The Dinner Guest
Summary: After Belle escapes the clutches of the Evil Queen Rumplestiltskin vows not to waste another opportunity with her. But it turns out Evil Queens are not the only obstacles in the path to true love.
Prompt: time for giving thanks, annoyed.
Added preferences: Charming as a foil for Rumple.
AN: Hi, @spottytonguedog it is I, your Secret Santa! I hope you enjoy this! This December has been crazy what with the heat wave (damn your Southern Hemisphere!), the myriad of birthdays and such and the World Cup (WE WON WE WON WE WON) so I’m sorry this is a couple of hours late (for me, I think it might actually be on time for you). Have fun and Merry Christmas!!!
Rumplestiltskin scanned the trophy room, trying to focus on every single detail at once. The fireplace was roaring, and the torches on the walls provided good ambient light: soft, the soft of light that flattered his scales, if there was such a thing. The tapestries were newly-washed, their tale a particularly fitting one, he felt: a unicorn, chased by hunters with their rabid dogs and saved by a beautiful maiden. He had obtained the tapestries in a deal with some minor king over a hundred years ago, and had forgotten all about them for decades. Belle had despaired over their sad state and had restored them, to the best of her abilities. He had let them gather dust after she had gone, and when he had thought her dead. But now that she was back he wanted them looking their best, if only for the smile it would put in her face.
The table was laid with golden plates and fresh flowers in all the many vases that adorned the centre, with candelabra at a safe distance to add to the ambiance. He had picked her favourite blooms, which had been suspiciously abundant around the castle.
He had also procured the food. Roasted pheasant with vegetables, followed by a palate-cleanser orange-flavoured water-ice and two choices of souffle, raspberry and chocolate. He had had to cash in a favour from a cook, once an undercook in the kitchen of a faraway king with dreams of proving himself and snatching a promotion. Rumplestiltskin had made it so he succeeded- by giving almost everyone else in the kitchen terrible food-poisoning in the eve of a big banquet. He had done it mostly out of boredom, but now he was glad that he had collected that favour.
He, of course, could not be outdone by his own dinner table, so he was dressed in his best attire: dark brown leather pants tucked into polished boots, a soft cream blouse with gold stitching and a gold-and-burgundy vest, the sort he favoured with flaring collars and plunging necklines. He had opted out of a coat of any kind, not wanting to have too many barriers between himself and Belle’s affectionate touches. His only nod to jewellery was the bracelet around his wrist, made from his and Belle’s hair, braided together with his own golden thread.
He had thrown himself into the research on a way to nullify the effects of true love the moment Belle had come back to him, bruised and thin from her enjoyment of Regina’s brand of hospitality but blessedly alive and, surprisingly, willing to give him another chance.
Surely, he reasoned, if there was a way to bottle true love, something that previously people had thought could not be done, true love could also be… blocked. Or its magical effects nullified. He threw himself into his research, wishing to prove himself worthy of Belle’s trust in him.
In the end two strands of their hair, braided along his gold thread and fashioned into bracelets, one for each, was all it took. It was, in many ways, the same alchemical principle that had allowed him to bottle true love, only it contained instead of condensed. He had presented the bracelet to Belle along with a painfully honest recount of what had happened with Bae, how he had spent the past three centuries trying to find his way back to the son he had abandoned in a moment of weakness. He had owed it to her, both to explain why he had to hold onto his power and would not consider giving into their feelings unless he could do that. Not that he expected anything, he told her.
He needn’t have feared she would reject him, or that she would be reluctant to kiss him again, burned by what had happened the first time. She had given him a kiss that night. Fleeting, a tentative brush of her lips against her, standing on tiptoes because she was such a wee thing, no matter how large her presence was in every room she stepped into.
Soon her bravery asserted itself and her exploratory pecks became long, deep kisses. Became late nights in front of a roaring fire, laying boneless in the settee she usually liked to lounge and read in, with her practically on top of him, tilting her head this way and that way, seeking out the angles she liked the most, the pressured and intensity that was had them both in a near constant state of tension.
It was heavenly. Rumplestiltskin was not a man accustomed to touching. He had seldom been touched as a human, and even less in an affectionate way, barring his brief time having Bae around. As the Dark One touch happened much less, both as a personal choice and as an inevitable side effect of being the thing monsters were afraid of. But he was addicted to it now, with the way Belle flung himself into his arms, the way she boldly wrapped her arms around him, tugging at his hair as she slanted her mouth across his, a demanding little thing, seeking her pleasure out of him.
