Discover Top Posts Tagged with #poor graham

Golden Rings 12: A Wolf

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumple notices an unusual event

Read on AO3

Content Warning: Graham in this chapter and nothing good ever happens to Graham.

He is lying on their bed, spread-eagled and naked on the blue and gold coverlet. The gray-green of his skin looks rough and dull compared to the vibrant silk. His wife stands above him, clad in a gown of emerald velvet. She holds his dagger loosely at her side.

“Tell me the truth,” she orders. “Do you want to do this, Rumpelstiltskin?”

Magic surrounds him, connects him to the blade and to his wife. She is the mistress of the dagger. He gave himself over to her long ago. She owns him, body and mind, will and power. He must obey. It is impossible, unthinkable, to do anything else. At her command, he speaks the truth:

“I want to please you.” His breath comes hard and heavy. “But I am afraid. I do not want to be a slave to anyone.”

Belle sits on the bed beside him, sets the dagger aside. She cradles his face, leans over and kisses him. Their foreheads touch, they breathe together for a moment.

“Thank you for telling me you’re afraid,” she whispers. “And thank you for wanting to please me. We don’t have to play this game if you don’t want to.”

“But I do want to.” He reaches for her face, runs his black claws through her hair. It is easier to say these things when he is closer to her. She makes it so easy to be weak. “I want to belong to you, sweetheart. I know you won’t hurt me.”

She kisses him, long and deep and loving. He surrenders to the kiss, he lets her take him. Belle loves him, wants him, treasures him. For some far reason beyond his comprehension, he is precious to her. She will not let him come to harm.

In his long life, no one has ever protected him before.

“If I ask you to, Rumple, will you face your fear?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “There is nothing I would deny you, Belle. Nothing in the world and nothing of myself.”

Slowly nodding, she pulls back. She sits up above him. She picks up the dagger emblazoned with his name.

“I won’t hurt you, and I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” Her voice is calm as she looks down at him--calm and cool, but still full of love. “But in this game I will keep you from doing what you want. Do you understand?”

He swallows. Belle will take care of him. Belle will push him to the edge and pull him back again, just as he has done to her a thousand times. Belle loves him and he loves her.

He trusts her.

“Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I understand.”

“And if you cannot bear it, if you wish to stop this game, I charge you now that you must say the word we have agreed upon.”

“I will,” he whispers.

“Tell me the word now, Rumple, so that it is fresh in your mind.”

He almost smiles. “The word is apple.”

Even the faintest allusion to Regina will be a bucket of cold water on both of them. The woman who hurt Belle in the past, who will hurt both of them in the future--the mere thought of her will be enough to sober them both and signal the end of anything playful.

“That’s very good, Rumple.” Belle punctuates her praise with a kiss on his forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you, not in your body and not in your heart. In this game, I will control you, but you must speak if I go too far.”

“I will,” he promises. And the magic will hold him to his words. “I trust you, Belle. I love you.”

“I love you.” She looks down on him, her beautiful hair curling down to brush against his naked chest. Her smile is so warm, so lovely.

Then she gets off the bed, and holds the dagger aloft. When she looks at him next, her smile is gone, her eyes are cold, her face impassive. This is Belle with power, Belle in control. In control of him.

His mouth goes dry and his pulse begins to race.

“Until I say otherwise,” she declares, “you are to lay flat on the bed. You will not move. You will not speak, except to answer a direct question or to say the word. You will stop the game if there is any danger to the castle, to myself, or to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he breathes. His cock is already growing hard, just from being near his wife, just from being at her mercy.

“And Rumpelstiltskin?” she adds.

He cannot speak, but nods to show his attention.

“Under no circumstances are you permitted to come until I say.”

He closes his eyes and bites down a groan. He doesn’t protest--he can only speak to end the game before it begins. And this is what Belle told him she was going to do: keep him from doing what he wanted. His body is hers, he has agreed to it again and again.

She will do as she likes with him. He will trust her, and he will enjoy the experience.

With one hand still holding the dagger, she begins to unlace the front of her bodice. The green velvet of her gown gives way to a white silk chemise--light underneath the darkness. She doesn’t remove the dress completely, but lets it cling to her body, half-open. It gives the most tempting, most alluring glimpses of her skin.

