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She hadn’t wanted a big fancy honeymoon. He’d offered someplace warm and sand-covered, or cold and caked in snow. Anywhere on his multitude of globes, scattered about his shop, that her heart could desire. Even though he knew it wouldn’t happen: no one leaves Storybrooke, not yet.
She’d said something about just wanting to be his wife, and nothing else mattered.
He, however, wished to have her to himself, someplace far away from little ears and children who woke right at the most inopportune moment. Rose was having an extended sleepover with her Auntie Astrid, who had been granted leave to stay in their home, leave the convent for a week, to tend to her.
The Mother Superior knew better than to face down Mr Gold over such a little thing, and even if she didn’t, Belle was more than a force to be reckoned with.
Astrid had Rose, Emma had sworn to keep an eye on things just in case, and the Golds had their honeymoon. Which was how they’d ended up in a wooden house on the beachfront, all on their own.
Belle had relinquished control of the honeymoon to him, so long as she had the wedding planning to herself. Gold had wanted a massive ceremony, to show to the whole town and further that this woman was his, that she’d chosen him, that he could provide for her and make her happy.
Belle had wanted their friends in their back garden, a sweet, small little ceremony, and had only just consented to wearing a proper wedding dress.
That, Gold had been insistent upon. Much as her jeans and t-shirts were lovely - and showed off so much more of her delectable curves than the dresses she must have once worn might have - he wished her to be able to be the princess she had been denied when they met. His Belle had had her dresses burned and her beauty dented by months of captivity, once upon a time: she deserved to wear the most beautiful dress she could find, and smile the entire day through.
He explained this to her - that she had fought so hard, she deserved to be more princess than soldier for this one day - and she got that look on her face, that look that was always followed by her lips against his and her arms thrown around his shoulders.
She had been in charge of the food and drink, the choice of official to marry them and the seating chart, even the flower arrangements.
But the honeymoon is his: she’d said she didn’t see how much damage he could cause with her budget for him so small, and her admonitions to remain within reason ringing in his ears.
They rent one of his own houses by the sea, not quite out of Storybrooke but as far away as possible, and Belle still has her wedding dress on when he leads her over the threshold.
Here, no one would be stopping by to interrupt them; there is no Regina to cause trouble, no Emma or Mary Margaret or David Nolan to require assistance. Just Rum Gold, his wife, and a massive bed.
Perfect.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she gasps when he takes her hands off her eyes and she looked around, “You didn’t have to-“
“You deserve a five-star hotel in the south of France, or an island in the Caribbean all to yourself, or a trip all over the world,” he tells her, for the hundredth time, “So yes, I had to.”
“Well… thank you.” She smiles, kisses him again, and it’s too sweet and chaste for his liking. His hands move to her hips, wonderfully outlined by the corset of her dress, and haul his wife against him, slipping his tongue between her lips and plundering her mouth.
She lets out a laughing kind of gasp as her back hits the front door, and he cannot get enough of her, cannot stop, can never ever ever stop.
She is his now, in vow and word and law, and she gasps as his lips move from hers and across her face, to nibble on her jaw and sooth the little mark with his tongue, to place openmouthed kisses down the side of her neck and suckle on the joint between throat and shoulder, leave a mark there for all the world to see.
She picked him, even after everything, after every reason she had to fear and loathe him, all the threats she faced to her daughter and the grasping hands she had to evade, she chose to marry him. She is his, his wife, and her child soon to be legally his also.
She doesn’t move away, either, but instead encourages his biting kisses and laving tongue with little gasps and whimpers, the kind that drive him insane even after all this time.
He reaches her cleavage, runs his lips over the twin curves of her breasts, but her hands in his hair, tugging slightly to show him where she’s sensitive, tangling and pulling, drive him to the point where he can no longer stand there. If they continue then he will end up taking his new wife hard against the front door, and that’s hardly the stuff of romance no matter how appealing the idea may be.
His knee has been fixed for six months now, and Belle is a light little thing for all that she’s eating properly nowadays. So he bends suddenly, and scoops her up into his arms, and it’s entirely appropriate and almost a cliche how he carries her to the bedroom.
“Bridal style?” she giggles, “Really?”
“Well, a fireman’s hold would grant be a better view of certain assets of my wife,” he says, as he pauses on the landing to swoop in and kiss her again, “But I couldn’t do that, otherwise.”