But as much of a delightful little explorer as she was, Belle was also a maiden. A noble lady raised modestly, safe inside the walls of her father’s keep. Her experience with men was constrained to garden parties and galas, and later on, once the ogres began threatening their land, to the soldiers wounded in battle that she would try to tend to, always chaperoned by at least a maid, if not more. Belle was innocent, and as brave as she was with him, there was a limit to what she would do. A lack of knowledge, an honest ignorance of what came after, but the way she moved in his arms, and the noises she made, let him know she felt like him. Unfulfilled. Eager.
He was the one with experience. He should be the one taking the lead, guiding things to the next step, but he was a coward, terrified of a hundred different things. Of being so vulnerable in front of someone else. Of disappointing Belle, or not being enough for her. Of hurting her too, with the way the demon in him burned for her, the way it whispered to him to consume her, to rip the innocence right out of her. No Dark One had ever felt carnal lust, not like this. Not so focused on one single person, so fixated and possessive. He felt that if he ever lost control the curse would swallow Belle up.
So he did what he did best. He ran, telling himself he was protecting her. Doing the right thing, keeping the monster away from the beautiful maiden. But it was a cowardly excuse, and only took him into consideration. Belle deserved better, deserved to choose for herself how far she wanted to go, how she wanted things to be between them.
So he decided to plan a dinner. A slow seduction over music, food and cosy intimacy. A lovely night of romancing where he would press her just as much as she would let him, where he would guide her as far as she wanted to go. He would be brave for her.
The thought of bravery made him go to the wet bar in the corner, picking up a decanter of whiskey and pouring himself a healthy three fingers worth of the amber liquid into a solid crystal snifter, gulping the drink down before helping himself to seconds. As he did he tried to take his mind off things. He needed to be calm, cool and collected and he could do neither of those things if he thought about Belle, soaking in the tub he had set up for her, the water scented with orange blossoms, ready to slip on the lovely dress he had made for her, a magnificent golden confection with a sweeping skirt and, dare he admit it, a rather daring neckline, the colour surely to highlight the peachy shade of her-
Fuck. He needed to get a fucking hold of himself. Three hundred years barely feeling anything for anyone, and now it was as if all that pent-up want was slamming into him at once, turning him into a slobbering animal. Perhaps it would not be such a bad idea to-
A knock interrupted his thoughts, though he thought at first that he might be imagining things. It was a cold winter night, no one who had any sense would even think to be anywhere near the Dark Castle. Yet the knock came again, one followed by another till it became clear that someone was banging rather insistently on his door. Miffed beyond reason and ready to dispatch whoever was stupid enough to interrupt his planned night he yanked the door open, finding what he thought at first might be some overgrown dog drenched by the snowfall that had barely stopped half an hour ago. But once he lit the nearest torch he saw that it wasn’t an animal at all. It was Prince fucking Charming, wet, muddied and looking like sleep was a foreign concept he had never encountered before.
“Do you, by chance, have any peaches?”
What.
The.
Fuck.
“The devil you say?”
Rumplestilskin frowned, sure he had heard Charming wrong and disgruntled at the interruption. The prince was likely there due to some Regina-shaped emergency or some other magical inconvenience that he thought the Dark One could solve because, apparently, fairy godmothers were there for decoration. Couldn’t he spend one evening not babysitting one stupid monarch or the other?
“It’s just… I’ve noticed you have an orchard where the trees seem to be indifferent to the passing of the seasons.”
The pretend prince was right, of course. The orchards inside the Dark Castle grounds always bore fruit. Belle liked fruit, for one. She had been deprived of it for long during the Ogre Wars and later on when she had been captured by the queen. So he made sure the orchards were gripped by a never ending summer, the trees heavy with juicy fruit and the bushes dripping with berries that she could simply pluck and eat as she passed by. Pears, peaches, oranges, tangerines, blackberries and raspberries. Everything except apples.
“I need peaches, and this was the only place I could think of to get them in the middle of winter.”
