#rss 2022

“I’m saying your Scrooge McDuck after he sees the three ghosts,” Bae placated. “See,” he waved his hand around the table, “you have family now.” 

Despite Regina’s accommodating table, the "family" seemed to grow every year, much to Gold’s dismay. This year the table was downright crowded. First Emma, his grandson’s biological mother. Then her parents, the Nolans, David and his equally insufferably sunny wife Mary Margaret. Then Regina and her idiodic sister, Zelena. In a display of her status as Mayor, Regina expanded these events to include Storybrooke’s most influential citizenry, at least by Regina’s standards. Besides the “family,” their gathering now included Jefferson, Regina’s stylist and decorator, Sydney Glass, her counsel, Dr. Archibald Hopper, town shrink, and a handful of other rotating characters, depending on Regina’s humor and who she was feuding with that season.

“You could use the opportunity to get to know people, like, network,” Bae tried again. 

“Son, I know everyone here. Half of them owe me rent and will use getting drunk at this event as an excuse for why they were late.” 

Bae, who dismissively shook his head through his father’s excuses, pressed, “I mean really get to know them. Let them know you. You could talk to David. He could be my father-in-law someday.” 

Gold considered Henry's other grandfather. David Nolan acted like they were friends every time he saw him, much to Gold’s bewilderment. But what Bae thought they had in common was beyond him. 

Gold glanced around the table, considering his other options. Occasionally his and the mayor’s business desires lined up and they worked in tandem when it suited Gold. But they could be at cross-purposes just as easily, which didn't inspire deep confidences. Beyond that, he didn't understand what sharing his personal life with these people had anything to do with his continued campaign to regain the trust of Bae, or Neal, as everyone else at the table called him. 

Bae elbowed him, “You could talk to Regina’s sister,” he wagged his eyebrows. 

Gold jerked out of his reverie, glancing over both shoulders in fear that Bae speaking her name would conjure her. 

“To what end?” he rasped, looking down past Bae to make sure Zelena remained in her seat well across the table and diagonal. While she was still seated, when Gold did locate her, she was looking straight at him. Accidentally meeting her eyes caused her to give him one of her wide smiles that made her look psychotic and him feel nauseated. Gold pressed back in his seat, thankful for Bae’s larger profile concealing him. He grimaced. That one accidental eye contact would cause him months of irritation while she took it for an invitation to try to engage him.     

Bae chuckled at his father's alarm. “It’s obvious she has the hots for you.” He shrugged, “Hey, some guys like crazy chicks. No judgment.” 

No judgment indeed. His son wouldn’t be nearly as tolerant if he knew what his father was looking for in a woman, if he was searching for one. But he gave up on finding companionship long ago. 

“If I wanted to interact with this many people I’d spend more time at Granny's eating overpriced hamburgers,” Gold grumbled.

A loud cough brought an end to their discussion. Regina had finally had enough of them murmuring to each other over her toast. 

“Fine, have it your way, Pop,” Bae whispered.  

“I always do,” he assured him. 

Bae scoffed at that, but the formal end of Regina’s speech kept him from retorting as everyone at the table raised their glasses. 

“By the way, I put your white elephant gift under the tree for you,” Bae told him over everyone's clinking. 

“My what?” Gold planned, as every year, to slip out right after dinner. “I don’t participate in that nonsense.” 

“You did this year.” 

Gold lifted his glass to his lips, “What, pray tell, did I contribute?” he asked before taking a long sip.

“A certificate for a month’s free rent.” 

Gold choked on his champagne. 

Bae slapped him hard on the back, smiling. “Very generous of you,” he shook his shoulder. “People are gonna love it. I bet it’s the most stolen gift this year.” He grinned at him. 

“I hope you are having a grand time at my expense.”

“I most certainly am,” he assured his father in his good natured tone. Satisfied, he turned away from Gold, being happily pulled into a conversation with Emma and Henry. 

The din of mindless small talk immediately rose around him. Hired wait staff reached at each guest’s left, placing the first course. Instead of dying down, the chatter increased to fawning over Regina's menu choices. The evening loomed long and tedious before him. As he avoided situations such as this at all costs, his ability to exercise control over his behavior for this long, or “behave himself”, as Bae would call it, had not been tested in some time. The room seemed suddenly more crowded than ever to Gold. He stopped short of pulling at his collar. He settled for smoothing a hand down his tie as he tried to focus on the meal in front of him. 

Later, when the waiters reappeared to clear the first course, Gold closed his eyes to momentarily block out the tiresome buzz around him. His right hand drummed against the tablecloth while his left hand twisted the stem of his wine glass in front of him. Under the table he struggled to placate his bad leg, which ached to be stretched. Worse than that, he was bored. And when he was bored, he was left to his own devices to amuse himself. He glanced at Bae, who was still smiling and laughing with his corner of the table. Only a quarter of the way through the meal and his restraint struggled to find a release valve. 

His eyes swept up and down the row of faces. Little pleasure was to be had at this table.

“Screw the roses, send me the thorns.” 

The low-pitched accent hooked his attention to the far end of the table.

The newest addition to the “family” met his eyes, revealing a bewitching pair of cerulean orbs. They danced with playful light, as if sharing a private joke. Miss French, the town librarian. Well, she will be if she ever got that mess of a library up and running properly. For week he’d watched her carry boxes and push bookcarts back and forth across the library in those ridiculous shoes she favored. His shop had an almost direct view across the street to the library and the constant motion had been very distracting.  

Despite their close vicinity, he’d never been this near to her before. He was amused to see the dark rimmed eyes and the throaty voice were in direct contrast to the rest of her cherub face. Despite the innocent and amiable energy radiating off her so strongly he felt it across the table, her eyes said she’d read some books in the restricted section. Her voice suggested she’d like to try some of the things she’d read. 

She was seated diagonally from him, next to Gaston LeGume. The librarian and the pet shelter caretaker, how quaint. As members of the community running town services under Regina’s purview, they warranted an invitation. They sat at the end of the table because that’s where Regina sat the newest, least politically savvy of the gathering. Regina wanted to either impress them or intimidate them. The librarian, he noted, looked neither. 

LeGume was prattling away next to her, but Gold didn’t register a word he said. Neither did she, judging from the open curiosity of her stare. Her remark was obviously in response to something LeGume had said, but the librarian regarded Gold across the table, like she was daring him to enter the conversation. Gold raised an eyebrow at her continued attention. Usually that was all it took to make a misguided townsperson scamper away. Instead of turning back to her dinner partner, the insolent little creature arched a thin shapely eyebrow right back.

The phrase that had piqued his interest was one he hadn’t heard in a very long time. She was too young to know the classic guide she’d inadvertently referenced, subtitled The Romance and Sexual Sorcery of Sadomasochism. Considering sadomasochism as “sexual magic” had always resonated with him. It was delicate, like he imagined a spell would be. It required the precise blend of trust and sensuality. Get it just right and BDSM could be intensely erotic and deeply intimate. Many years ago he was active in that community. He hadn’t dipped back in in a number of years. Mostly because he couldn’t find the right partner to join him in the dark, to make the formula he sought complete. It was always off, somehow, despite his efforts and care he took considering partners. The frustration over not being able to conjure the correct combination of elements forced him to abandon the community altogether and he’d begun to suspect the incomplete desire would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

It was Bae’s mother, of all people, who introduced him to the lifestyle. Ironically, at the time, he was neither a dominant enough dom or a submissive enough sub for her liking. It ultimately didn’t matter. The demise of that relationship, of wanting to understand what she’d wanted him to be, led him to exploring and discovering what he truly desired…power and control. Becoming a master dom had been the answer to all of his problems. He’d become known in the community as being the best. People came to him to get what they needed. They begged to spend time with him. The potency he wielded was heady. But he had never gotten what he truly wanted in return. In the moment, yes, but not long term. 

He’d thought he had it once, with a woman who shared a lot of the same hurt and a lot of the same ambitions as he. But in the end she’d wanted power and control more than she’d wanted to be with him. Love proved to be a weakness for both of them. He had been completely open and vulnerable with her and she took his love, along with his instruction and his training, and used it against him. First by trying to top from bottom, and then ultimately taking what she learned from him and applying it as a dom elsewhere, with other people.