“Fair enough,” she laughs, and he spins them around as if they’re dancing as they enter the bedroom.
The bed is massive, but Gold instead deposits his wife on her feet on the floor, in front of the window. “Rum?” she murmurs, as he moves behind her and presses a soft kiss to her shoulder, “What’re we waiting for?”
He chuckles, wraps his arms around her waist and holds her against him, nuzzles his face into the side of her neck and breathes her in. “Eager, love?”
She shifts, lays her head on his shoulder, sighs, “It’s a gorgeous view, Rum.” And she’s right: the waves lap at the shore and the moon is high, and it’s a perfect night for a honeymoon.
“Doesn’t answer the question, Belle.”
“I know,” she smiles, tries to turn to kiss him, but he keeps his arms locked around her waist and instead kisses her jawbone, and down to her shoulders, so all she can do is sigh in his arms “You’ve been doing that on and off whenever you can since the ceremony, and all whilst wearing a tuxedo. Eager doesn’t cover it.”
He chuckles, adding a dark little tone to it to mask the unbelievable rush of joy he feels from hearing her say that. Belle is brave and good and clever, and so beautiful it hurts to look, and she wants him as badly as he wants her.
She is his, now and always and forever.
He feels her shiver at the sound, and whispers, “Hold still,” into her ear as he moves back to fiddle with the ribbons on the back of her dress. It is a simple corset, and once upon a time he might have cut the ribbons with his claw, had the corset fall off the front of her suddenly and catch her by surprise.
But he has other ideas: he unties them slowly, works the snowy silk ribbons from the eyelets and winds it around his hand, and kisses every new inch of bared skin with his lips and just a scrape of his teeth as he goes.
She knows him well enough, now, just to stand still as he does so, to know that he’ll never, ever hurt her, and that his hands holding her still on her hips are an expression of his wish, his intent, rather than a command.
If she genuinely wished to move away, he wouldn’t stop her.
And it’s all the more wonderful that she stays still of her own volition, that she does no more than shiver and shake as he finishes the last of the eyelets, and stands to peel the bodice from her body, so all that keeps it from the ground is the skirt still flaring from her hips.
He has two long lengths of ribbon wrapped around his palms, and a set of wicked ideas of how to best employ them.
He brings his arms up under hers, under the open corset, brushes along the curve of her waist, over her ribs, running the silk of the ribbon over her skin, a barrier between his palms and her torso. She squirms when, softly, he strokes the sides of her breasts in the same way, and reaches around to softly tease the tips with his fingertips as he does so.
“Rum,” she moans, and he brings his lips to her ear to whisper his response.
“Yes, wife?”
“Why’re you torturing me?”
“Because you enjoy it,” he replies, and places a nibbling kiss to her earlobe right as both thumbnails flick at her nipples, causing her to stifle a little cry by biting her lip, her eyes fluttered closed. “There’re no children here, sweetness,” he reminds, bringing the silk on his palms to take over from his fingertips, “You can make all the noises you like.”
She nods, and then her hands come from her sides around behind her. He sees her scrabbling with the clasps at the back of the skirt, the only thing keeping her clothed, and he laughs, “You’re as desperate as I am, aren’t you, wife?”
She makes a throaty little moaning sound and nods, finally coming to face him, and he doesn’t stop her this time.
“Keep calling me that and you’ll find out,” she replies, as she leans up to kiss him roughly, hard and hot and deep, and her hands tear at the buttons of his shirt, and push the jacket from his shoulders.
He shucks the garment off, and his shirt goes next. She busies herself with his flies as he deftly unhooks the clasps of her skirt, and she gasps in surprise as it falls suddenly to her feet.
She is, all of a sudden, naked but for a pair of rather lovely white lace knickers and her white stockings, and he wonders if she’d mind if he just fell to his feet and worshipped her right then and there.
The idea takes root, and so he takes her shoulders and halts her movements, and brings her around to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before her.
He leans forward and grips the waistband of her knickers with his teeth, draws the scrap of white lace from her hips and down her legs. He glances up at her face as he does, and sees the darkness in her eyes, the hungry gleam resting there as her full lips fall open.