Yeah, that didn’t really answer any of the questions he currently had. He was about to tell him so, right before he told him to fuck off, but an unexpected and uninvited twinge of pity settle on the pit of his stomach. Charming looked a wreck, truly. Sodden to the bone, looking like he might have torn chunks of hair out of his scalp, with clothing that he seemed to have put on while blindfolded. Like some pathetic, ran down Adonis.
“Just… go stand by the fire. I can barely understand you, the way your teeth are chattering.”
He reluctantly ushered the prince into his home, thinking that he could speed up his recovery with a bit of magic, get quickly to the bottom of whatever fever dream had gripped the idiot and dispatched him back to the loving arms of his white-as-snow bride before Belle had finished arranging her hair. Surely the man would be as eager to be on his way as Rumplestiltskin was to kick him out.
But Charming bypassed the fireplace in the main hall completely, striding deeper into the castle as if he owned it, his steps leading him to the trophy room.
“It smells great in here. And so warm!” The lumbering idiot went straight towards the table laden with food, only making a last-minute detour when he spotted the wet bar.
“Oh, I could use a drink. It’ll warm me right up.”
“So would a fireball to the face.”
His fingers twitched, eager, but Charming was then too close to the dining table, and he could not risk spoiling all his hard work. The boy grabbed the heavy crystal decanter he had poured his own drink from, and the Dark One frowned, uneasy. That whiskey was not ordinary. Alcoholic beverages could not do little to his Dark One physique, so he tended to lace his drinks, making sure Belle knew not to touch certain bottles. That particular decanter was itself enchanter to enhance the potency of whatever drink it contained, and he had been letting that particular whiskey macerate in there for years. It was his “drink in case of emergency emotional breakdown” drink, so to speak.
“Dearie, I don’t think you should-”
He thought he’d have more time to warn him. That, as a prince now, Charming had grown to acquire at least some of the mannerisms of the nobility, like their appreciation of fine liqueurs. But it seemed that you could take a man out of the pigsty but you couldn’t take the pigsty out of a man. Charming downed the drink almost blindly, hardly reacting to the way the alcohol burned its way down his throat. By the time the Dark One could blink, aghast and also a little bit more respectful of Charming, he served himself a new glass, which he drank just as fast as the first one. In an instant he had transported himself next to the man and, in an uncharacteristic act of generosity, yanked the decanter right out of the fool’s greedy hands.
“Let’s try some water for a change, dearie.”
“What about some food? I’m starving.”
The prince’s eyes were already glassy, a clear indicator the whiskey had been as powerful as he’d feared. Otherwise he imagined he would have cowered at the sight of a scowling Dark One, clearly one small comment away from turning him into a snail.
“Oh, everything looks delicious and it looks like you have more than enough. You don’t mind, do you?”
Rumplestiltskin didn’t need to strain himself to catch the way the princeling was beginning to slur, nor pay extra attention to notice how he dropped himself into a chair like a sack of potatoes. With manners that clearly outed him as a person who had grown up in a barn he tore through his carefully-arranged table, casually tearing a leg off the roasted pheasant and piling his plate high with the vegetables, uncaring of the bits that fell to the soft cream tablecloth, staining the fabric a muddy brown.
“Do they not feed you at home, dearie?” He could not even bring himself to be outraged for his ruined efforts, so appalled was he by Charming’s voraciousness. “Does your snowy wife forget to drop the kitchen scraps into your pen at night?”
The princeling mumbled something, made entirely unintelligible by the pheasant drumstick still protruding from the man’s mouth. Rumplestiltskin began to feel that comparing Charming to pigs was an affront to pigs everywhere.
“I just… It’s been a difficult couple of days. Week. Month and a half.”
To his credit he looked like he had had a rough few weeks, his eye-bags alone attesting to sleepless nights and frayed nerves.
“Trouble with the missus?”
Charming had the decency to swallow this time before speaking, going as far as to wash the food down with a long drink of water. At least he was getting hydrated.
“She’s pregnant, as you must know.”
He did, of course. The future saviour was swimming about in Snow’s tummy as they spoke, right on schedule. A blonde, blue-eyed little thing, if the glimpses he caught of the future, fleeting as they were, proved true. More like her father than her mother in looks.
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, it… It hasn’t been easy. She’s been so dreadfully sick, so of course I can’t sleep knowing that she’s suffering so. We’ve been trying to find things she can keep down, or things she’ll be tempted to eat, but it’s never something that we have readily available. It’s either some spiced sauce from Agrabah or a very rare mushroom growing atop the Forbidding Mountains, or, in this case-”
“Peaches. In winter.”