But she’d taught him a more valuable lesson. That having anyone know what he truly wanted and needed, and why, was a vulnerability he could not afford. No one could understand, let alone accept, his complete need for control, inside and outside a scene. He'd been out of control too early and too often in his life. That’s why BDSM had appealed to him in the first place. He had to protect himself. He had to feel in control in order to feel safe. His buffer against the past - his father, his failed relationships, his own mistakes as a parent - were money, power, and control. And his need for those things started with his wardrobe and extended to the bedroom. 

While uninvited memories flickered through his head and the familiar weight of old aches settled in his chest, Miss French was being pulled back into conversation with LeGume. Her chin swiveled towards LeGume but her eyes hung on him. The spark he had seen there dimmed when he did nothing but passively regard her in return. The mischievous uptick to her lips visibly downturned. Just as her blue, uninhibited eyes were turning to LeGume and, he intuitively knew, abandoning him forever, something new emerged from the discomfort in his chest. A fresh, sharp pain, like an invisible string being pulled taut. The question came out of his mouth, unbidden.   

“Read any good books lately, Miss French?” 

It came out in his usual indifferent and condescending manner. He focused on smoothing a wrinkle in the tablecloth in front of him, as if her answer didn’t matter to him in the slightest. 

He’d interrupted LeGume’s blathering, who blinked and gaped at him like a fish. He shot Gold a look that he supposed was meant to be threatening. Gold markedly ignored him. 

Miss French wasn’t offended by his intrusion or tone. Instead, her eyes widened for just a moment before quickly recovering. Her entire body shifted to face Gold full on, incidentally giving LeGume the back of her shoulder. With a lift of her eyebrows and a subtle tilt of her head, she conveyed her triumph, her smile holding a hint of mischief. 

It was his first time experiencing the verve of her full attention. He sniffed, looking down to brush away a crumb on the tablecloth, waiting dispassionately for Miss French’s answer.  

“In fact I have, Mr. Gold.” It was the most words they’d exchanged since she arrived in town. Her being new could be the only explanation for her insistence in pulling him into conversation and the ease in which she conversed with him now. “It’s one I’d never considered until recently, but based on positive recommendations I finally tried it out.” 

He idly rearranged his silverware as he waited for her to name some romance or current fiction title. 

“The Story of O.” She was all politeness and formality as the French erotic novel rolled off her tongue. His eyes shot up in time to catch the perfect round shape of her lips. Her mouth lingered there until a sly grin spread across her face. “Have you ever read it?”

She’d tried to shock him, ostensibly in response to his resisting her efforts to pull him into conversation for so long. But he was satisfied to know that he’d judged her right. She did read books in the restricted section. He felt an involuntary twitch in the corner of his mouth at her, thinking him capable of being scandalized. Unlike her, he hadn't just read about it. He’d seen and done things she wouldn't find in any book. Even in the restricted section. 

“It’s an old favorite,” he volleyed back, making direct eye contact with her and letting it settle there authoritatively. “Though I haven’t had reason to revisit it in some time. Are you finding it,” he let the word hang in the air, “satisfying?” 

“Oh yes,” she answered readily, not even blushing. “Like any good book, it’s…” she leaned across the table, mimicking his cadence, “arousing some new ideas in me.” 

“As all good books should,” he spoke slowly and deliberately, emphasizing his words. He sat back in his own seat, his leg settled and his hands resting on the table. “You may have inspired me to pick it up again.” 

“I have it on my bedside table if you need a refresher,” she offered casually. 

The extra glint to her eye told him that she registered the suggestive meaning of her words, commanding his unguarded brain to produce a hazy picture of her lounging across white sheets on a brass bed, reading her one-handed novel, taking her bottom lip between her teeth when she reached a particularly racy excerpt. 

His gaze tightened with suspicion. What was she playing at? He inspected her glass. The wine in front of her wasn’t even half gone. Her eyes still shone clear. Her voice was controlled, not loud and obnoxious like Regina’s sister at the other end of the table. 

Memories stirred in him. Belle was being polite, respectful…and a brat. She reminded him of rebellious submissives he used to know. He’d refused to work with cutesy, teasing, playful subs who pushed back on his dominance and challenged his authority. But, he reminded himself, these were obviously empty words from a girl who read too much. 

She was playing a game with him, obviously. She’d led LeGume on long enough and thought she’d amuse herself by torturing him next. She thought she would be charitable by giving a lonely old man a thrill. Well, Miss French had vastly overestimated how far one little book and her feminine wiles, while admittedly bountiful, could get her. He set the boundaries. He set the rules. He set the expectations for behavior. And he’d never been known for tolerating blatantly rebellious submissives. 

"I hardly think that would be appropriate, Miss French" he replied, his tone cool and calculated. "Lending without a library card? How do you know you can trust me with your...prized possession?" His words were laden with subtle implication, matching her innuendo with a cold demeanor. 

“You misunderstand, Mr. Gold,” she placed both hands at the edge of the table, leaning as far as she could without leaving her seat. “I wasn't suggesting it leave the property.” 

With that, she added to the previously formed image, her laying across his lap in said bed, reading her favorite passages out loud in her smokey voice. That she would be so blatant in her attempt to provoke some reaction told him that she was getting desperate. She most likely never had to take her teasing this far before, because what man wouldn’t follow her instructions right into her bed? She’d never experienced loneliness, surely. But she’d never come across anyone like him, period. He massaged a thumb across his right palm, settling an itch that had started there. 

"One must be cautious about who they share their treasures with, Miss French," he finished with unwavering composure. 

His condescending and dismissive response succeeded in rattling her coquette act. Her sharp inhale was audible across the table, as if he’d stung her cheek with his palm. Her pale skin even reddened there as he stared at her impassionately. After which her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw visibly tightening. 

Gold inwardly smiled and sat more relaxed in his chair. Miss French had been a diversion, even if she was not a worthy opponent. How could she even pose a challenge, given how transparently expressive she was? He could effortlessly decipher her every emotion. Unlike with most people, whom he found inscrutable and untrustworthy, Miss French telegraphed her feelings to the back row. As she struggled to rein in her emotions, he couldn't help the deep satisfaction he felt at her following his subtle command to cease her behavior. The weight of his limbs settled and grounded him. His breathing deepened and slowed. He felt more at ease at this table than ever before. Though, only being on the soup and salad course, Gold found himself perhaps regretting correcting her so quickly. There was still a long night ahead. 

“What book are you talking about?” Mary Margaret chirped from the other side of Belle, having caught part of their exchange. “My book club is always looking for recommendations.” 

The idea of virginal Mary Margaret reading the erotic novel by Pauline Réage was preposterous. He looked at Belle to see how she’d handle it, positive now she regretted her recklessness. He vowed to only step in if she lied about the title. Let the humiliation teach her a lesson for being so forward with him. 

She surprised him by looking to him to save her from embarrassment. He retained eye contact as he slowly picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip of wine, letting the flavors rest on his tongue. If she was looking for a knight in shining armor to come to her rescue, she’d have better luck with LeGume. Watching a gorgeous woman be publicly humiliated was rather mundane to him. Though he had appreciated the respite from the dullness of the evening, she’d better trifle with someone else. She squirmed in her chair, which just made the berry notes of the wine burst on his tongue. She wasn't made for BDSM, obviously, but watching her writhe in mortification was delicious. He smirked at her across the table. Who was having fun at whose expense now? 

He watched panic, annoyance, anger, and surrender flicker across her features in quick succession. But then, just as quickly, they were all replaced with grim determination. She shook back her shoulders, her chin lifting. 

“The Story of O,” Belle repeated for the benefit of the table, matching his challenging stare. “A French novel from 1954.”   

The title was met with silence. 

“Oh,” Mary Margaret said. “I’ve never heard of that one. I’ll have to look it up.” 

He knew it was more polite, empty words. Nobody at this table would look up the book. For one, Regina made them put their phones in a bowl on their way in. (He had kept his. He knew how to conduct himself at a dinner table.). Second, he'd be surprised if anyone in this town knew how to read. From what he could tell they seemed to spend the majority of their time running around like idiots.