He doesn’t realize he had reached for her until he feels the magic pull him back to the bed. It pulls him by the wrists, as though he is wearing shackles. As though he is bound by the same golden cuffs he had used on Belle so long ago.

Perhaps she is thinking the same thing. The next time she touches him it is to twist his wedding ring around his finger. Their rings were once her cuffs. What was once her bondage is now their bond, their marriage, their love.

Half-dressed, she leans over him. He can smell her body--her sweat, her arousal. He wants to pull her close and bury his nose in her. He wants to smell and taste and touch--then hear her laugh and sigh in pleasure.

But he cannot.

Because it pleases her that he doesn’t.

Instead, she straddles him. She hitches up her skirts and petticoats and spreads them out over his body. Silk and lace and velvet tickle the bare skin of his chest. He can feel her legs, her heat, even traces of her slick desire--but he cannot see any of it.

She sets herself lightly against his cock. The position teases him, taunts him with how similar it is to what he really wants. Their bodies are close together, but not nearly close enough. They will not be close enough until he is fully sheathed inside her and she is screaming and moaning in delight.

Belle sets the dagger down on the bed beside him. If he could move his hand but one inch, he could grab the blade and all his power would be his own again.

But even if he could, he wouldn’t. He gave the dagger to Belle. He gave himself to her, and that is a vow he will never break.

She must see him looking at the dagger, for when he looks on her again, she grins. “That’s good that you didn’t reach for it,” she coos. “Maybe someday we’ll be able to do this without magic. What would you think of that?”

She has asked him a question, so he can speak. “I think I might like that.”

Her grin transforms into a loving smile. Bending over him, she runs her pale hands over his dark chest--first her fingers, then her palms, and then back with her fingernails raking against his bare skin. He throws his head back. A strangled moan fights to escape his closed lips.

She chuckles. “Oh please make noise, my darling. Be as loud as you like.”

He is glad of that permission when her clever fingers brush over his gold-speckled nipples. Faint circles swirl over his sensitive flesh, teasing, tempting. When she finally relents and pinches him, the pain is close enough to pleasure that he groans and arches up briefly before the magic pulls him back down.

“Oh!” Belle sighs as she rides him. “I thought you might like that! Now I can feel that you do.” She grinds down against him, her slick folds rubbing against his shaft. He is still not inside her and it is driving him mad.

But of course she knows that.

She takes her hands off his chest and brings them to her gown. She pulls the bodice open further, so her arms are just barely in her sleeves. Her white chemise is loosely knotted at the back, when she pulls at the knot, the silk billows out around her. Now her neckline is at her waist and her beautiful pink breasts are finally exposed.

He groans at the sight of her, his perfect wife. How has he not exploded already?

Because she told him not to.

“Let me tell you something, Rumple.” She leans over him again, to whisper to him. Her body presses against his. Her nipples are as hard and pointed as his own--he feels them against his skin, as hot as her breath in his ear. “I like it too.”

Then her lovely hands are on her own flawless body. She touches herself the same way she just touched him--sweeping, scratching, pinching. She thrusts her hips against his pelvis and he can do nothing to enhance either her pleasure or his own.

It is excruciating.

It is exhilarating.

It feels like she does this for years, for an eternity. His wife takes her pleasure and he’s lucky he even gets to watch. She moves around his body while he lies paralyzed on the bed. Using his cock and and his mouth and his balled fists like so many lifeless toys, she makes herself come again and again. He has never been so powerless. He has never been so hard.

She strips away the rest of her clothes and he can see everything. He can see his dark cock entering her and disappearing inside her body. She clenches around him, hot and wet and maddening. He has no control over this. He cannot take her as he wants to. He cannot move, cannot even jerk his hips to get in deeper as she rides him. She kisses him and praises him, allows him to worship her breasts with his mouth.

“You’re so good, Rumple.” Her eyes are glazed and sweat glistens over her skin. Every part of him smells like her pleasure. “Are you ready?”

He feels her muscles tighten as she uses him for one more orgasm. One more, but not one last. Belle knows that. She knows the beast she has in her bed. A beast who can be tamed, but cannot be denied for long. A beast with hungers and urges that she has long been eager to satisfy.

