So apparently I hate myself and everyone else. This story comes with STRONG WARNINGS. Colonel Ives is a manipulative cannibal from the 1840s who conspires to live forever by feasting on human flesh. Belle is a young widow about 5-years outside of the Storybrooke curse, flavored with a dash of residual magic, and they're totally going to have sex. Seriously, don't read this if you're put-off by anything squicky.
Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future
"Allow me, ma'am."
Belle looked up to see a face she'd come to fear over the last several months of living in California. He wore a goatee and his hair hung a little shorter, but this recurring stranger who always flashed her a smile and held doors politely was wearing a borrowed face. Only one set of eyes had ever set her afire like this man – those were her husband's eyes.
As he handed her the book she'd been stretching to reach on the library's top shelf, Belle found herself compelled to speak. Under normal circumstances, she found it difficult not to sprint away from the man at full speed, but he was being polite – she had to thank him, whatever her feelings about his stolen face.
"Thank you, Mr..."
"Colonel, actually. Colonel Francis Ives."
"Well thank you very much, Colonel Ives."
He reached out for her hand, and she gave it to him out of habit. Belle was more than a little surprised when he pressed his lips chastely to her knuckles. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss..."
"Missus," she supplied. "Mrs. Belle Gold."
"Ah, and will we be meeting the fortunate Mr. Gold this afternoon?" he asked, looking around at the mostly deserted library. They both visited the remote history section regularly, always passing but not speaking; he knew she came here alone.
"No, I'm afraid not. He.. he died. About 5 years ago, actually."
"That is a shame, to see a lovely lady like yourself widowed so young. Of course, there was a time when these things were a bit more commonplace; cherish the days you got."
"We made the most of our time," she said, smiling. Manners, courtesy in general, were not something that this world outside of Storybrooke had in abundance. She could ignore his stunning similarities to her late husband for a little bit of civilized conversation.
"Ms. Gold, I beg your pardon if this is too bold, but would you be so kind as to indulge an old war horse with a little more of your company this afternoon? I'm positively ravenous, and I'd like nothing more than to have you along for lunch."
Fort Spencer, 1847
When General Slauson discovered him in the bear trap, he'd already gnawed off half of Boyd's face. The death rattle was a stroke of brilliance, a lovely spot of theatre. His impression was spot on – as it should be – he'd heard enough of them recently. But in truth, he really hadn't been sure that the other man would pass out – lose his will to fight – before the blood loss and trauma finally stilled his own body as well.
He did know, though, that Boyd would continue fighting for as long as he thought Ives was alive. So, he rolled the dice. His gambit paid off, and somehow Boyd resisted the urge to consume Ives' own face – a calculated risk that could have backfired horribly.
"Colonel Ives, I presume?"
He thought it was all over then. And why wouldn't it be? Here he was, with another man's face in his maw, and completely pinned by a pair of rusty metal jaws with the army bearing down on him.
"General Slauson," Ives replied warmly, using his most cordial voice. He knew he had hair and blood caked all over his face, but he flashed his most debonair smile anyway.
"I've heard reports from this godforsaken hell-hole that would curl your teeth, Ives. Mad things. Savage things. It looks like you boys had a regular ole blood bath in the yard. And here you are, chewin' like dog on a dead man's face. Y'know what the army's policy is on this, Ives? When you're facing down a bear trap full of crazy, feral animal, you shoot the animal. You shoot it right between the eyes.
But I'm not going to do that, Colonel. And let me tell you why – I just ate a bowl of rather interesting stew in your mess hall. Cleared up my arthritis, Ives. I aint got a sore bone in my body. Now, I'm going to spring that trap and let you up. You're going to wash up, and we are going to have us a little talk. See if you don't just have a few interesting things to tell me about that stew I ate."
"It'd be my pleasure, General."
Sonoma County, CA
To his surprise, Ives was actually taking the pretty little widow out to lunch. He hadn't expected her to say yes, usually she had the good sense to avoid him like the plague. Still, he noticed her. She read, nonfiction mostly, and she always wore a demure little sun dress that hearkened back to his frontier days. The Good Old Days, he called them.
Back then, a man could find no shortage of unwashed miners, lonely settlers or dying soldiers to eat. Everyone tasted like adventure and vigor, because everyone worked hard to simply go-on living. For the last 50 years or so, though, times were lean. He had to get by on the dregs of society, or pay off a morgue attendant for spare livers and kidneys.
Money was no object for him or anyone else he and Slauson converted in the early days – not that he'd seen many of the original team since the late 1980s. When you ate every successful gold miner in a 200 mile radius for nearly a decade, it tended to make the cash flow easy.
But this little Ms. Gold of his? She looked like a big old bowl of peaches in cream, and he just knew she would taste sweet. It was a gamble, luring someone so mainstream to her demise. Since they'd learned of DNA and fingerprinting, his lifestyle was far from easy. The first time he saw her, he'd simply gorged himself on leftovers – gristly octogenarian, mixed with a bit of migrant day-laborer – but it helped him to forget nothing. It was not satisfying.