Further veiled discussion on the matter of sadomasochism came to an end when several waiters appeared and dishes were cleared to make way for the main course. 

With the back and forth with Miss French finally subsided, Gold found himself searching for the relief he thought he’d feel. Instead, each clink of silverware and murmur of conversation at the table seemed amplified to his ears. He played with his ring. It twisted easily now with his damp palms. The banter with Miss French had stirred something deep within him, resurrecting a side of himself he thought long buried. He shifted in his seat, feeling the old familiar surge of adrenaline begin to trickle through his veins, like a damn that had sprung a leak, the pressure building behind the wall. But he had no outlet for it. Frustrated that this girl had done this to him against his will, he wiped his palms on his pants. His gaze searched for a safe place to rest. His plate would be the obvious answer, but none of the dozen side dishes before him looked appetizing now. Despite the turmoil roiling within him, there was a flicker of something akin to anticipation in him as his eyes inevitably found Miss French.

The image he found was a stark contrast to her earlier persona at the table. She poked at her food with her fork. The people around her made polite conversation but her expression remained vacant when called upon to respond, which was rare. Her chin wasn’t lifted in the haughty way she’d demonstrated earlier and her eyes stayed downturned. Rather than “corrected”, the word “unmoored” floated through his head. He investigated the people seated around Miss French. Perplexingly, no one else at the table seemed to notice her lack of engagement. LeGume and the surrounding guests made conversation and passed plates around her. Gold glared at all of them as he waited for LeGume or one of her friends to come to her aid. 

"I've always admired the intricate knotwork in table decorations,” he found himself saying to no one in particular. He picked up his napkin that was in an artful yet simple knotted fold. He rolled it around in his hands, then gave both ends a tug, “Adds a certain charm, don't you think?"

At the cadence of his voice, Belle straightened in her chair, her posture shifting from dejection to anticipation, hands resting delicately in her lap as her eyes lit up with renewed interest, fixating on Gold. A spark cracked down Gold's spine as he couldn't help but notice the immediate and eager reaction she had to him.

Just then the main course—a turkey—was placed in the middle of the table with much pomp and circumstance. The legs were crossed and tied over the bird’s cavity with kitchen twine.

“Yes!” She readily agreed with him. “Don't things look so much more delectable trussed up?” she chirped across from him. 

His gaze lingered on Belle, tracing her features as if attempting to decipher the hidden layers of meaning behind her words. The idea that she could possess any knowledge of his past felt unfathomable; in this town, his history remained a well-guarded secret. Yet, since their conversation had begun in this public setting, an unsettling sense of vulnerability had crept over him. A sudden rush of warmth swept through him, accompanied by the unnerving sensation of being under scrutiny from every corner of the table. However, a quick survey revealed that everyone else remained engrossed in their meals, utterly indifferent to their dialogue. Despite this, he couldn't shake the regret that had settled in, as their interaction stirred up memories that left him deeply uneasy.

As side dishes circulated around the table, he remained indifferent to the dinner companions seated on his left and right. Yet, under his observant gaze, Belle seemed to bloom. Her eyes sparkled with lively conversation, and her smile radiated warmth and charm as she engaged with those around her. With graceful movements, she effortlessly passed plates across the table, her gestures imbued with a natural elegance that drew his attention.  

"Oh Regina, these potatoes are delicious!" Mary Margret said. "Like..." she looked thoughtfully.

"Silk," Belle supplied, catching the unspoken challenge. She looked into Gold's eyes with a playful glint. Her eyes brightened even more as if she found herself incredibly clever. In that instant, she seemed to believe they were playing a clandestine game together, testing the boundaries of outrageous remarks in polite company.

"Exactly!" Mary Margaret echoed. 

“And whipped to satisfaction,” Miss French added. "Getting the perfect blend of flavors is all about command in the kitchen, isn't it?"

Her latest remark bore an uncanny resemblance to how he perceived BDSM as a form of enchantment or magic. Gold swiftly reminded himself that she wasn't a submissive; she couldn't possibly be. Despite her audacious words, she exuded an innocence that rendered her oblivious to the intricacies of BDSM. Moreover, she appeared too young to have delved into such experiences, although he had encountered his fair share of young individuals within the community. Unfortunately, most of them had proven to be naive. A safe word, some aftercare, and a hasty farewell usually marked the end of their brief foray into the scene. Miss French, with her eagerness to flirt with danger, seemed oblivious to the potential consequences. Gold, however, was keenly aware of how easily he could ignite her curiosity, leading her into uncharted territories where desire and danger intertwined.

He watched as LeGume offered her something rich and savory from a bowl. 

“Not right now, thank you,” she declined civilly. “I’d like to try a little restraint.” Instead she took a spoonful of something gray off her dish. He couldn't help but notice how she allowed the spoon to linger on her tongue longer than necessary before releasing it with a soft pop. "But this is delicious,” she countered. “I’ve never tried anything like it. Won't you try a bite, Mr. Gold?"

Offering him such a direct invitation to him in a public setting, he could take her over his knee for such impertinence. Turn her ass ruby red while she squealed and struggled in his lap. He’d punished teasing subs for much less. The pleasure he would take in wiping the cheeky smirk off her face and transforming it from shock to eagerness to please and then, finally, after she’d shown proper remorse, sensual gratification.  

LeGume confusedly exchanged his bowl for the bowl of gray stuff, lifting it between them. Gold didn’t spare it a glance. 

Instead he tilted his head with a faint smile, "Ah, Miss French, your enthusiasm for experimentation is quite intriguing. However, I've always found that some things are best left untested."

"I’d have to disagree in this case, Mr. Gold,” she boldly insisted. “The flavors in this dish are so intricately bound."

LeGume continued to hold the dish suspended between them, his eyes volleying between them. 

“Some would describe it as an artform,” she continued. 

“I would be inclined to agree with them,” he responded coolly, not moving his arms from his sides. 

With agitation evident in her movements, she swiftly snatched the dish from LeGume's grasp, her arm extending across the table in a decisive gesture. It was clear that she wasn't about to drop the issue, and Gold could sense the growing attention their exchange was attracting, a subtle buzz at the periphery of his vision. As his fingers closed around the opposite end of the dish, she didn't release her grip right away. Instead, she waited until their eyes met once more across the table. Her eyebrows raised expectantly, silently waiting for a response from him.

"Thank you, Miss French," he stated firmly, his tone carrying a sense of finality.

Satisfied with his acknowledgment, she released the dish, her expression turning more subdued.

"Yes, sir," she responded quietly, her voice holding a hint of deference.

The dish slipped from his fingers, upending half of it on the tablecloth and splashing some of its contents onto Dr. Hopper. The sudden noise and commotion drew curious glances from others at the table, including a puzzled look from Bae as Gold abruptly stood up.

The screech of Gold's chair echoed through the room as he pushed it back, a sharp contrast to the otherwise calm ambiance of the dining room. Taking a moment to collect himself, Gold drew in a deep breath to regain his composure. With deliberate movements, he retrieved his cane from where it rested against the back of his chair.

"Excuse me," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he turned and swiftly exited the dining room, leaving behind an unsettled atmosphere in his wake. 

As he walked down the hallway, the sound of talking faded and the oppressiveness of the dining room began to lift. But he itched. 

He knew where the bathroom was, the one reserved for guests and people who came to the house on business. Gold bypassed that one in favor of the larger one in the private living quarters of the house. He took his time, having sat with his bad leg too long. His cane clicked as he walked down the hallway, the lights dimmed to discourage guests from wandering into the private residence.

His footsteps reverberated sharply against the high ceilings, a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet surroundings. Gold came to an abrupt halt, his narrowed eyes scanning the space behind him. The echo ceased as he stopped, and after a moment's pause, he attributed the noise to the tapping of his cane. Shaking his head slightly, he realized that the combination of the pressure to behave in front of Bae and Miss French's teasing remarks had left him more on edge than he had initially realized.

That’s why he liked BDSM, he thought, it required total honesty or someone could get hurt. It was the “real” world where everyone put on masks and facades. He hadn’t truly been himself, he realized, since his time as a Master dom. The true essence of himself had been deemed unacceptable by society, leading him to retreat into hiding. The weight of this realization bore down on him, weighing heavily on his bones and leaving him feeling aged and weary.         

