorcerer was right about her dumb luck as eventually she spots the required potion recipe and it's written in a language she can comprehend.
Wincing as she's committing a total sacrilege, the girl rips a page out of the book, realizing too late that she could simply copy it. Well, it's not like she has a quill or parchment or could ask Rumpelstiltskin for it - the man would shower her with questions. The girl whispers her apologies to the book and places it back on the shelf. She folds the torn pages several times until it gets so small that the inked words cannot be read and slips it into the pocket of her dress. Now she needs to find a way to deliver it to Tinkerbell.
There still are several hours to kill before she can go to bed, so Belle picks an adventure novel, standing right next to "665 Deadly Venoms" and returns to the great room. To her surprise, Rumpelstiltskin is there as well, his right hand setting the wooden wheel in motion while his left pinches the fluffy white wool. He stops abruptly when he notices the girl at the door.
The man watches her cautiously as she approaches but nods at her.
"Do you have a raven? I would like to send a letter."
"To whom?" he asks suspiciously and there it is, the coldness and the high pitch of his voice again.
"A friend of mine."
"What's his name?" Interesting, why would he assume her friend is male?
"Hers. And it's Tinkerbell. So, do you?"
"How distasteful. Too many names have "bell" in them nowadays. Give it to me, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin stretches his hand and she slips the folded book page into his palm. The sorcerer squeezes it in his fist and with a puff of violet smoke it's gone. "There, it's been sent."
The pestering girl thanks him but still stands on the other side of the wheel, watching him.
"Anything else, dearie?" He inquires with less bile than he hoped but still enough to make a person with a decent amount of common sense back away. Of course, it doesn't work with the girl.
She walks around to sit on the bench and Rumpelstiltskin is forced to move away, otherwise the skirts of her pale-yellow dress would drape over his leg.
"Is that why you call me dearie and not by my name? Because you don't like it?"
The question catches him off guard; he hadn't put much thought into it. He calls everyone dearie, but no one has ever wanted to know why.
"Why don't you call me the Dark One?"
"Because it's a silly title. And because you look like Rumpelstiltskin to me."
"Then you look like a dearie to me," he fends away.
"Would you prefer me to refer to you as the Dark One?" she continues curiously and he scowls.
"I'd rather not. Never have been fond of it."
"Could I expect you to call me Belle one day then?"
"Good gods, woman, do you ever stop asking questions?"
"Sorry. I just… Am I bothering you? Should I leave?"
There they are again. More questions he doesn't have answers to. He doubts he wants her to leave but he's not about to make that known to her. Rumpelstiltskin shrugs, letting the girl interpret it the way she desires.
"Alright, I'll stay then." Of course she'd take the gesture that way.
They grow quiet and it's awkward because for the first time in centuries there's a breathing living human in his castle, sitting so close to him and he cannot come up with a single topic to sustain a conversation. Pathetic.
"I never allowed you to take the books out of my library," he says, pointing at the volume in the girl's hands.
"I'm sorry. Do you want me to return it?"
"Well, there's no point now, it's already done," he adduces reasonably.
The conversation dies away and he wonders if she feels as uncomfortable as he does.
"Should I read to you?" she offers cheerfully. "It's a great book of adventure. There is this captain and…"
"So you've read it. What's the point in doing it again? It's just a plain adventure story."
"It's so much more than that! Besides, you never read the same book twice. I mean, you change, your perception changes and the book will never be the same to you."
Her words take him by surprise. The girl is right but he never expected to hear something as wise from someone so young.
"Why do you use wool instead of straw?" Belle switches her attention to the wheel, reaching out for it but not working up enough courage to touch it.
"Are you saying turning wool into gold is not as impressive as you'd like?" he asks haughtily but she only smiles.
"How do you do that? Can you teach me?" Ah, the stream of questions again.
"Let's see how observant you are, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin drawls and gently rotates the wheel, pushing his foot on the pedal to keep it spinning.
Belle's exclamation, full of childish wonder, pleases him immensely but he stops when she leans over to see better, her chest pressed to his arm.
"Dearie," he hisses as a warning but she pays no mind.
"Again! Show me again!" she begs.
Rumpelstiltskin's fingers feel as if they were made of wood but he tries to concentrate on pinching the wool. He almost succeeds but then the girl lays her hand on his thigh for support as he bends even lower and he sucks in a breath, letting go off the yarn and it breaks.