Every week he got a little closer, a little bolder. She seemed skittish, mostly. Run, little doe, run. The mountain lion sees you. And then the doe did something foolish. She lay down in the clearing and accepted the lion's invitation to graze.
Ives knew three things, and he knew them well. He knew hunting, charming and fucking. And wasn't it Ms. Gold's lucky day, she was on a wagon train heading toward all three.
Gettysburg, PA – 1863
It was only natural that he and General Slauson's men would rise for the Confederacy. Hell, half of them were from Texas originally. Privates Beaumont and Aberdeen, Sergeant Lopez and Feasting Crow were the last of their recruits left from the Fort Spencer days, and each man carried two sets of uniforms on him at all times – one blue, one gray.
Ives was, as had been decided through trial an error, disguised as a medic. He could talk his way out of anything, it seemed, and it freed up the boys attention so they could eat. Or shoot. Or stab. Whichever struck their fancy. It became clear about 5 years into their little endeavor that none of them were aging; that a bullet wound no longer packed as much punch as they'd once remembered.
The Devil's Den suited them best, though the Orchard was also a fond memory. Wedged into a crag, men falling like flies, the blood flowed like a fine wine. The Windegos ate well that night, and three days later they marched out, down the Emmitsburg Road.
Oh, how he longed for the Good Old Days.
Sonoma County, CA
Belle liked spending time with Francis, though she still found it odd that he preferred to be called Colonel. "Colonel" wasn't at all intimate or endearing, not like calling a man by his given name. And, the more they met socially, the more she found that she would very much like his leave to call him Francis. Or even simply Ives.
He was a gentleman, in the old ways of Fairy Tale Land, but with none of Gaston's foolhardy boasting or shallow conversation. At first, she feared she was only projecting her desire to see Rumpelstiltskin onto him, but he seemed genuinely interested in her. And, after the first few dates, she felt herself becoming more interested in him as well.
The man could talk about anything, for hours if he had a willing partner. He spoke of history like a living entity, and recalled details of a bygone era that spoke of decades spent in careful reading.
It was nice, not having to worry about magic or the pesky Blue Fairy. That thought made her feel incredibly guilty, but she couldn't hide away from the world any more. Her Rumpelstiltskin was gone, and she had not elected to return to the Enchanted Forest. That world held nothing for her, so it was up to her to find something of value in this one.
The Colonel... the Colonel was charming. He was kind to her. And she already knew she was attracted to him for his features. The air of danger – it seemed – was once again her real weak point. Every word that man spoke slid over her ears like butter, and she knew a thing or two about men like that.
Men like the Colonel, like her late husband, were always more trouble than they were worth. Then again.. men with silver tongues often proved their mouths useful in a multitude of sinful, delightful, utterly indulgent ways.
Belle couldn't wait to find out.
"Ms. Belle.." He never called her Mrs. Gold any more. "Come have dinner with me at the ranch tonight?"
"I think I'd like that, Colonel."
"And please, I think we've stood on ceremony long enough. Call me Ives. Or even Francis, if you'd like to."
"Then you must call me Belle. Just Belle."
"May I pick you up at the around five, Belle?"
"Five sounds great, Ives. Should I bring anything?"
"Oh no, I insist that you leave it all to me. I can cook up one hell of a supper, if I do say so myself."
Germany, 1918
The trenches were hell, unless you were a Windego. For them, the Hundred Days Offense was an all-you-can-eat buffet. They'd all assumed new identities, new names. It wasn't difficult, not really. This time Feasting Crow was their Captain, posing as an Italian, and Aberdeen was playing medic. He'd grown into the role, with age.
Slauson did not enjoy reporting to the half-Comanche, but as long as they had fresh meat he stayed happy.
Only Ives realized the problem that the press presented early enough to intervene. A landmine could barely dent them now. The lot of them could probably dismantle a tank. But the technology, the atrocities the humans had concocted to expedite the business of war... that was not the real issue. The shortwave had been disturbing enough; now, photographs and film seemed like the surest things to expose them. What would they do, in another 50 years, when presented with irrevocable evidence of their involvement in the Great War?
By day 80 of the Offensive, even the feasting began to feel boring. Ives had a lovely little dish waiting for him on the outskirts of Paris, and – though the Windego would never be satiated – he was ready to put aside the eating and killing for a whole month of hard fucking. At the earliest convenience, he planned to pin Marie to a mattress and make her scream his name all night. And probably half the day, too, if she was very well behaved.
Oh yes, the women had changed since The Good Old Days. 70 years could do that, he supposed. And, if Slauson's predictions were anything to go by, they would only continue to change. Shorter dresses.
Shorter hair cuts. Shorter lifetimes.
Ugh. The Germans were giving him heart burn. What he wouldn't do for a side of starch and veg, or a nice cottage stew.
Sonoma County, CA
Belle smelled like he remembered rain, before the humans destroyed and acidified everything. Industry – real industry – disgusted him. It's what inspired him to move west. The steady smoke of factories was not at all good for his tuberculosis, and – now that he was not bound for a slow death in a convalescent hospital, was not bound by anything – the stink of manufacturing still haunted his memory.
