The Beast Within

The swollen moon peeked from behind a wispy mantle of cloud, her scarred face luminous and pale. Even a week prior, the sight would have been unremarkable save for the sheer beauty of it. But now . . . now wolves slinked about in leather and red-streaked hair. But now his heart was walking around in heels under a cloud of chestnut hair. Mr. Gold closed his shop early, under the pretense of protecting his merchandise from angry mobs led by disenfranchised kings. In reality, he made his way through a swirling veil of fog over rain-slicked streets to the library. The padlock would have stymied Mr. Gold, but Rumplestiltskin merely flicked his fingers and watched it disintegrate.

"Belle?" His cane rapped against the scarred linoleum of the library's foyer.

"Rumplestiltskin?" her swift reply loosened the knot of fear in his belly. He rounded one of the bookshelves and stopped short. Slumped against the wall-mounted fire hose, Belle appeared to be attacking a rather impressive set of chain and manacles with a mechanical pencil. Folding both hands over the gold handle of his cane, Rumplestiltskin tried in vain to stifle his smile. A sharp, blue glare hushed any of quips that waited on his tongue.

"The library's closed, Mr. Gold. You should come back tomorrow."

"And leave a princess in such peril? What sort of villain do you take me for?" some of the wicked playfulness of the imp lurked in the coolly said words, and from the glint in her eye, it was not lost on her.

"The chain was meant for Ruby. Charming said the station isn't safe."

"Indeed not. The former King George is leading a mob about town. Complete with pitchforks." Urgent fear darted across Belle's expressive face.

"You have to go and make sure she's safe! She said she wanted to be caught!"

Unable to stop himself, Rumplestiltskin brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek, soothing her. When had he moved close enough to touch? A handful of dinners at Granny's and a few handholding walks about town did not a lover make. He'd lost that chance, lost her kisses and her love to his cowardice. She just looked so sumptuously beautiful as light from the lone lamp and his own obscuring shadow fought for purchase on her features. And the chains . . .

"It's all right, sweetheart. Our Charming friend has calmed the riot. Red is safe. Gus's death is the fault of King George," he murmured, enraptured by the way the silken blouse draped over her like a lover.

"Poor Gus. But thank the gods it wasn't Ruby," Belle sighed.

Her head tilted, and Rumplestiltskin repressed a shiver of pleasure. In her months at the Dark Castle, he had catalogued each of her gestures and glances. A tilt to the right meant the gentle probe of her curiosity, and to the left meant flirting. That one had taken a fall from a ladder to work out, and even then he still had trouble believing it. The tilt to the left was accompanied with the soft curve of her smile.

"Why did you come here, then?" she asked. Honesty of the heart, he thought.

"I was worried. I had to be sure you were safe." And there was the bone-deep thrill of simply meeting her gaze, that startling silver-blue, brave, honest and kind. Everything he'd ever wanted or wanted to be, wrapped up in her eyes.

"If you're here, then I'm safe," she murmured, her face close enough to feel the tickle of her breath on his throat. His coward's heart cringed at the words. How could she have such faith in him, when she'd suffered for decades in his absence?

Striving for lightness, he brushed the cold links of the chain.

"I must say I like your new accessories, darling. Kinky." Belle giggled, nibbling on her lower lip in a way that made it impossible for him to look away.

"It's too bad Charming left the key at the station." Her chin lifted, rosy lips parted . . . everything in him urged him to feast, to at last slake the ravaging desire she'd built in him. She'd built it and let it smolder, for decades, teasing new flame from the ashes in her innocent embrace in the cool darkness of his home, those precious days after the curse broke, and before his cowardice brought an end to their accord. Rumplestiltskin held back. She wanted courting, did she not? Distance and choice.

"Yes, too bad." His voice was husky, restless fingers stroking her cheek. Yes, it was too fucking bad. Monsters didn't get happy endings, and cowards didn't deserve true love. They definitely didn't get to fuck the love of their bloody lives against bookshelves, no matter how hotly their decrepit carcasses howled for it. No matter how she nestled into his caressing hand like an affectionate cat . . .

"Lucky for you," he purred, "you have a-" A what? Friend? Suitor? Benefactor? None of the words suited. "-A companion who knows a thing or two about magic." Lost in her deep, endlessly blue eyes, Rumplestiltskin flicked his finger and the manacle fell from her wrist.

"Lucky for me," she whispered, one small hand lifting to cup his cheek. Shameless, Rumplestiltskin nuzzled her hand, turning his lips into her palm. The moment stretched on in warm honey-sweet silence, save for the rasp of their breathing. He didn't want to so much as blink, and break the spell. The greedy imp delighted in her complete and utter attention.

"Rumplestiltskin." His name on her lips held its own music; it wasn't the coward spinner or the loathed deal-maker. How was it she knew who he was better than he knew himself? He took in a breath to warn her not to tempt monsters, to beg her not to try his weakening restraint any further.

"Sshhh," she murmured, placing her fingertip over his lips, "how many times must I say it, you fool man? You're not a monster. And I love you."