Snow White was rarely the stereotype of a spoiled princess nowadays, after her rough living as an outlaw and a bandit, but pregnancy had apparently brought the haughty royal in her. At least when it came to her pregnancy cravings.
“Yes. I was going mad, tried everywhere to find some, until I remembered about your orchards.”
Desperation did strange things to people. In the case of Charming, it seemed to have made him reckless beyond reason. He could not detect an iota of fear in the man as he continued to grab chunks of the now poorly-looking pheasant and serve himself helpings of every side dish.
“There are some hot bread rolls in the basket with the red napkin, if you want some help cleaning out your plate.”
“Oh, that would be lovely!”
Clearly Charming was beyond sarcasm too. That was going to be a problem.
“Rumple, are we having company?”
Rumplestiltskin stood stock still for a second, wishing that he had misheard. But it wasn’t meant to be, judging by the way Charming’s attention focused on something behind him, the man doing what looked like a halfway decent attempt at looking semi-sober, though he wobbled when he stood to bow.
“Greetings, my Lady. Sorry, I didn’t know there was anyone else here.”
He tried to straighten up, but he wasn’t sober enough for it, stumbling almost into Rumplestiltskin’s arms. The Dark One turned around, immediately relieved upon realising that Belle had not put on her gold dress but rather one of the winter frocks he had made for her, the fabric a soft lavender that complimented her hair and skin. If Charming had seen her in the gold dress, he would have had to kill him.
“It’s no trouble. I’m Belle, nice to meet you.”
The idiotic shepherd took a few steps forward, stumbling less than he should have, given his state, and bowed rather dashingly, crumpled wet cape and all. Damn his natural charisma, he wondered if he could bottle it somehow. Would likely come in handy for one of his deals. Luckily, Belle did not seem taken in by it, though she remained cautiously welcoming.
“I seemed to hear you need… peaches?”
Relief rolled off Charming’s shoulders as he directed his sheepdog puppy-eyed stare at Belle, having obviously decided she was the answer to his prayers.
“Yes, my lady. For my wife. She’s pregnant, you see, and has strong cravings. I’ve been looking everywhere for peaches but it’s not the season for them. This is my last hope.”
He smiled at Belle, looking so insufferably lost and needy that Rumplestilskin almost reconsidered that fireball he had nixed earlier.
“Oh, you poor dear. I’ll go get some peaches, it’ll only take a few minutes. Rumple will look after you till I get back.”
The moment Belle was out of the room, going towards the kitchen to access the orchard quicker, Charming’s expression changed, a roguish smile taking over his features before he slapped him hard on the back.
“What the fuck?”
“You old dog!” His slurring got more pronounced now that there were no ladies present to impress. A sort of strange joviality took over the man, erasing some of the tiredness from his face. “I didn’t know you had company. Lovely company at that.”
It was a testament to how endearing the idiot was that he could call Belle lovely and not have it be perceived by Rumple as a declaration of war. But the poor sod was besotted with his whiter-than-snow wife, and too goody-two-shoes to even glance at another woman in that way.
“Belle is…”
Charming made a sound of encouragement, pouring him a glass of the damned whiskey and prompting him to sit down beside him and share a bit of himself.
“She’s a flicker of light, am I right? Your flicker of light?”
The pretend prince nudged him on the side and wagged his eyebrows, in what appeared to be some male-bonding gesture of some kind. He hated that he didn’t hate it.
“Yes.”
“I thought you said… I mean, you said she was dead.”
Damn the man for lowering his voice in concern.
“I thought she was. Regina told me she was. Turns out she had her. Imprisoned her in a tower, a chess piece to be used if there was ever need of it.”
“Then I’m surprised Regina is still alive.”
There was something about the way that Charming said it, with a hint of harshness and a twinge of regret, that surprised the Dark One. The man was sad he hadn’t offed Regina, apparently. Then again, Charming of all people understood what it was to have your true love threatened by the likes of the Evil Queen.
“Belle doesn’t want me to kill her.”
It still irked him, even though he would not have killed Regina either way, needing her as he did for the curse to be cast. But he disliked that Belle had adamantly told him not to retaliate in any way.
“Can’t even maim her a bit. Unfair.”