And then there was Miss French. Ironically, she’d enjoy the kink community. It was all about curiosity and continuous learning, something a librarian could appreciate. However, she would never receive such knowledge from him. Hopefully she was smart enough to do her research and find the local community and learn from them and not from some fumbling idiot who fancied himself a sadomasochist because of some problematic porn he watched. The mere thought of Miss French being misled sent a bolt of anger through him. She was a pampered pet who needed a certain kind of handling. Not by him, obviously, but someone with experience. Nevertheless, his mind couldn't help but wander into the realm of how he would guide and educate Miss French, an idea that brought a subtle sense of satisfaction to his thoughts.

Regina’s bathrooms were just as ostentatious as the rest of the house, with the white and black color scheme continued. Leaning his cane against the vanity, he steadied himself against the counter and studied his reflection in the mirror. His appearance remained unchanged from when he’d left the house that evening. Although his tie didn't require adjustment, he found himself straightening it nonetheless, a subtle attempt to regain composure. Yet, he couldn't shake off the sense of dishevelment that seemed to linger. Was it a consequence of passion, agitation, or perhaps both? These unfamiliar emotions felt out of place and uncomfortable within his own skin.

He turned on the faucet and ran his hands under cold water, then used them to blot his face and neck. He looked at himself in the mirror again, his gaze tracing the contours of his face with a mixture of detachment and introspection. The reflection stared back at him, a dual image capturing the essence of who he once was and who he had become. In the past, emotions flowed freely, unchained and unrestrained, revealing a vulnerable yet authentic version of himself. But the present brought a facade of coldness, control, and composure, a mask carefully crafted to conceal the tumultuous memories and lingering emotions stirred by the evening's events. As he stood there, the mirror became a portal to his past and present selves, each vying for recognition in the stark reflection before him.

"Enough," he muttered to himself, frustration evident in his tone. Enough with this endless dinner. Enough with Miss French's playful provocations. Enough with tormenting himself with memories of the past. He had endured the majority of the meal, and that would have to suffice for Bae. The boy wouldn’t understand, but there was no way he ever could, not without learning things about his father he most assuredly would not appreciate. Gold met his own gaze in the mirror once more. Despite not feeling it within, a sense of unwavering determination flickered in his eyes, a silent promise to walk out the door and away from Miss French, despite his inner dom telling him to take her firmly in hand. 

The door behind him clicked open quietly, followed by a soft snick as it closed. In the mirror's reflection over his shoulder, she appeared as if a figment of his imagination. Perhaps she was a manifestation born from his suppressed desires and self-imposed restraint. A flawless end to an arduous evening, he thought bitterly. He hesitated, reluctant to turn around and face potential disappointment if she turned out to be nothing more than an illusion. Yet, Belle's image persisted in the mirror, as if waiting for a command, or was that merely his own subconscious projecting onto the reflection? The tormenting thoughts that had plagued him throughout the evening spilled out. 

"Who are you?" he asked the mirage, his voice barely audible.

She responded with a serene smile, "Someone like you."

He snorted derisively. "Not likely, dearie," he retorted.

With a decisive pivot, he turned around, fully prepared to dispel the illusion and face the disappointment of his wishful thinking. He was unnerved by the resurgence of emotions he had long suppressed, all because of some bright, shiny young woman. Best to bring them to a halt with sharp disappointment than continue this torment. 

But there she stood, unnervingly real. Alone with him in Regina's bathroom, in a secluded corner of the house.

He observed her, standing composed and immaculate in her skirt and blouse. Despite her mischievous nature, there was an undeniable aura of brightness around the girl. Her eyes sparkled with innocence, her smile was infectious, and her laughter seemed to fill the small room with warmth. Everything about her seemed out of place in this dark, shadowy setting with him. If she had any inkling of who he truly was, she would surely take off down the hallway. He had never invited someone like her into his world of BDSM. She couldn't possibly comprehend the intricacies it demanded—submission, trust, honesty— especially in association with him. The moment he allowed his dominant side to fully surface, she would undoubtedly flee from the room she had so foolishly locked herself in.

His narrowed gaze bore into her, filled with suspicion. 

"Why are you here?" dropping any pretense of playful banter or games, his tone was now serious and demanding.

Her bravado faltered under the weight of his ruthless stare. She glanced down, momentarily losing her composure. If she struggled with a simple question, she surely wouldn’t be able to withstand a little punishment. 

Toeing her heels together, she managed to mumble, "I'm curious." Her eyes met his briefly, but the uptick at the end of her response told him there was a flicker of uncertainty in her. 

His bark of laughter caught her off guard, causing her to wince. He shook his head ruefully, a mix of disbelief and resignation crossing his features. So, this was nothing more than a fantasy for her—an attempt to step into a world she didn't truly understand, believing she would be safe with him. He chuckled inwardly at their shared foolishness. In his darker days, the old him would have relished such an opportunity—a naive and innocent ingénue coming to him seeking an arrangement. He would have used contracts, negotiations, manipulations—all to extract every ounce of desire and compliance from her. He felt a surge of excitement at her words, a temptation he fought to suppress.

She looked at him expectantly. How could she ever understand? For him, being dominant was not a mere roleplay or fantasy—it was an integral part of his identity that he couldn't switch on and off at will. The enormity of it had been suppressed for over a decade, but it still lurked beneath the surface, dangerously close to emerging over the past hour. This was real to him, and that was something no one else would ever truly understand.

“This isn’t one of your books, dearie,” he told her plaintively. “I’m not a knight in shining armor.” 

Her lips pursed, more comfortable with the exchange now that the topic had turned to her area of expertise, and she tilted her head. “You don't know what books I read.” 

“The kind with happy endings, surely,” he countered.  

“You’d call the ending of The Story of O happy?” she challenged.

He tipped his chin, conceding the point. “O being abandoned by her lover? Well, Miss French, I’d call that realistic.” She had the audacity to roll her eyes. “Everything that comes before that,” he trailed off, referring to the fantastical depiction of an underground society that in no way represented the actual kink community. Which begged the question…. He studied her in a way he didn't dare before. He rationalized it to himself that it was his job as a dom to be acquainted with her body. His inspection started at the top of her auburn hair, over her thin brows, expressive eyes, and thinly curved lips. He skimmed over the petite curves under her blouse, the belt that cinched in her waist, and down the vast expanse of exposed leg, the muscles shaped and lengthened from the height of her heels. The shoes, he thought, were the only thing about her that objectively did belong in a scene. She shifted as he boldly acquainted himself with her body. What could such a girl find exciting in The Story of O? Was it the submission, the whipping, the bondage? 

He could be a cruel dom. He could embarrass her. Demand her into the most depraved blowjob, make her cry, scare her, scar her. He’d done it all before and could do it again. But he took his position as Master seriously. BDSM was meant to provide personal freedom, self-expression, and above all, pleasure. In real BDSM, no one got truly hurt. From him, they got exactly what they asked for, even if they regretted it after the fact. 

“What are you so curious about exactly?”

When he looked deeply into her eyes, which he dared to now, he didn’t see hurt or desperation or trauma. She wasn't running to BDSM to escape. But what could her life possibly be lacking? What made her think he could offer her what she needed? And what made her believe he wanted to give it?   

He stepped closer to her, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “If you don’t know why you're here,” he warned, “by staying in this room, you’re asking me to help you find out. And my methods are untraditional, to say the least. So, I’ll ask you again, why are you here?”

In response to his intimidation, she gave him that defiant chin again he admired and found foolish in equal measure. Her eyes narrowed in a way he’d come to recognize as not anger, but sheer determination and force of will. 

“I think you’re lonely.” 

He blinked. He didn’t think he was capable of being shocked by anyone anymore. But her answer truly left him speechless. Once the stupor faded, anger was quick to rise in its place. First she teased him throughout dinner, drawing him out against his will. Then she pursued him to a private room. Her biggest offense, by far, was now pretending she knew anything about him. 