She will satisfy him again, his beautiful wife. Because it pleases her to do so. He is her beast, and she will unleash him. They will love each other in every way, in every moment, for as long as they are together.

“I’m ready.”

“In that case, Rumpelstiltskin, I will free you from the constraints of this game... Right... Now!”

****

Power arced across the sky and Rumpelstiltskin jolted upright out of sleep. His breath came out in pants. He was sweating, despite the chill that permeated the drafty house. Inside his pajama bottoms, his cock was painfully hard.

But he couldn’t bother with that now.

Grabbing his cane, he heaved himself out of bed and hobbled to the nearest window. He pulled back the curtains and scanned the sky frantically. What should he look for? Would there be anything to see? Clouds hung heavy over the houses of Storybrooke, and the only light in them was the reflection of the orange street lights. It was an eerie and unnatural sight, but it wasn’t what had woken him.

It wasn’t magic.

After twenty-eight years of the curse, he still recognized magic. He knew the feeling, the taste, the vibrations of it, better than he knew any other sensation. This was supposed to be a world without magic--a world where he was powerless. That was why Bae had wanted to come here in the first place

But he knew what he felt.

It was fading, even as he stood by the window. The surge had been a burst of magic, wild and formless, like the lightning of a summer storm. It was untrained and probably unintentional, the magic of someone who didn’t know what they were doing. Someone who didn’t even know she had magic.

A slow smile spread across Rumpelstiltskin’s face. No, the Savior didn’t have magic. She was magic. In the old world, magic was a skill to be learned, a talent that could be either developed or ignored. But Emma Swan was the product of True Love. Magic was a part of her very nature, and had been from the moment of her conception. Even if she knew what she was dealing with, she wouldn’t be able to fight it or hide it. Magic was her destiny. Whether she knew it or not, she had brought it to Storybrooke.

He closed the curtains. Though it was still dark outside, dawn would be coming soon. And there was so much work to do.

He limped over to the washroom, to attend the needs of his human body. Mrs. Gold was asleep in the bed, lying on her stomach the way Belle liked to. She had one arm stretched out to the side, her pale skin all but glowing against the dark red sheets. She was reaching to the other side of the bed, to the space where he had been sleeping.

Quietly, Rumpelstiltskin approached his wife. Belle’s face, Belle’s hair, Belle’s sweet, gentle yearning. She was there, he knew it, inside Mrs. Gold. Belle was just sleeping, waiting to be rescued.

He pulled the quilt up over her shoulders, to protect her from the night air. Belle was always cold. Mrs. Gold had finally stopped going to bed naked, but her negligees barely covered her. There was a gift-giving holiday coming up soon, something like the winter solstice. Perhaps he could buy her something long and made of flannel. Mrs. Gold would hate such a garment, but perhaps she would wear it just to please him.

Of course, he shouldn’t encourage her to think she was pleasing him. That would only lead the poor woman to more disappointment.

Sighing, he left the bed and went to the washroom. The problem of Mrs. Gold wasn’t going to go away, but it wasn’t the issue that occupied his thoughts now. Magic was what he had to think of. There was magic in Storybrooke. What was he going to do about it?

With the flip of a switch, he brought light to the darkened room. Magic used to be as simple as that. He’d used it for his comfort and his necessities just as the people of this world used electricity. It was an odd reversal of the curse that in this world all but the poorest people had the same luxuries as the Dark One. And now magic was no more accessible to him than a bolt of lightning.

He stripped off his clothes and turned on the water in the shower. In the old world, he had spent weeks mastering the “Indoor Rain” spell. Longer still to tinker with it so he could summon water that was warm but not scalding. But every house in Storybrooke had this ability--as long as people paid their water bills. That was one similarity between the worlds: Whether something was magic or only seemed like magic, it all came with a price.

Gold’s bathtub had a seat built into the corner to accommodate his bad leg. It was also handy whenever he wanted to watch his wife soap herself under the warm spray. He had made Mrs. Gold get on her knees for him a hundred times in this tub. She would wash his feet, or suck his cock, or bend over his knee and take a punishment. Sometimes Gold would leave her alone on her knees in the shower while he dried off and dressed. He would spray her down with freezing water--sometimes while she was still clothed in those designer fashions she took such pride in wearing.