Charming patted him on the back with a bit more gusto perhaps than he would have done sober.
“That’s tough.” He put on an understanding smile, unbearable in its sincerity. “Women, right? Can’t live with them, can’t live without ‘em.”
“I could live without you, dearie, so touch me again at your own peril.”
The shepherd raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, but he did not seem afraid at all by his very grave warning. Instead he leaned over, smelling strongly of spirits and pheasant, and whispered to him.
“So, old boy, how are things going with this Belle of yours?”
For the umpteenth time in the past half an hour Rumplestilskin wondered how necessary Charming really was to his future plans, the saviour having already been conceived and all.
“Where the hell is that girl with those damned peaches?!”
Belle found him around half an hour after he had managed to send a still-drunk Charming on his way with a basket of perfect peaches, moodily sitting down on the bearskin rug in front of the fire and staring into the flames and thinking about how his carefully-planned dinner had gone up in smoke.
“Your sulking is keeping me awake.”
He grumbled, fighting the urge to grab the throw from the settee and hide himself underneath it. It would be beneath his dignity as a Dark One, but it was very tempting all the same. He had chucked off his vest and boots, and had magically cleared the table. No use pretending their cosy little dinner was going to happen.
“Just a few more thunderclaps and I’ll let the storm move on.”
As if on cue lightning split the sky outside, a crashing sound accompanying soon after, satisfying in its intensity.
“Is the prince at least out of range of your temper-tantrum?”
He smiled half-heartedly.
“Where do you think the storm’s going?”
He heard Belle tut behind him, but he could tell, without having to look at her, that she was at least partly amused by the whole thing. When she finally entered his line of vision she was holding a tray containing the two souffles, which had been blissfully waiting in the kitchen for them to finish the dinner that never happened. Charming hadn’t gotten his greedy little hands on them.
“Come, I don’t think these will keep. Might as well eat them now.”
She handed him a spoon, keeping the other one she had for herself. There were no serving bowls, but his prim little former-servant did not seem to mind, grabbing a bite right out of the souffle, unbothered by the notion of eating out of the same place as the Dark One.
He grabbed the spoon and sunk it deep into the chocolate souffle, humming in appreciation once the rich taste of chocolate exploded on his tongue. Fuck, it was good. Next to him Belle moaned as she savoured a mouthful of the raspberry dessert, which left him enchanted. That favour had been well worth the deal.
They ate in companionable silence, the dessert and quiet company doing a lot to smooth out his anger and frustration. Fucking Charming and his inopportune timing and sleep-depriveness. Damn his complete refusal to be cowed by his power and his dark and well-earned reputation.
“It was lovely, by the way, the dinner. Or what I got to see and smell of it. And the dress, it’s beautiful. I look forward to wearing it some other time.”
He glanced at her, noticing now that her hair was down and loosely braided for bed, her cotton nightgown peeking from beneath the soft blue shawl she had draped over herself. It was endearing, the braids making her look younger than she was, the whole scene, down to her bare toes, incredibly domestic. He was suddenly struck by how intimate it was, to see her so unbound, so free. He reached out, unable to deny himself, and gently ran a finger through the nearest braid, catching his claw on the ribbon she had secured at the end of it. He tugged, taking the piece of silk with him, watching as Belle’s curls struggled to assert themselves as the braid dissolved.
“You smell nice.”
She smelt like she always did, a heady mixture of lavender, iris and vanilla, but it was more concentrated then, turning his head. He could finally feel the effects of the whiskey that he took, a loosening up of mind and body, not strong enough to leave him as senseless as Charming had been, but enough to lessen the fear that bubbled up whenever he was too close to Belle, quieting down the part of him that urged him to flee. Feeling rather content he leaned close, nosing the side of her neck, seeking out more of that lovely scent. He felt her tilt her head to a side in voiceless approval, letting his mouth trail up and down her soft skin, ghosting over the shell of her ear and down towards her shoulder.
“That’s nice.”
Her voice was unnaturally low, like he imagined she would sound when she woke up in the morning, and it made heat pool low in his belly.
“Rumple,” she sighed, sounding a bit drunk herself, her hands letting go of the shawl so it fell to the floor between them. He tasted a flicker of desperation in the air, heady in the knowledge that it came from her.
“What do you want, dearie?”
The demon in him purred, recognising the siren song of a desperate soul, eager to give up anything for the thing they wanted the most.