She thought she knew him and…pitied him for it? He ceased being a man deserving of pity many years ago, he’d made certain of it. He didn’t need her pity. He needed nothing from her. She had come to him. She’d played her games, gotten a rise out of him, and he’d kept a reign on his dominance throughout. The stress of repressing his true self over dinner, of trying to be a better man for Bae over the past few years, of never being good enough for anyone, come to a boil. And he only had one antidote for that. He felt another version of himself, long discarded, rising to the surface of his skin. 

“Turn around,” he commanded. He didn’t have to reach far for his alpha voice. It was low, slow, and precise. He didn’t, and wouldn’t, repeat himself. 

Her eyes grew wide at his tone, but she quickly spun on her heels so she faced the wall. Her swift response to his order satisfied him. Given a momentary reprieve from her eyes, he lingered just over her shoulder. He let the anticipation hang there. In response, she tensed and her breathing sped up. 

She believed she was stepping into a scene from one of her romance novels, those sensationalized portrayals of BDSM that tarnished its true essence. In her mind, she controlled this narrative, playing the role of a submissive because she viewed him as pathetic and easily manipulated. He was determined to shatter her illusions. He wouldn't allow Miss French to think she could outsmart him or take charge in this space. No, she had overestimated her own knowledge and underestimated him. This encounter would end swiftly, with him pushing her boundaries just enough to make her flee back to the comfort of LeGume’s arms. She wanted to play games? Fine. She could consider this her first lesson. He doubted she’d make it to a second.

He briefly scanned the room. In front of Miss French a hand towel hung through an ornate black ring on the wall. A string of decorative holiday bells dangled over the towel. 

He reached around her front and she jumped. He smiled to himself. Over before it begins, he thought again. He whipped the towel and bells out of the ring, tossing the towel on the vanity and shoving the ribbon and bells in his pocket to muffle them. 

“Bend over. Hands through the ring,” he ordered. 

He paused, waiting for her to balk and push back. A little discomfort and she’d be telling him to stop and reaching for the door handle. 

It was an awkward height, but she slowly hinged at the waist, reaching out her arms and draping her wrists through the towel ring. She self-consciously spread her legs and wiggled her hips to get in a more comfortable position. He watched predatorily as her skirt rode up with her movements. He allowed the pleasure he felt from a beautiful woman following his command to wash over him. It brought a calm he couldn’t get anywhere else. She took a hesitant breath and looked back at him.

In response, he moved to her side and splayed his fingers on her lower back. He held her eyes as he firmly pressed down so her back was flat. Her legs stumbled to adjust. She looked up at him apprehensively. He hooked her chin between his thumb and forefinger and and faced her back to the wall. She let out a breath and her eyes closed. The tenseness in her shoulders eased. Being firmly corrected produced a positive response, he noted. 

“Eyes down.” he reminded her, something she should already know if she was experienced and involved in the scene. Despite her ignorance, the dom in him urged him forward, to not let this opportunity go to waste. She had come to him. He controlled the scene. That relaxed him. 

“Your safe word," he demanded, watching her carefully.

She hesitated, a moment of uncertainty flickering across her features. 

“Did that not come up in one of your books? Tut tut, Miss French. I expect Storybrook’s resident librarian to be better read than that,” he chided, his tone tinged with disappointment. 

“If I can’t trust you to speak when required,” he whipped the discarded set of bells from his pocket. He tugged one from the ribbon, shoving the scrap ribbon and other bell back into his coat. He reached around her to where her wrists hung over the towel ring. He forced one hand open and pressed one of the bells into it. His fingers closed tightly over her hand. He paused to take in the feel of her soft skin under his. He was tempted to run a hand up her leg, from ankle to thigh, to compare the smoothness there. 

He squeezed her hand hard, so she knew he meant his next words. “Then this is your safe word. You ring it, the scene ends. You understand the rules?” 

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” Funny she didn't struggle to find those words. Her reply soothed the dom in him, assuring him that she could submit when necessary.

“Repeat them.” 

“If I want to stop, I shake the bell and it ends. It…it all ends.” Her voice broke at the end and he again questioned how ready she was for what was about to happen. 

“Perhaps you’d like to leave now and go do a little more studying?” he prodded, though inwardly, he regretted providing such an easy escape. It was a departure from his usual unrelenting approach. 

She replied with a simple, "No, Mr. Gold." 

Her hair had fallen to the sides of her face and from behind he could see her neck muscles strain to hold position. He could sense her eyes flitting about the room, trying to find a place to rest. The dichotomy of her struggle and determination to comply enraptured him. Despite her initial reluctance to divulge her motives, it was evident that she was here by choice. Her persistence conjured something within him, allowing his dominant side to settle more comfortably.

“In that case,” his tone darkened, “I suggest you keep your eyes down when speaking to me in this space. I won't ask you again.” 

Giving demands was like an incantation to summon the submissive in her. Her eyes went to the floor and she stilled. Miss French required a firm master. 

Now that she was in position, he hesitated. He’d never topped someone like her and he didn't believe she would last much longer. He wasn’t going to lay a hand on her, he decided. That way, when she inevitably went screaming from the bathroom, he could rightly claim that he hadn’t touched her. 

Her body wiggled in anticipation of what he would do next. He reached behind him where his cane rested against the vanity. He hefted it in his hand so he held the bottom and ran the gold hooked edge down the nape of her neck. 

She shivered from the cold metal, the marked weight, or both.  

“So what is it, Miss French?” he asked languidly, the cane taking a similarly slow trail down her spine. “What do you come to me for?” 

She exhaled and swayed in response. Something akin to euphoria bubbled inside him and he had to close his eyes to keep it from boiling over. It had been too long since he’d had to key in so intimately to the reactions and feelings of another person. The experience ensnared him in a mystical web of control and pleasure.

“To learn?” he questioned. “I don’t take on inexperienced students anymore. And I thought, based on your cleverness at the dinner table, that you’re learned everything you needed to know from your books.” 

The cane reached her ass and he let the weight of it press down on her. 

“Or do you come to me to be punished?” he hissed. His words evoked a shifting of her legs where her thighs rubbed together. His eyebrows rose at her response. He lifted the cane and let gravity bounce the heavy handle off of her bottom. She jerked but held position. “I can’t imagine what for,” he taunted. “Forget to renew someone’s overdue book?” 

He tilted his head and studied her. Could it be possible Miss French wanted a stern, disapproving master to punish her? True, she had surpassed his expectations by lasting this long. But if things progressed further, she would have to relinquish control completely. If he touched her, there would be no going back without her safe word. 

“Do you know what you’re playing at, little girl?” The cane hooked over the end of her skirt and slowly lifted it until it bunched on her back. She trembled and her breath became audible, but he didn't hear even a whisper of the bells. In fact, her fist tightened over them, as if to still them further. 

“I suspect you don’t,” he continued, admiring the midnight blue panties stretched over her ass. For the first time his control wavered and his cock twitched. He had kept himself firmly in check, prepared for her abrupt exit. Now his own needs as a Master demanded to be met. Enough with slowly brewing her submissive tendencies to the surface. The invocation of the dom/sub roles urged him to teach her the essence of their relationship: That her body was his to decide what to do with. 

“I’ve seen you, you know,” he growled. “Through the window of the library. Perched on your little stool. Reading your dirty paperbacks. Swiveling back and forth, back and forth.” He ran the handle boldly over her panties, between her ass cheeks, up and down. “Does it give you any relief?”  

She pushed back against the cane, trying to force him closer. When that didn't work she tried to lift up on toes, to dip the handle lower to the apex of her thighs. 

In response, he pulled the cane away completely. “Answer me,” he demanded. 

“No, Mr. Gold.” It came out in a rush. 

“What is this about?” he asked again.  

The words stuck in her throat, but she knew the answer. It was evident in the way her body twisted, her wrists rubbing against the ring, that admitting the truth was more uncomfortable to her than what he was doing to her body. She was thinking, not feeling, which meant she wasn’t in the proper subspace yet. 

She struggled to find the words. “I don't kn–”

The smack of his palm on her ass reverberated off the walls, the noise making her jump as much as the feel of his hand against her. She gasped in surprise, tipping to the side before catching and righting herself, but her wrists stayed constrained. 