She was his thing, and he could break her if he wanted to.

Rumpelstiltskin hung his head and let the water run over him. He would never be clean of these memories, of what Gold had done to his wife, how he had abused the power he had over her. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind. He tried to remember his dream.

Every night since he had come back to himself, Rumpelstiltskin had dreamed of his old life. His dreams always took the form of memories, distinct from any natural dream. In the dreams he was always himself, and he always knew what was going on. He dreamed of his father, of the women who raised him. He dreamed of Millah, of Bae, of the deals he had made as the Dark One.

He dreamed of Belle. Belle as a girl making a deal she couldn’t possibly understand, wanting nothing more than to save her people from an army of ogres. Belle as a captive in his dungeon, wearing the cuffs and learning how to play the games he set up. Belle as he came to love her, came to realize that she was the most precious person in the world to him--and that he had no idea how to cope with that. Belle, loving him so much she allowed him not to love her. Belle, wretched and despondent after he had trapped her in her library. Belle taking her freedom.

Belle coming back.

Belle as his wife, as the mistress of the dagger. Finally, both of them together and equally able to love each other. Belle as his partner and his second self, of them talking and planning and spending every day side by side. Dream after dream of them loving each other, and expressing that love with their bodies.

His cock was hard in his hand. In the weeks since he had awoken from the curse, Rumpelstiltskin had masturbated less than a dozen times. Whenever he did, it was always like this--under a stream of running water, in the early hours of the morning, after dreaming about Belle.

He took care of himself quickly, mechanically. It didn’t feel right to take much pleasure in this act, not without his wife. This was just a base need, a release, a discharge of too much pent-up energy.

For the longest time, that was all fucking had been to him too. As the Dark One, he had taken a few lovers: People who had offered themselves to him as part of a deal. Students who wanted a hands-on demonstration of that type of magic. Jefferson had been so wonderstruck with new possibilities he was eager to try anything, with anyone. For so long, the most licentious depravities had been enjoyable--but as impersonal as fucking his own hand.

Belle had changed that. Belle had changed everything. With Belle, pleasure and love and intimacy had become entwined again. She had known him, as no other lover had ever known him. And she accepted him. She wanted him.

Rumpelstiltskin came with a strangled grunt. He stifled his noises so Mrs. Gold wouldn’t hear. For a moment, he breathed. He pretended that the heat of the water was Belle’s body all around him, caressing him, cherishing him.

Then he finished washing, and got dressed.

****

The early morning light was enough to see by as Rumpelstiltskin moved through the house. He had been able to dress without turning on a lamp and running the risk of waking Mrs. Gold. Leaning on his cane, he made his way down the stairs and into Gold’s study.

In addition to the safe in the shop, Gold also had a safe hidden behind one of the bookshelves in this room. Rumpelstiltskin spun the combination and the door swung open. Inside there were stacks of banded hundred dollar bills, an accordion file of documents--contracts, deeds, incriminating photographs of some of Storybrooke’s most upstanding citizens--and a steel box. The box was fireproof, waterproof, and required two separate keys to open.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t breathe until the box was opened, and he saw that the contents inside were intact.

The chipped cup, Baelfire’s shawl, and the dagger.

He touched the objects reverently. The shawl was wrapped around the cup, protecting it from potential damage. The dagger was separate from that tangle, as though it knew it didn’t belong. Carefully, Rumpelstiltskin lifted the cup and the shawl out of the box. With one hand on his cane, he cradled the precious things in the crook of his arm.

He used to carry Bae the same way.

After scanning the room for a moment, he decided to set the things up on a shelf by Gold’s desk. That way, he would be able to look at them and know that they were safe. Bae’s shawl and Belle’s cup were the best parts of his old life--the best parts of himself. It was better for them to be out in the open, where he could see them and remember.

The dagger, however, was only worth having when it was in Belle’s hand. At any other time, it was a liability. The only weapon that could hurt the Dark One, the only way to control him or take his life. Now that Emma Swan had brought her own sparks of magic into this world, Rumpelstiltskin would have to keep such an explosive item far away from any flames.