He takes the ribbons on each hand, and ties his wrists to hers. It takes some doing, the second one is a challenge and he fails once or twice, to her amusement. Fortunately, she is stunning with her hair free and dishevelled down her back, and her eyes gleaming merry. He would happily be her clown if she would be his queen, and smile like that forever.
She eyes their bound wrists dubiously when he’s done, his spinner’s fingers victorious over the slippery ribbons, “Now what?”
He looks up at her, smiles, “I have a few ideas.”
He presses a kiss to her upper thigh, just above the lace of her stocking, places their hands on her legs and encourages her to widen them, so he can sit between. Her eyes widen, as if he’s never done this before, as if they don’t both remember nights when he’s buried his head between her thighs and caused her to bite through her lip in an attempt not to wake Rose, asleep in the next room.
He waits a moment, runs his tongue up the inside of her thigh and stops right as she inhales in anticipation, right when he’s so close and yet so very far from where she needs him.
“Husband,” she breathes, and her hands strain to grab his head, to force him down to where she’s aching. He holds her back, their bonds keeping her wrists still, and she can only gulp and stare as his eyes darken at the word.
“Wife.” He replies, and plunges his tongue into her, finding that magical little bud of nerves in moments and flicking at it with the very tip. She trembles and moans, her head falling back, as he runs teasing licks up and down the length of her centre with the flat of his tongue, delving in every now and then, catching her each time by surprise.
She is trembling all over, a year of engagement, a year of living together as a real, proper couple, of sharing a bed with her, having taught him every little sensitive spot she has, and the best ways to exploit them.
She whimpers, the little sounds turning to cries as he increases the speed and ferocity of his licks and sucking, the light little scrapes of teeth in just the right places, until finally she cries, “Stop!”
He looks up at her, frowning around an uncontrollable smile, “What is it?”
“Keep doing that and I’ll be done before you know it.”
“Hmmm,” he nuzzles his face against the side of her leg, avoiding her centre as per her request, “Sort of the point, love.”
“No,” she shakes her head, laughing, “There’ll be time for that,” she promises, “There’ll be time for everything. Later.”
“Then…” he frowns, thinking he understands but never quite sure with his Belle, “What now?”
“Now… we have a marriage to consummate.” She looks down at their hands, bound together, and twists her wrists slightly so that she can clasp his fingers between hers, so that their hands are clasped and unbreakable.
She beams at him, and pulls him up by his hands so that she can claim his lips for a sweet, teasing kiss, as she falls back onto the bed and pulls him with her.
They shift, still kissing anywhere they can reach, wriggling up the bed so that her head is on the pillows and their hands rest on either side of her head. She smiles up at him, and he wonders what he could have done to earn this, for her to smile like that just for him.
“Wife.” He says again, as if it’s the only word he can remember, and leans down to place a kiss to the very tip of her nose.
“Husband.” She laughs, and leans to kiss his mouth, thorough and serious, lips caressing his as her tongue seeks out the places that make him tremble a little against her.
She breaks away, and while he is still dazed she suddenly rolls them over, so she is astride him and their hands pin him instead of her. “I just had a thought.”
“Oh?” he blinks up at her, amazed that she is capable of such things when he can barely think of anything beyond her soft skin and the way her eyes are sparkling, “And ah… what would that be?”
She giggles, “You still have your trousers on. And it’ll be a difficult thing to get them off with our hands all trussed up like that.”
“Oh, yes,” he nods, catching up, and he realises what a bloody stupid idea that was in practical terms, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s no matter,” she smiles, and he loves the wicked little gleam in her eyes, the smirking twist of her red mouth, “I have an idea.”
“Oh?” he needs more syllables, apparently, but his thoughts come to a crashing thought when she stretches, brings their hands with her, so that they rest at his sides and her head is level with his crotch.
“Yep.” She smiles up at him, and he’s glad she already did some work on his trousers before, so all they have is a zipper to contend with and his belt is halfway across the room. She pulls the tab down with her teeth, and he watches the whole time he does it, suddenly so hard and aching for her that he thinks he might come on the spot if she so much as touched him.
He makes an embarrassing little squeaking noise and she smirks up at him. “Try and shimmy them down, we can work from there.”
He barely hears her, but catches the gist of what she’s asking, and nods dumbly, attempting to comply. It takes a combination of some embarrassingly ungraceful shaking of his legs, and some pushing and tugging of their hands and her teeth, but eventually - both his trousers and his boxers are far enough down his legs to allow her to shift back up his body and line them up.