“That’s for lying,” he told her seriously. “You never lie to me in this space.” It may look like just a bathroom to her, but by coming to him, by initiating this, she’d instantly transformed it into a sacred space. It was for her own safety. He’d hurt her as much as he needed to, but only if she followed the rules. “If you plan on doing so again, I believe you know where the door is.” 

She stayed where she was, but her body undulated, taking in the new stimulation. 

“If you want to continue I need to hear you say it.” He craved hearing her admit she wanted to stay in this scene with him, to let him do to her what he wanted, needed, to do. “What do your books tell you to say, dearie?” he prompted.  

“Please,” she responded immediately. “Please, Mr. Gold. Sir. Please. More.” Consenting words tumbled out of her mouth. When he was austere and patronizing, goading her to push past her limits, she responded beautifully. But she needed to be in harmony with him if this was going to work. 

“Very good, Miss French,” he praised. “But I’m afraid bratty, dishonest, teasing girls earn more punishment than that,” he said darkly. 

This time he slapped the back of her thigh. She lifted up on her heels, but came back down. He spanked her again, this time on her other cheek. As she swayed in response, he kept a steady rhythm on the meatiest parts of her ass and thighs. He left ample time in between each smack to allow her to explore the sensations, as well as read her response. Her hands weren’t draped through the ring anymore. Instead her fingers were wrapped around it, anchoring her as she twisted and shifted with each blow, the bell still clutched in one hand. 

“You hold position sloppily, Miss French,” he noted absently. “You are in desperate need of proper training.” 

She gasped at his evocative words. He moved to stand beside her. He faced the vanity where the mirror not only reflected himself but the pinkened thighs of Miss French. He hooked his left arm around her waist to hoist her spine straight and hold her in place. With his right hand he rained light stinging slaps down on her, including the sensitive place where her ass met her thighs. That elicited sharp intakes of breath and soft moans. Her head thrashed but he let that go in favor of admiring his work in the mirror. Her thighs were turning red in places now. He continued with quick, close slaps. She shocked him by opened her legs, inviting him to slap at her core. He pointedly moved further away. She hadn’t yet earned a reward. On the contrary, her continued efforts to top from bottom pissed him off. He grabbed the edges of her panties and shoved them between her ass cheeks. He smoothed a hand over her ass. Her skin was hot and silky under his palm. She hissed. He had no salve with him here. She’d bear his marks and the lingering pain from his correction for days, and that pleased the darker aspects of dom. His emotion was reflected in the quantity and intensity of his punishments because her adrenaline had kicked in and she was now gasping for breath.  

“Time for some truth,” he reminded her. “What do you come to me for?”As her dominant, his role was to delve into her psyche, uncovering her desires, fears, and needs. She hovered on the edge of surrender, on the brink of soaring freely, yet clung fiercely to this guarded aspect of herself. But the bell remained firmly silenced in her fist. The realization ignited a surge of anger within him. He raised his arm, intent on delivering a forceful blow. It was then that she seemed to anticipate the impending strike.

“I’m lonely too,” she blurted.   

His hand stilled at his shoulder. Sensing there was more inside her, he leaned forward and ran his hand up the inside of one shapely leg, a move meant to entice more information out of her, to communicate that he could give pleasure, not just pain. 

“More,” he demanded. 

“You’ve been watching me?” she panted when his fingers danced over the tissue paper thin skin of her inner thighs. “I’ve been watching you too. You’re as alone in this town as I am. But you’re so,” she struggled for the right word, “in control all the time.” 

His mind raced as he mulled over her words, the implications sinking in with each passing second. Her admission that she had been watching him, observing him closely, sent a jolt of realization through him. Their encounter, he realized, had been brewing beneath the surface long before this insipid dinner, waiting for the right moment to come to fruition.

“I’m not,” she continued. “People tell me I’m impetuous.” 

“I’m shocked,” he replied dryly. “Have you ever done this before?” 

“No,” she shook her head, proving all his suspicions correct. “But I’ve read about it. Extensively. I was…intrigued. I wasn’t lying,” she rushed out, sensing that her punishment was not yet over. 

It was a rare moment of vulnerability from her, a glimpse beneath the carefully crafted facade she presented to the world. Her admission brought to light the depth of her curiosity and the extent of her interest in him, surprising him with its intensity. This revelation added a new layer of complexity to their dynamic, a dance of power and submission, revelation and concealment. Each word, each action, revealed layers of their desires and vulnerabilities, weaving a complex tapestry of intimacy and control in the brightly lit bathroom of Regina's mansion.

He took everything he knew about her and reframed it in his mind. She desired deep, penetrating connection—a bond that went beyond the surface, one that delved into the depths of understanding and intimacy. But she didn't seek safety in the conventional sense. She craved adventure, excitement, and unpredictability, yet she also desired a sense of security and trust. These were contradictions that challenged him, and in that moment, doubt crept into his mind of whether he was truly capable of fulfilling the complexities of her desires and giving her the connection she sought without compromising either of them.

“No one understands me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with vulnerability. She paused, hoping for a response, a sign that he was still listening, still willing to understand. “Please. Please understand me. I’m alone. I’m always alone. Make me not alone, please.”

To his shock, he found that he did understand. In that moment, he saw beneath the layers she used to shield herself from the world. She was hidden, pent up, yearning for connection and understanding. Despite her outward appearance of confidence and control, she didn’t feel truly connected to anyone. 

Finally grasping what she needed, he realized that she sought release, a chance to spread her wings and fly freely. For her, BDSM would not just be a means of physical pleasure but also a path to personal growth and empowerment. Through BDSM, she could learn skills that would translate into every aspect of her life: how to claim her desires, negotiate for what she wanted and needed, set boundaries, and communicate limits.

She was hyperventilating, the physical sensations along with the vulnerability of what she’d just shared overwhelming her. He didn't spank her, just rested the weight of his full palm onto her bare ass. 

With gentle care, he gathered her hair in his hand and let it cascade over her right shoulder, revealing her profile to him. As he smoothed the strands away from her eyes, his touch conveyed a silent message: he was there to look after her, to bear the weight of her burdens, and she could trust him to do so. Then he rested his hand on her back, not pushing, just anchoring her. 

“Deep, slow breaths,” he instructed. Then he began spanking her again. This time he kept a steady pace of heavy, solid blows. Not hard enough she would need to stop, but strong enough that each time he struck her something inside her began to shake loose. Together they built a pace. She’d breath in deeply, he spanked her, and her breath would release in a whoosh. 

When she acclimated to that, he rachetted up the strength of his slaps but kept the steady, punishing pace. She grunted and moaned, her body and mind fighting the punishment as adrenaline, endorphins, and natural painkillers flooded her nervous system to soothe her. Surrender, he demanded, never relenting, surrender to me. Finally, she quieted, her eyes open and unfocused, in a deep trance-like subspace. A single tear escaped her, slipping down her cheek to land on the floor. 

“Good girl,” he praised and a soft sob escaped her. 

The hand resting on her back ran up and down her spine, the gentle touch in contradiction to the solid, punishing blows. 

“Let go.” 

The dam broke. Wracking sobs escaped her. He thrashed her all the while and he didn’t begin to let up until every last ounce of tightness in her body was released. When her sobs transformed to sighs and her wrists hung so loosely she dropped the bell he finally ceased. Her head came to rest on her arm, too heavy for her to hold up any longer. 

"Stand," he murmured gently, and supported her to rise and lean against the wall. With care he tended to her wrists and hands, massaging the circulation back into them. His touch was soothing and deliberate and the last tears of relief washed down her face. Her eyes were dazed yet full of vitality, her body slack but simultaneously buzzing with energy.

Suddenly, she flung herself across the small space between them and wrapped both arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. The strength of her embrace caught him off guard and he swayed slightly under its force, momentarily stunned. A delicate fragrance of roses enveloped them, reminiscent of her—sweet, fresh, with a hint of spice.

Pulling back, she wiped her tears with one hand, the other fisted in his lapel. 

“Sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Just overwhelmed.”

Unable to resist, he brushed the wetness from her cheeks with his thumbs. 

“You apologize for nothing in this space,” he told her, “except not being honest with me.” 

She had performed brilliantly, navigating the complexities within her mind like a firestorm, emerging on the other side freer and more authentic. He suspected both of them felt a sense of release, intimacy, and freedom in the moment. He knew he felt more at ease here than he ever did at the dinner table.