“Kiss me, Rumple.”
It took less than a second for his lips to be on hers, and even less for her mouth to open to his. He groaned, pressing her body firmly against the solid wall of books behind her, feeling every curve of her body against his own, and it was both a relief and a source of the most acute pain imaginable. She tasted like the raspberry sauce of the cheesecake they served at Granny's, and he immediately had a new favourite dessert. He lapped at her, his tongue darting up the roof of her mouth and exploring every hidden crevice, lingering on those spots that made her moan and arch against him.
"Sweetheart", he growled into her mouth, the word affectionate but the tone inhuman, almost angry. Belle felt one of his hands fist into her hair and the other slide from her hip to her upper left thigh, sneaking under her billowing nightgown and tracing the skin there with the lightest of touches. Her whole body jerked in response, her hands going around his shoulders and slipping into the collar of his shirt, caressing the nape of his neck with her fingernails in a way she knew drove him mad. She loved her independence, and their slow courtship full of new things they learned about each other and tiny baby steps towards a mature and unique understanding of one another, but ever since Rumplestiltskin had first kissed the back of her hand she'd understood that, for them to go slowly and do it right, there needed to be a form of release, or else a strange sort of tension followed them around everywhere. The deeper their emotional intimacy went the more she needed their physical release to be, and she knew he felt the same, except he kept running from her at the worst possible time. But he wasn’t running now.
"Rum," Belle's words were slurred, and her accent, usually unnoticeable, was heavy. It drove the Dark One wild to know she wanted him as much as he did her, that he might not be the only one daydreaming of the scent of books during the day and tossing and turning at night, eager for a warm body that wasn't there. He struggled to remember why he had shied away from her so, from what they clearly both really needed. He could be gentle for her, could be kind and soft and make her feel nothing but pleasure.
His thoughts halted to a stop when he felt her tongue in his mouth and he dimly wondered how she had gotten his own tongue to retreat from inside her wet heat. He felt her sigh and clutch him closer, her legs hitching around his hips, which made him thrust against her almost involuntarily. He was half about to apologise before he felt her nails scratch down his back, exquisitely painful even with the fabric of his shirt between them.
“That felt amazing. Do it again.”
"Oh, Gods, Belle!" he parted his lips from her with an agonised moan, his eyes black as they regarded her, from her dishevelled hair to her swollen lips and pleading eyes. The goddess who had been so defiant and brave in her golden gown, and resolute in her pretty blue dress was now vulnerable and open in his arms, unabashedly encouraging the touches of a monster. He went for her throat, using more teeth and tongue than anything to sate himself as well as her. Her hips ground against his, reminding him of the unfulfilled ache that drove his pelvis to find a common rhythm with hers.
"Yes, yes!" she hissed into his ear, bracing herself on his shoulders "Please, Rum, please, don't stop."
He laughed against the crook of her neck, the mere idea of him being able, let alone willing, to stop seeming completely ridiculous. But with her assurances as to what she wanted he allowed one of his hands to delve between their bodies, slipping past the now wet silk of her undergarments and into her welcoming heat. Her nails dug painfully into his shoulders in response and he marvelled at how much he liked it when she hurt him.
“This isn’t too much, right? This is what you want?”
He felt close to snapping, the thread that held him together frayed to an impossible degree but he needed her reassurance that she was alright, that this was alright.
“Yes.” The way she said it, so emphatic that she almost sounded exasperated by his questioning, made the imp inside him grin, victorious. Of course she wanted this. He could fucking taste how much.
"Hush, sweetheart, all is well. I've got you, I promise," he crooned into her skin, rubbing his cheek against her chest soothingly. She whimpered, her breathing harsh and quick. "Tell me to stop and I will. I will."
He felt her fingers in his hair, soothingly stroking his scalp and raised his eyes to see her staring at him with an open, tender expression.
"I trust you." She raised her head to brush her lips against his. "I'll always trust you."
She was a marvel, one of a kind. In three hundred years he had encountered no one quite like her, willing to place their lives in his hands without a deal in place to ensure their safety. For all she knew he could still be thinking of tearing her heart from her chest at any point in time, yet she let his hands shred the fabric of her nightgown with nary a protest, throwing her head back, uncaring of her vulnerability. As he peeled the garment off of her inch by inch he let his lips and tongue explore the new skin revealed to him, each inch softer than the one before. He could feel her fidget in her newfound nudity, unaccustomed to being so bare and vulnerable before him. But she made no move to cover herself, so completely trusting she was. So brave.