"What happened? Why did you stop?"
"Your hand, dearie," the man manages to grumble through his gritted teeth. This simple touch, no matter how innocently intended, makes sweat break on his brow and to his own embarrassment, he feels the blood rush to his crotch.
"Oh! This hand?" Belle specifies and this time, the stroke of her palm against his hip is purposeful.
He senses the heat of her hand even through the leather and she repeats the caress, her fingers sliding along the inner seam of his breeches from his knee just up to his loins.
The girl leans over, pressed against him, her chest heaving against his. Rumpelstiltskin recognizes the herbal shampoo, the one of his own brew and the dab of rose perfume. Her soft hair gently swipes his cheek and he groans.
"Dearie," he calls but the minx doesn't stop, driving him insane with a simple stroke of her hand. Another moment and she will notice his state; his trousers have never been designed to contain arousal and they are feeling too tight already, his cock swelling with tension and desire pumping in his blood.
"Belle," he tries again but she only hums in response.
Rumpelstiltskin knows he should get up and leave, it's all happening too fast, she's still a stranger but her touch nails him to the bench.
Her hand moves up boldly, her fingertips reaching his balls and pressing lightly against them through his leathers. He moans, he cannot help the low needy sound that escapes him, but she only whispers an encouraging yes in return.
He closes his eyes, for he believes he's dreaming. It cannot be happening, not to him, not here. He feels the girl's hot puffs of breath on his jaw and he expects her to kiss him, but it doesn't happen. Isabelle's hand cups him through his trousers possessively, kneading his flesh lightly and bringing it to full hardness. His head is spinning with want but all he does is grip the edges of the bench to steady himself.
With unusual skill, her other hand pulls on the laces of his breeches and reaches inside. The touch of her fingers on his naked flesh makes his cock throb almost painfully. She pushes the leathers away, fully exposing him and Rumpelstiltskin can swear he feels the cool room air on the moist head of his cock.
Belle sighs as if she enjoys what she's seeing and gives his shaft a firm stroke. She doesn't grip him too gently; somehow she applies just the right pressure and he bites his tongue not to make any noise.
"Rumpelstiltskin, no." Her voice is husky with arousal, but it's impossible, she cannot feel the same way from touching him. The gust of Belle's breath against his skin makes his lower belly tighten and he thrusts upwards into her fist. "I want to hear you," she murmurs and her moistened lips accidentally brush his cheek. He groans, imagining what her lips would feel like on him down there, if she kissed the tip of his prick, wrapping them around the sensitive head and pushed lower, sucking him in until her mouth met her wicked fingers.
Belle nips on his jaw, each dap of her lips drawing another beast-like snarl from him but she's not scared. She moves down to his neck, pushing his cravat away with her left hand and swiping her tongue across his bumpy scales as her thumb circles the crown of his cock.
She's moving her hand faster now, twisting it when she reaches the top of his shaft and sucking on his neck hard enough to bruise. His balls are drawn tight to his body, his lower belly contracting with pleasure approaching and his cock is more rigid than he thought possible. Rumpelstiltskin wishes he could open his eyes, to see her small fingers tighten around his member, to see the blur of her hand as she strokes him, to see the precum seep out of the slit and coat her fingers as she spreads it around.
He swears as the first gush of his hot seed lands on her hand, lubricating it and making his prick slippery. She doesn't stop though, milking him as his cock keeps spurting, waves of pleasure rippling through his whole body as he pulses and empties himself into her fist.
It's over before he knows it and then reality hits hard. He's terrified now, being so vulnerable, so disgraced and he dreads the moment he has to open his eyes again.
Rumpelstiltskin tries to calm his breathing and his rapidly beating heart. He feels Isabelle tuck him in gently, but still winces as the harsh leather scrapes over his overly-sensitive head. The girl's hands cups his face – although they feel dry he can still smell his seed on them – and she places tiny kisses on his cheeks and forehead, quick and dry, nothing like the lewd licks to his neck moments ago.
"You are gorgeous," she whispers against his lips and presses a brief kiss to them. "Thank you for this."
He opens his eyes only when the door slams shut. He is alone in the room, his clothes in perfect order as if nothing occurred, but his head still keeps spinning as he tries to embrace what has just happened.