He shut the metal box and locked it with both keys. Wedging the box under his arm, he went to the back of the house. In the kitchen, he grabbed the canvas apron and threw it over his shoulder as he went into the garage.

The garage produced a garden spade and a pair of rubber boots. Very useful. Gold kept a pair of gloves in the glove box of his car. He would need those as well. Rumpelstiltskin had pulled out the keys and opened the car door before a pang of conscience made him stop.

Mrs. Gold.

If she woke up and found him gone, she would panic and think she had done something to displease him.

With a slight huff. Rumpelstiltskin shut the car door and went back inside the house. He wrote a quick note saying that he needed to take care of some business and he would be back before it was time to open the shop. Creasing the notepaper, he set it at Mrs. Gold’s place at the dining room table. She would see it as soon as she came down for breakfast. If he got back before she woke up, he could destroy the note and she would never know he had left.

That taken care of, Rumpelstiltskin drove into the woods. Gold owned most of the wild forest that surrounded Storybrooke. It took about twenty minutes to drive from the pink house to the rustic cabin where Gold liked to get away.

They had spent their honeymoon there, on some frigid February weekend that had never really happened. The tradition of this world was for grooms to carry their brides over the threshold of their home. But Gold had ordered his new wife to crawl to him on her hands and knees as a beginning of their wedded bliss.

Because the cabin was so isolated, Gold allowed himself to let loose when they were here. He would have Mrs. Gold walk naked and barefoot through the forest, and let herself get caught in brambles and mud puddles. Then he would punish her for being so careless, so dirty. Out here, both of them got to unleash their animal natures--Gold as a predator, his wife as prey. A victim.

Shaking his head, Rumpelstiltskin parked the car and got out. He put on the apron, boots and gloves, and carried the shovel and the box in one hand. He couldn’t walk far into the trees, but he managed to find a clear spot. Balancing on his good leg, he stuck the shovel in the ground and heaved his weight onto it.

The shovel sank into the forest soil. They weren’t so far into winter that the ground had frozen yet.

He dug deeper than he needed to. It was exhausting work, but mindless. Almost like spinning. While his body was occupied, that gave his mind an opportunity to roam free. He could think, he could plan. When had dug enough, he tossed the box that held his dagger into the hole. It landed with an unceremonious thud. Then, Rumpelstiltskin hid the source of all his power under the dirt.

As he patted down the last of the soil and covered the spot with fallen leaves and sticks, a man came barreling through the forest. He ran as though the hounds of hell were after him. Abruptly, he stopped, and spun around to look at the trees and brush around him. He looked disoriented and on the verge of panic.

Gold knew this man as Sheriff Graham, the well-meaning head of local law enforcement. He was Gold’s tenant, a fact Mrs. Gold often used to her advantage.

There was also reason to suspect that the sheriff station’s close ties to the mayor’s office was not merely a working relationship. Graham was a handsome young man, after all, though at this moment he looked sweaty and feverish. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

Or like he had seen a ghost.

Deliberately making noise, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled out into the clearing. Graham jumped at the disturbance. He must have been entirely in his own world.

“Mr. Gold!” Graham panted. His brow was furrowed, his eyes bloodshot. He looked at Rumpelstiltskin like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Like his eyes told him one thing, but some other sense was telling him something completely different. “I thought you were a wolf.”

“Did I forget to shave?”

Rumpelstiltskin grinned as he put the pieces together. The sheriff’s station had hired a new deputy a few weeks ago. Graham was now spending several hours every day in the company of Emma Swan. It was possible that his current state had nothing to do with the surge of magic that had burst through town earlier.

But it wasn’t likely.

“You know, Sheriff, as far as I’m aware, there are no wolves in Storybrooke. Not the literal kind, anyway. Why are you looking for one?”

Graham shook his head. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

What a person in this world would think was madness was exactly what Rumpelstiltskin wanted to hear. “Try me.”