He parted his lips, catching a rosy nipple gently between his teeth before closing his mouth around it and suckling. He let the tip of his tongue play with the tip of her nipple before he released it with a soft pop, taking his time to scrape his teeth against the path between her breasts before mouthing the other one. Faintly he could feel her slim hands pawing at the fastenings of his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one until he felt it open completely, allowing him to simply shrug the garment off. Far from being displeased at the swath of green-gold skin revealed, Belle's eyes devoured him, her fingers reverently caressing his arms and shoulders before venturing down his chest. There was no revulsion in her eyes as he drank him in, only wonder and increasing confidence as he half-shuddered, half-purred under her ministrations.
"You're... textured.” Her voice revealed her wonder, her utter fascination with him. “And so warm…”
She lifted her upper body enough to plant a soft kiss on the centre of his chest, one of her thumbs softly grazing a nipple and it was enough to snap him out of whatever stupor her touch had put him under. He pinned her down in a heartbeat, ripping the rest of her clothes away from her, desperate and crazed. She responded eagerly if a bit shyly, breathing heavily as his eyes took in every single inch of her skin, gaze lingering on the patch of curls that covered her sex. She was exquisite, even if her body still showed the faint reminders of her recent imprisonment in the way her ribs protruded a bit much.
"You're perfect," he stroked her thighs delicately, waiting patiently for her to part them open for him "So good. Too good. For me, for anyone."
His patience was rewarded when the muscles of her legs loosened up and she allowed him to settle between her legs. He continued to slide his claws up and down her thighs as he lowered his head to kiss just below her bellybutton, rubbing his nose delicately against the skin there, grunting when her hands fisted on his hair, tugging at it sharply, the sensation going straight to his cock. She directed his head back towards her left breast, letting the most exquisite little cries when he immediately started lapping at it, circling the hardened tip without actually touching it. He cupped her between her legs, wanting her to get used to his touch there, rubbing slowly, soothingly.
Carefully, minding his sharp claws, the imp sought her opening and slid two fingers inside, trying not to notice how hot and tight she was, lest he lose control. She squirmed beneath him, not rejecting but adjusting and he forced himself to let her set the pace. It seemed like a lifetime before he felt her gently thrust against his hand, small, exploratory movements that he sought to respond, trying to set a rhythm that would please her. He tilted his head to the side, mesmerised as he read her face like it was an open book. There were no barriers between them, this Belle in his arms was all, she kept nothing from him. It was almost terrifying.
"R-R-Rumplestilt...skin," she panted, a pleading note in her voice. He obliged her by thrusting his fingers deeper inside her, curling them slightly till she nearly sobbed.
"I don't want your fingers, I want... I want..."
He didn't need her to finish. A bit of magic had him out of his leathers in no time and he adjusted his body over hers quickly, his clawed hands coming to gently grip her hips. He entered her in one swift stroke, feeling for the briefest of moments the resistance of the barrier that marked her as a virgin. He entwined the fingers of both his hands with hers, pressing their joined hands together above her head. Whatever happened in the future he would forever be her first. He committed the moment to memory, from the feel of her heat around his member to the dazed, needy look in her eyes. He was hers, had been for a long time, and now, for a few minutes at least, she'd be his in return.
"Say my name", he coaxed, placing an open-mouthed kiss on the base of her throat as he finally moved within her, pulling almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward again.
"Rumple, Rumple, Rumple..." she cried out when he managed to hit a particularly sensitive spot "My Rumple."
“My Belle.”
He encouraged her to wrap her legs around his waist, groaning in relief when the new position allowed him to plunge deeper into her. It took but a few more strokes to make her come, feeling her teeth sink into the base of his throat to muffle her cries. The ferocity of the gesture drove him over the edge, his orgasm surprising him in its almost uncomfortable intensity. He made sure to keep their bodies joined as he lowered them both onto the rug on the floor, twining himself around the brunette, softly stroking her back, tender in the aftercare. Once they both got their bearings he would draw her another bath, one with soothing salves and scents and would start thinking about some other reason to have her wear her pretty golden gown.
He would also start looking into Charming-proofing the castle wards.