"Belle," he groaned, fervently kissing her fingertip. Did she have any idea what those words did to him? How it made him ache for her, how he wanted to throw her on the nearest horizontal surface and write his worship on her body with lips and tongue and hands? Rumplestiltskin surprised her by parting his lips, drawing the tip of her index finger into his mouth. Wicked and unblinking, he suckled her finger, caressing it with his tongue. Belle dragged in a gasp, watching him mesmerized. Releasing her with a soft kiss, he pressed her palm over his thundering heart beneath the fine, dark suit.

"Tell me to stop, Belle. Tell me to leave. Please." Trembling hands curled in the lapels of his suit, holding him close. A terrible uncertainty flirted with her cherished features.

"Why? Do you not want me?" The laugh that left him was harsh and low, none of the imp's manic giggle left.

"Not want you? I've loved you forever, and wanted you for longer than that." Honesty of the heart and bloody soul. He framed her face between his hands, his cane lost somewhere.

"No, it's for your sake. If it's too fast, or . . . or you're not sure, if you don't want me . . ." her kiss was swift and sweet and devastating. A metal click drew him from bliss. Rumplestiltskin blinked, finding his Belle had relocked the manacles around her wrists. She was always brave enough for the both of them.

"Gods," he rasped, shaking with intense, soul-shaking arousal.

Graceless and greedy, he fell upon her with hungry lips, dusting her face with kisses. Seeking her mouth, he feasted on her like it was a morsel of succulent fruit. She opened for him, shy and sweet, the touches of her tongue furtive. Heat pounded through his body, his hard, throbbing cock, his chained magic crackling with joy. Rumplestiltskin buried his hands in her hair—so warm, so soft, like dark, living silk!—cupping her skull, coaxing her with languid strokes of his tongue. He pressed his body flush against hers, tilting his pelvis so she could feel how strongly he wanted her. Her whimpers pierced him, as did the leg she hitched around his. His bold, brave love! Releasing a feral growl, he nudged her back against the shelves, taking some of her weight against him. His shattered knee shrieked with pain, but he could think of no sweeter agony.

As darkly arousing as the chains were, he yearned for her to touch him, to give him her consent with hands busily undressing him. Wandering from her mouth to taste the column of her throat that had tempted him for so long, Rumplestiltskin waved his hand, banishing the chains.

"Touch me, Belle. Touch me," he rasped against her throat. Belle carded her fingers through his hair, wakening sleeping nerves with the faint scrape of nail on his scalp, plucking at the knot of his tie, pushing the weight of his suit jacket from his shoulders.

"Yes," he hissed, rewarding her by kissing a path down her throat to her breasts. Grasping for gentleness, for the tenderness of a loving seduction, he eased the pearl-topped buttons from their holes, revealing the beauty of her torso to his hungry gaze. A sound emerged from him that didn't sound entirely human, but his worship of her flesh was, if not entirely gentle, then wholly sincere. Gods, she tasted so good, warm and sweet, and so responsive in his arms!

"Tell me, Rumple. Please," her husky plea drew him from the madness of kissing and suckling and grinding. Tousled and half-naked with kiss-bruised lips, she looked like a fallen angel. Blue eyes glittered with that terrible uncertainty.

"I love you," he said. A shudder raced through her, the beginning tremors of release. Gods, how was it possible? How could she crave those words from him, take pleasure from his touch?

"Please," she begged, rubbing against him, sinuous and supple like a cat in heat. Snarling, he sliced his hand between them. Their clothes pooled at their feet with a ripple of lurid purple magic. Rumplestiltskin grasped her hips, hauling her up against the shelf. Her limbs twined around him, open and trusting. His fingers sought her core, finding a miracle of heat and wetness.

"So wet . . . so wet for me," he purred, curling his tongue around a pleasure-furled nipple. Milah had left him with memories of diamond-hard eyes and shudders of revulsion. But Belle . . . oh, his Belle was so sweetly, innocently hungry for him! Her answering cry was soft, breathy.

"Rumplestiltskin . . . please. Please take me," she gasped, head thrown back.

"Look at me, Belle. Look at me, love," he commanded.

Silver blue eyes pierced his soul and he pierced her body. Sharp fingernails dug crescents into his shoulders, but he welcomed the pain. It took every ounce of his will not to pound into her, or come, or weep with the sheer blinding pleasure of it. Instead he chanted those beautiful words as her virgin's body clasped and adjusted to his intrusion: "I love you, I love you. Oh Belle, I love you so much." So sweet, so hot, so fucking tight.

"Oh sweetheart, I have to . . . I have to . . ." he babbled, rocking inside her.

"So good, oh love, you feel so good," she purred, her voice dropping an octave as he began to thrust in earnest. Rumplestiltskin lost himself in the plunging, gliding, scalding pleasure, in the feel of her lips kissing him and chanting words of love, in her nails raking his back as release loomed. He wormed a finger between their undulating bodies, seeking that sweet little pearl of flesh . . .

With a stuttered cry, Belle came. Inner muscle squeezed and suckled him, her body shuddering in paroxysms of pleasure. He plunged in once, twice and followed her into pleasure. His crippled knee gave out and he had enough presence of mind to throw magic out to ease their descent onto a love nest of discarded clothes. Belle welcomed him atop her with a sleepy smile. Tongues tangled in mindless kisses, fingers braided, hips arched and rocked, riding out pleasurably intense aftershocks.

"I love you." It didn't matter who said it.

It was True Love, after all.

A/N: Just a little bit of Rumbelle smut. What do we think?