“I had a dream about a wolf.” Graham rubbed his forehead. It was less that he was answering Gold and more that he was trying to understand what was happening in his own mind. “A white wolf. It had one eye as red as blood, the other as black as night. And then, I swear, I saw the exact same wolf out here. But it ran off. Or maybe it was never here...”

Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Rumpelstiltskin to wonder who Graham had been in the old world. But now he didn’t need to wonder at all. The traits Graham described were unique in a wolf, the sort of coloring that showed up only in one pack. The pack that had lived in the mountains near the Dark One’s castle.

He remembered the day--about thirty years before this curse--when he had heard the keening howl of a lonely wolf. It had been a white female, with one eye as red as blood, and the other as dark as night. The wolf’s sister had been mated and whelped a lively litter of pups. But because this wolf had no mate, she had no chance at a litter of her own, and her loneliness would only grow.

Rumpelstiltskin had sensed her desperation and knew that having a favor from even one wolf could be a valuable tool. So when it happened that a human woman running through his forest with her child had tripped over a root and smashed her head against a stone, Rumpelstiltskin whisked the boy away and offered it to the lonely wolf to raise as her own pup.

Graham was that boy, all grown up. The wolf he dreamed of was the only mother he had. The only mother he remembered. And it was driving him to the brink of madness.

“Did you see anything strange out here, Mr. Gold?”

“I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” he answered. “Do wish I could be more helpful.” He made to walk away, but then turned back to the shaken Sheriff. “You know,” he said, “they say that dreams are memories. Memories of another life.”

Graham blinked slowly at Rumpelstiltskin. He could see the wheels turning behind the poor man’s teary eyes. What he said made so much sense, but it couldn’t be true. Could it? Could it possibly? “What do you believe?”

He gave the sheriff a grin he knew he wouldn’t understand. “I never rule out anything.” He nodded his good-bye. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

What would it take to fully give Sheriff Graham his memories back? Rumpelstiltskin didn’t know. But if anyone could do it, it would be Deputy Swan. And once that happened, well…

That would be very interesting.

****

But whatever hopes Rumpelstiltskin might have had were dashed the next morning when Mrs. Gold unfolded the newspaper and shrieked.

“Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with her hand and read an article in fraught silence.

“What is it?” He asked, doubtful that anything that troubled Mrs. Gold would merit his concern.

“Sheriff Graham…” She looked up from the paper and her eyes brimmed with tears. “He’s dead.”

Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward. “What?”

Mrs. Gold nodded and showed him the article. She began to read the text out loud: “First responders arrived at the sheriff’s station late Wednesday night, responding to a 911 call from known drunk driver, Emma Swan. Sheriff Graham Humbert was declared dead on the scene. The medical examiner confirmed the cause of death as a cardiac event. Despite the association of alleged vandal Emma Swan, autopsy reports indicate no suspicion of foul play. A source close to Humbert theorizes that he may have had a heart condition that went tragically undiagnosed.”

She shook her head. “A heart attack?” she whispered. “But he wasn’t even thirty-five!”

Rumpelstiltskin did not let his hands shake as he picked up his cup of tea. Dead. The only other person to come close to having the curse broken was dead. “That does seem unusual.”

Not only unusual but unnatural. Supernatural. It was obvious what had happened: Graham worked closely with both Regina and Emma. Of course he would be caught in their crossfire. If the Savior’s magic had any effect in this world, it could well be that the Queen had a few tricks up her sleeve as well. So, Regina understood what had happened to Graham, and she had decided to eliminate him.

Poor man.

“God!” Mrs. Gold shivered. She sank back in her chair and let the paper fall into her lap.

“You’ve gone white,” he observed. “Are you alright?”

“He’s just dead,” she said softly. “Just like that. Twelve hours ago, he was fine, but then--” she snapped her fingers. “Gone forever. Poor man never got a chance to be free.”

He looked at her carefully. Odd that Mrs. Gold would care about the lives and deaths and freedoms of other people. That was much more Belle’s domain.

Had Belle ever met the wolf-boy in the old world?

“Did you know him well?” he asked gently. Even without Graham, there was still magic in this world. There were still memories that would sound crazy unless you knew what they meant.

“He was kind to me.” Mrs. Gold tilted her head, her gaze seemed far away. Was there something different about her voice? Or was he just hearing what he wanted to hear? “Poor man was trapped, Regina did that to him. But he did the best he could for me. I’ll never forget that.”