Relaxed, she leaned into him, her eyes heavy. Twisting both hands in his jacket, she sought his support as he leaned against the vanity, gently holding her elbows and rubbing his thumbs along the silky skin on the backs of her arms. Though outwardly unchanged, inwardly he mirrored her relaxed state, loose and at ease.

“You're really good at this,” she sighed contentedly. 

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You should see what I can do in a proper dungeon and leather pants.”

Her laughter joined his, the sound carrying warmth and shared understanding.

She released a long, slow breath, her body swaying slightly in a dance of contemplation. "You're right, you know. You're not the hero."

His muscles tensed like coiled springs, every fiber of his being laser-focused on her, anticipating her next words with a mix of dread and anticipation. So she had finally seen through him, pierced through the layers of his facade to uncover the truth. She knew exactly who he really was now, and he braced himself for the inevitable recoil, the rejection that had become all too familiar. He swallowed hard, the weight of her newfound understanding bearing down on him like a looming storm.

"But you're not the villain either," she observed, her head tilting to the side as she studied him with an intensity that made him squirm. "You're far more complex than that."

Under her perceptive gaze, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if she had peeled back layers of his carefully constructed armor. He was exposed, vulnerable, in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be in years.

"You're exactly who I thought you were," she concluded softly, a warmth seeping into her words. "And I'm glad." Her gaze held a depth of understanding that left him feeling seen in a way he hadn't expected.

As their breaths mingled in the air, a soft glow seemed to envelop them, casting a spell of warmth and intimacy around their figures. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his, a tender touch that sparked a rush of sensations akin to a magical potion coursing through his veins.

In that moment, he glimpsed a future intertwined with hers. He envisioned waking up beside her, the morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting patterns of light and shadow across her serene face. With her by his side, he saw himself becoming more adventurous, embracing new experiences, and breaking free from the confines of his solitude. She was not one to sit back and let life pass her by. Constantly engaged, always testing her limits, she would challenge him in ways he had never imagined. But then, amidst the enchantment of the moment, a torrent of insecurities flooded his mind.

No one could ever truly love him, he thought. Not the real him, with all his flaws and scars. This connection they shared was nothing but a trick, a fleeting illusion born from a surge of endorphins and shared vulnerability. Once the magic wore off, she would see him for who he truly was—a broken man, unworthy of her affection.

She would undoubtedly use what she discovered about herself during their time together and blossom into a confident and empowered woman, no longer reliant on him for validation or fulfillment. The thought that she might eventually outgrow the need for his presence in her life, just as his past lovers had done, sent a chill down his spine. He had witnessed the cycle before. The deception, like a slow poison seeping into his soul, eroded the fragile trust he had dared to build. And then, the abrupt ripping out of his heart shattered the illusion of security he had clung to, leaving behind a hollow ache of betrayal. The thought of her wielding such power in their relationship terrified him. 

The way she looked at him, he realized with alarm, could only be described as adoration. No one had ever looked at him that way. Not even his wife. The prospect of Belle wielding such transformative power within their relationship was both exhilarating and petrifying. On one hand, he admired her growth and strength, but on the other, it stirred up his deepest insecurities. As her lips pressed against his with a newfound urgency, he realized that surrendering to her would be the ultimate act of bravery. 

“Dagger.” 

She stumbled backward with how hard he shoved her away. His grip on her shoulders tightened, a painful paradox of pushing her away while desperately holding onto her, as if trying to distance himself from the pain while refusing to let her slip from his grasp.

His safe word, he belatedly realized. His safe word had, unbidden, slipped from his lips. He had never used it before. The safe word, an unexpected intrusion in their charged exchange, hung in the air like an unspoken truth. It was a word never meant to breach their sanctuary of intimacy, yet now it stood as a stark reminder of their shattered connection.

"What?" Belle's voice quivered, the remnants of a smile fading from her lips, replaced by a furrowed brow of concern.

"You’re not going to do this to me," he hissed, his gaze searching her face for signs of deceit, his emotions a tempest of confusion and betrayal. "You think you can make me weak," he accused, his grip tightening as if trying to shake her from her supposed manipulation. "I knew it was too good..." His voice trailed off, the weight of disappointment heavy in the air.

"What are you talking about? This was working—" Belle's words faltered as she tried to reason with him, to salvage the unraveling threads of their bond.

"Shut up," he snapped, his desperation bordering on anger as he refused to be swayed by her attempts to explain.

"We work together!" Belle pressed on, her voice tinged with disbelief and hurt.

"Shut the hell up!" he retorted, his resolve hardening against the vulnerability threatening to break through his defenses.

"Why won't you believe me?" Tears welled in Belle's eyes, a stark contrast to the freedom they had shared mere moments ago. He had wounded her deeply, and a twisted satisfaction stirred within him at the sight.

"Because no one," he declared, forcing her to meet his gaze with an intensity that brooked no argument, "no one could ever, ever love me." His words hung in the air, final and heavy with the weight of his self-imposed isolation.

With a swift motion, he snatched his cane from the vanity and unlocked the door, rushing out of the bathroom and into the safety of the hallway. The door shut behind him with a decisive thud, sealing him away from the intensity of the moment he had just shared with Belle. As he hurried away, a knot of apprehension tightened in his chest, fearing that she might follow him, her presence a potent reminder of his own vulnerability.

Yet, even in the solitude of the hallway, he couldn't shake the turmoil raging within him. Their encounter had been electrifying, unlike anything he had experienced before, and yet he had held back, unable to give her what she desired. The realization left him feeling exposed, as if she had unearthed a weakness he had long buried.

Lost in self-reproach, he almost stumbled upon the entrance to the dining room, where the remnants of dinner lingered and conversations ebbed and flowed around him. A sudden clarity washed over him, a stark realization that he didn't belong in this room, surrounded by people and their casual interactions.

His shoulders turned instinctively, leading him back towards the hallway, but as he paused, he realized that it only led back to the bathroom. He stood there, caught between two worlds, suspended in a moment of uncertainty and introspection.

He hesitated at the threshold of the dining room, a wave of discomfort washing over him, being in such close proximity to all these people who didn't want or need him, leaving him adrift in a sea of purposelessness. He had left something meaningful behind only to return to this emptiness, a stark reminder of his own insignificance in this world of superficiality.

His thoughts drifted to Belle, to the warmth and connection they had shared, now replaced by a sense of guilt and regret. Had he hurt her? Was she in need of comfort, of the aftercare he could have provided? But he had denied her that, shattered the delicate balance of their scene and left her, and himself, broken in its wake. If he was capable of being any more broken then he already was, he thought ruefully. He’d failed Belle, like he had so many people in his life.

The decision of which direction to take was made for him as he realized he needed to retrieve his coat and escape the suffocating atmosphere of the dinner party. He had caused enough damage, both to others and to himself, for one night. It was time to retreat to the sanctuary of his counting house, a place he should never have left.

As he made his way towards the foyer and the promise of a hasty exit, he was intercepted by Bae, who tugged at his arm, urging him to join the gathering around the Christmas tree. He opened his mouth to object.

"Just ten more minutes," Bae implored, a touch of warmth in his voice. "It won't kill you, Pops."

He wanted to argue that ten more minutes might indeed be his undoing—it already felt like it had been. After experiencing a rare moment of authenticity and connection with Belle, he now felt hollow, a mere shell of himself. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be guided towards the towering pine tree, his gaze instinctively searching the crowd for Belle. If he had to endure this evening, he reasoned, he might as well bear the weight of her silent reproach.

But Belle was nowhere to be found, and his hopes for self-flagellation were dashed as he realized she was absent. Only then did he tune in to the conversations swirling around him. No one mentioned Belle's absence; instead, they were engrossed in debates over the rules of the gift exchange game. Not a single person turned to him for an explanation or inquired about her whereabouts. He scanned the room once more, his heart sinking as he realized that no one seemed to be searching for her.

As the first gift was selected, he strained to peer over the heads and past the throng of guests, searching desperately for any sign of Belle. Why hadn't anyone noticed her absence? Even LeGume appeared entirely unconcerned as he laughed along with the festivities.