“My husband,” she brings their hands up, strokes his face with the backs of her fingers and his together. She rests the back of her palm against his cheek, and he presses his lips to the side of her wrist.
“Keep calling me that and this won’t last long,” he warns, smiling, and she shifts over him, bringing her dripping core into direct contact with his straining erection. “Or doing that…” he gasps, as she giggles, “Fuck… are you trying to drive me entirely insane?”
“For starters.” She teases, but her voice is strained and gasping as well, and he knows she’s just as affected by this as he is. Slowly, knees planted on either side of his hips, she works herself down his shaft until she has the whole length inside her, and he almost falls apart altogether at her little sob of pleasure as she does.
Her fingers clench around his, and he squeezes back reassuringly, as if this is their first time together, as if the wolves are still at the door and the baby is asleep in the next room, and there’re no wedding bands on their fingers.
She shifts up, and plunges back down again, taking him once more and he groans, bucking his hips up to meet her thrust for thrust. Together, they set up a slow, hard, deep rhythm that soon sends him cross-eyed with trying to hold himself together, desperate to have her come first, to see her arch and scream and fall apart around him before his own climax takes hold.
Her hands are limp in his, the pressure to keep still no longer there, and so he brings one hand down his stomach to where they are joined. She watches, her eyes hooded and dazed, as he flicks his fingers against her clit in time with her thrusts down onto his cock.
He almost loses his mind when she smirks at him, finally registering what’s happening, and decides to join in, her fingers working with his to tease her, to bring her closer and closer to completion.
He tries to keep control, slamming up hard into her, because he cannot fail her now, not now that she has vowed to be with him forever, not now that she is his wife and he would end the whole world for her, if she asked. He won’t come off inside her like a selfish boy, and leave her unfulfilled.
But she’s got her eyes locked on his, and she’s touching herself while she rides his cock, her legs clad only in white lace hold-up stockings, and it’s a close drawn thing.
“You’ll be the end of me, wife,” he grinds out, half-laughing and sighing around gritted teeth.
“Fuck,” she sighs, head rolling back, fingers working even harder next to his, “I love it when you call me that.”
“What?” he smirks, “Wife?”
She nods, and in her distraction - and as a way of keeping his mind together - he rolls them over once more, so she can wrap her thighs around his waist and he can pound her into the bed, fingers rubbing at her clit furiously as hers go weak and limp with pleasure. He buries his face in the side of her neck, marks her again and again, and between each sucking, bruising, branding kiss he murmurs, “Wife, my wife, my Belle, my beautiful, wonderful wife…”
The sounds she makes are enough to almost shake his concentration, and he clings to whatever thought he has left as she cries and keens and moans beneath him, “Come for me,” he half-commands, half-begs her, “Go on, come for me, wife, come for your husband.”
She cries out, something that sounds like a sobbed approximation of his name, and he can feel her clench and writhe around him as her orgasm hits her hard, her flushed, sweat-slick skin pulled taught as her back arches and her fingers squeeze his so hard it almost hurts. He keeps going, slamming into her again and again, trying to draw out her pleasure for as long as he can, as he finally lets go.
He buries his grunt of release in her shoulder, as he bites hard and groans something like her name as he comes, his movements erratic and uncontrolled as he rides out his climax, and feels her relax around him as she comes down from her high.
He collapses on top of her, and his thumb and forefinger on one hand find the knot in the ribbon binding them. He tugs hard, undoing the bow so that he can move off her, keep from crushing her.
He reaches with his free hand to undo the other side, and throws the ribbons to the end of the bed, curling around his wife with a sigh of contentment.
“Hmm,” she sighs, snuggling against him, “I love you.”
His breath catches every time she says that, no matter how many times he hears it. “Yes,” he breathes into her hair, kissing her yet again, “Yes, and I love you too.”
The room is warm, and all he needs to do is draw a sheet up to cover them and they slip into sleep. There is time for everything, anything they should care to do or say, in the next few days of solitude they have together. Right now, it’s enough to hold her against him and breathe her in, to feel her pressed against every inch of him, with his ring on her finger and his marks on her skin.
Their hands remain clasped even in sleep, even though the ribbons are gone, even though they would be free to break apart.