“What did he do?” Rumpelstiltskin whispered. He stared at his wife, only half-believing what he was hearing. It couldn’t be real. But perhaps it was. Emma’s magic could be doing miraculous things right now. Right before his eyes.

But then it ended. Like the popping of a soap bubble. Mrs. Gold blinked and snapped out of her reverie.

“I--” It took her a moment to focus, for the curse to reassert its control over her. “I don’t remember. Graham was just… a nice guy.”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin made himself nod.

Mrs. Gold went back to the paper. “Weird that it’s just a little half-column in the back pages. I mean, the man is--was--the sheriff of the whole Goddamned town. You’d think a sudden death would be front-page news.”

“Mr. Glass is certainly using uncharacteristic restraint,” he agreed. “I wonder if the powers that be told the paper to bury the story.”

The breaking of Graham’s curse was a threat to the power Regina had over the reality of this town. His death had solved most of that problem for her, but not all of it. No good would come to Regina if people around Storybrooke began to poke around in the circumstances of the sheriff’s death--or his life, for that matter. Better for her if no one looked at this too closely. Better still if people gradually forgot that Sheriff Graham had ever existed at all. Doubtless, Regina would use all the power she had to make sure no one ever mentioned Graham again.

****

Since Gold had been the sheriff’s landlord, and the man had no other family, it fell to Rumpelstiltskin to clean out the apartment of any personal effects. There was precious little, and nothing worth selling in the shop. Mostly clothes--cheap but well-cared for--and the debris of a life of police work. The walkie-talkie radio set was better quality than anything the city issued out. That could be useful to someone.

Under Graham’s bed, there was a plastic crate full of items that could never be resold. There were harnesses and collars, leather cuffs and spreader bars, whips and floggers and bamboo canes. A half-empty spool of black-dyed rope. The number of toys and restraints would rival even Mrs. Gold’s collection. Everything was high-quality--much more expensive than the salary of a town sheriff could afford--and every item that wasn’t black was either blue, red, or royal purple.

Poking through the crate with the end of his cane, Rumpelstiltskin revealed a layer of dildos and plugs--some truly breathtaking in size. A black leather strap-on harness was clearly the method of delivery for the dildos. There were nipple clamps and cock rings and thin chains with hanging weights. Deeper still were collections of needles and electronic pain devices. He couldn’t identify the small metal objects that looked like miniature cages or conjoined rings. But then Gold’s knowledge helpfully supplied the phrase cock and ball torture.

Nothing about Sheriff Graham gave the slightest suggestion that he would use these implements on another person. But Rumpelstiltskin knew who would. Regina had never discriminated in victims. Perhaps it gave her more of a thrill to hurt a man than a woman. Especially the sheriff, who was supposed to have as much power and authority as the mayor. But no one was allowed to have more power than the Queen. She probably took great pleasure in reminding Graham just how powerless he was.

Rumpelstiltskin would put money down on a bet that Graham was never allowed to use a safe word when he was with Regina. For twenty-eight years, the man had been at the mercy of a woman who had no mercy. A woman whose lust and bloodlust were both insatiable. And the instant he had gotten even a taste of freedom, she had put him down like a dog.

He had half a mind to take the crate of paraphernalia and have it dumped on Regina’s front lawn. It would be so satisfying to declare open war against the Evil Queen, to expose her for what she was and bring out the whole truth for the entire town.

But if Rumpelstiltskin were capable of doing that, he would be the Savior, and not Emma Swan.

He was not the hero of this story. It was not his role to go up against Regina. He was not a white knight. Rumpelstiltskin was the shadow-power, the trickster-demon, the Dark One. The best he could do was to know who the real heroes were, and make sure they had the tools they needed to defeat the real villains.

With that in mind, he decided to pay a friendly visit to City Hall. Perhaps there would be a copy of the Storybrooke Town Charter that he could borrow. The office of sheriff was currently vacant, after all. It would be his duty as a citizen to make sure that vacancy was filled in a lawful manner, by the candidate who could do the most good.

#poor graham

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#poor graham