What kind of friends were they, he wondered, a sense of unease settling over him as he grappled with the realization that Belle had slipped away unnoticed. The monotonous game dragged on, each gift selected and unwrapped with forced enthusiasm. A cashmere scarf, a vintage board game, a gaudy piece of costume jewelry—Gold barely registered the items as they passed from hand to hand, the game's triviality gnawing at his patience. Why was he still here, enduring this banality?

Arguments erupted over stolen gifts, strategies debated over the optimal time to choose or steal. Gold grew increasingly restless, his discomfort simmering beneath the surface as he vaguely acknowledged a gift being put in his hands, being taken, and a new one put in its place.

Then, a sudden disruption—a puzzled inquiry from Regina about an extra gift left unclaimed. Regina scanned the people circling the tree and the dwindling number of gifts. Everyone looked at each other, perplexed. Gold's irritation flared, ready to unleash a scathing remark, but before he could, a soft voice spoke from behind them.

"I haven't gone yet," Belle's voice cut through the tension, and the circle parted to reveal her presence. She appeared composed, her attire restored, but Gold noticed the subtle dimming of her usual radiance.

He scanned the group, expecting someone else to acknowledge Belle's return, to question her absence or offer concern. Yet, to his bewilderment, no one seemed to notice the change in her demeanor. Belle avoided his gaze, a telltale redness around her eyes betraying her recent tears.

A prickling discomfort spread over Gold's skin, a primal urge to protect and comfort her as her dominant. He couldn't ignore her distress, couldn't bear the thought of her suffering in silence while the oblivious crowd carried on around them.

He shifted restlessly, grappling with how to communicate to her across the crowd. A weighty presence in his pocket drew his attention, his hand instinctively reaching inside. A jingle, amplified in his ears, resonated from his jacket—the leftover bell from their scene. Heat surged through him, an acute awareness of the personal and sacred nature of the bell clashing with the public setting.

Yet, despite his unease, everyone remained engrossed in the game. A giant inflatable pool float emerged from the wrappings, likely his son's contribution, followed by LeGume's bold theft of Belle's book from another guest. The pet shelter caretaker caught her attention and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Gold’s palm, which had so recently been on her ass, tightened on the bells. 

Gold looked down at the cheap bottle of alcohol in his other hand that he didn’t remember someone putting there. His gaze darted around the group, quickly calculating how to get Belle’s book into his hands. Amidst the chaotic unwrapping and stealing, he spotted the rectangular box with its familiar haphazard wrapping—the one Bae had placed there for him. It had been overlooked momentarily, nestled inconspicuously in the folds of the tree skirt. With practiced nonchalance, he meandered over to the tree, his fingers deftly palming the box as the game continued behind him. A quirky, artistic hat was unwrapped and stolen for a few turns. 

Returning the box to its place, he looked up only to meet the smug gaze of Regina's sister, her victorious smile igniting a wave of irritation. Ignoring her, he focused on the unfolding game, tension simmering beneath the surface.

When it was her turn, Zelena pounced for the pile under the tree, her hand closing around his gift. Gold felt a surge of possessiveness, every fiber of his being screamed to lunge forward, to reclaim what was not meant for her. But he held himself back, his glare directed at her instead. Unfortunately, his silent challenge only seemed to embolden her. Everyone else eagerly stared at the gift, all vying for a new twist in the game.

Zelena's expression fell as she lifted the ribbon from the box, revealing the dangling bell. A ripple of disappointment and confusion spread through the group. Gold felt his son eye him in suspicion and pointedly ignored him. The gift looked unnatural in Zelena’s hand and Gold had to force himself not to snatch it away from her and put it back in his pocket. 

“I thought I said there was a ten dollar minimum,” Regina grumbled. 

As Zelena shook the bell, its chime seemed to echo a silent tension that had settled over the gathering. Gold's gaze instinctively sought out Belle, their eyes locking across the room. But this time, he found her unreadable, her emotions veiled behind a mask he couldn't penetrate. It was a defeat more profound than any other—they were closed off to each other, locked in a silent standoff of unspoken feelings.

A voice broke the tension, asking if the game was over, but Regina's annoyed response clarified that Belle, having joined late, would be the final participant. All eyes turned to Belle, who appeared momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden spotlight. Clutching her current gift—a luxurious cashmere scarf—she seemed unsure of how to navigate the attention now focused on her.

“Belle, you can keep your gift or steal,” Regina reminded her. “Not that we don’t know what you’re going to do,” she grumbled, eyeing the gift greedily. 

Belle's gaze locked with Gold's across the circle, a chasm of unspoken words and unresolved emotions stretching between them. She caressed the soft folds of the cashmere scarf in her hands, the most coveted item now that the month's free rent certificate was safely tucked away in his pocket. In that moment, Gold's eyes pleaded with her, a wordless entreaty for forgiveness and understanding. His gaze was a mix of regret and longing, a silent admission of past mistakes and a fervent desire for reconciliation. "I'm sorry. I am an idiot," his eyes seemed to say, the unspoken words hanging between them like a delicate thread waiting to be woven into a tapestry of redemption and renewal.

For him, it wasn't just about the scarf or the bells; it was about the choice between clinging to old wounds or embracing a future fraught with uncertainty but filled with the possibility of healing and love. It wasn't about relinquishing control; it was about sharing it with someone who had the strength to handle it. And perhaps, in the magic of their union, he would find the courage to let go, to trust, and to love without reservation.

“Well,” Regina prompted.

Regina's prompting brought Belle back to the present moment. With a determined yet vulnerable expression, Belle stepped out from the group, extending the scarf towards Zelena, a gesture that spoke volumes about her decision and the path she was choosing to tread.

“A bell for Belle. How…quaint,” Zelena commented, confused but not asking questions as she grabbed the more expensive gift. She held the bell’s ribbon between her index finger and thumb distastefully as she dropped it into Belle’s awaiting cupped hands. 

Belle's eyes fell to the bell, the brass catching the light and casting a soft glow in her palms.

“It’s perfect,” she announced, looking at Gold. In that moment, as the bells exchanged hands, a silent understanding passed between them, a promise of second chances and the courage to choose love over fear.

With the game concluded, the group dispersed, their reactions ranging from groans to cheers depending on the gifts they held.

Alone by the tree, Gold watched Belle with a mixture of awe and gratitude. Her simple gesture spoke volumes, signaling her readiness to release old hurts and embrace the possibility of a fresh start.

He took a step towards her, his heart brimming with newfound hope and determination.

"Gold!" Jefferson's arm draped heavily over his shoulders, a gesture he only dared when the alcohol had loosened his inhibitions. He knew Gold's aversion to physical contact, yet somehow, Jefferson always managed to push past that boundary with a mix of familiarity and charm. "Don't be the party pooper. A few of us are taking the festivities outside. I raided Regina's stash and struck gold, no pun intended," he said with a wink. With his other hand he reached under his coat and flashed a series of hidden inner pockets bursting with purloined cigars and a bottle with a Glenmorangie label. 

Gold's eyes, however, were fixated on Belle, who had been pulled into conversation with Mary Margaret. The bronze bell he had gifted her now hung gracefully around her neck. To others, it might have seemed festive and sweet, but to Gold, it was a declaration of something far more primal, something that stirred the depths of his being in ways he hadn't felt in ages.

As Belle's gaze met his, a wave of heated intensity surged between them, reigniting the flame that he feared had died. The way she wore that bell, with a blend of defiance and surrender, spoke volumes about the unspoken desires and emotions that tethered them together.

It wasn't just a bell; it was a symbol of her choice, her willingness to be marked by him in a way that transcended mere trinkets. The resonance of its chime echoed their shared longing and the unspoken desires and tangled emotions that now bound them together.

In that fleeting moment, Belle became more than just a woman he desired; she was his anchor, grounding him in a reality where love and longing converged with an electrifying intensity.

With a subtle nod and a warm smile, Belle silently conveyed her assurance that their journey was far from over, encouraging him to embrace what lay ahead.

So he allowed Jefferson to momentarily tug him away from Belle. 

“I thought that might convince you,” the designer said, thinking it was the label on the bottle that had been the deciding factor.