And she was a lady, the way he remembered them from his youth. She spoke eloquently, and seemed wise beyond her years. She also didn't offer her favors lightly; he couldn't remember the last time his charms hadn't won him a prize in a single night. Ives didn't rightly know if he wanted to bed or bite her first, but he knew that her death, at least, would come swiftly.
Slauson sometimes liked to leave them lingering. Morphine helped, but it made the sex less exciting. Amputate a leg and you can still eat for the night, with a nice spot of sex in the morning. The same could be said for an arm or a flank-steak, though that kind of mutilation no longer aroused him.
Fuck first, then feeding. Definitely.
Russia, 1942
Beaumont thought they could stay, if the fighting lasted the winter. Stalingrad was an ambitious goal, but if their German army was turned back they would be flush with frozen bodies for several months in the Russian winters. Maybe pick up a pair of Olgas or Minkas and make a regular party of the thing.
All of them, even Feasting Crow who could barely pass for a Spaniard mercenary, were more than proficient cavalrymen. As officers astride some rather respectable horse flesh, it almost felt like their glory days.
It was almost enough to make a man forget his hunger, for a second. Russia: beautiful country.
So, they stayed. The peasants and the rural villages were absolutely ripe for them by the time the trail of bodies left behind Hitler's armies dried up, and the prison camps in Siberia played like a well-stocked pantry. Sometimes, the countryside even made a fair impression of the Sierra Nevada. It was nostalgia, Slauson reckoned. 100 years of carrion and killing indiscriminately could make an old war horse a little homesick, it seemed.
The years passed pleasantly, food was plentiful, and then one day in 1945 everything changed. They called it the A-bomb, and it leveled entire cities. One of those could surely kill a Windego. But, more importantly, it hearkened the end of their days.
Ives, Slauson and the rest had lived through seemingly infinite upgrades to the art of war. Rifled infantry. Flame throwers. Tanks. Biplanes. With this new monstrosity, not only did the bodies go to waste – the soldiers were rendered obsolete. It caused them to fight, giants cracking bones too hard for a bullet to chip, then healing themselves almost instantly. The bickering lasted for days.
But, of course, Ives convinced them to go back to the United States in the end. He was always the persuasive one, even in his tuberculosis days. They had properties and businesses still earning fair profits in their names; it was time to find a more sustainable way to feed. In another hundred years, the undying soldiers who could conquer anything might be redundant.
Sonoma County, CA
Like most wealthy landowners in California with too much spare time, Colonel Ives made his own wine. Belle knew this, because she'd drunk entirely too much of it as they ate their lavish salads and herbed chicken.
When Ives offered to cook, what he really meant was seduce her with cutlery. His hands wielded a chef's knife like a maestro with a paintbrush, and his long, wide hands kept her entranced all night. They talked of anything and everything. He showed her his stables on the drive in, and she'd nearly convinced him to take her out riding one day. Belle hadn't ridden a horse since her princess days, but that wasn't exactly the kind of story she could share with him openly. It was a shame, all the secret keeping. But in her 62 years (28 of which she'd spent locked away in the Storybrooke mental ward), Rumpelstiltskin was still the only person with whom she could be 100% herself.
Ives was nice. He was a gentleman, and he made her think any number of dirty thoughts with his snide, cheeky side. Belle had no intention of returning to her home that night, and decided that it was time she let him know as much. They were seated side-by-side now, enjoying the starlight on an old, wooden porch swing. His arm was wrapped around her waist, and they'd brought another bottle of wine to share between them.
This was it. Belle leaned in, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. He offered up his tongue, gently. When she opened her mouth to reciprocate, he seemed to take his time – indulging in the taste of her lips. Suddenly, his hands grasped her tightly and he pulled her onto his lap as though she weighed nothing.
He was kissing her senseless, trying every corner of her mouth with his hands knotted in her curling, chestnut hair. Ives teeth dragged down her bottom lip, and she could feel him hardening underneath her.
This was not the reserved man who helped her reach high books. This man was different – intoxicating, incessant and utterly invigorating. Her body was flush against his, her hands pulling apart the buttons of his shirt, when he finally pulled away to breathe.
"Belle... God, Bell... what are you?" His eyes were intense and he was licking his lips, hungrily.
Sonoma County, CA 1968
In the end, only Ives was able to make the transition back to civilian life. It was almost ironic, that he – the most zealous of all Windegos – had grown tired of the mercenary lifestyle first. Slauson and his men were probably camped out around a rice paddy in Vietnam somewhere, feasting on whatever soldiers were foolish enough to wander off.
He'd had only one measly vagabond this week, and like always – Ives was still hungry. The difference was, no amount of gluttony took the edge off it any more. So, he simply grew used to the pangs. Life, living for a century with unrivaled strength and vigor, came at a steep price. But it was one he would willingly pay, because to go on living through all the changes he'd seen – that was truly an adventure.
There was even an idea floating around in his head, if these Civil Rights nut-jobs and drug-addled kids kept carrying on like they were lately wont to. There were communes popping up all over the place in California these days; he could take in the downtrodden and destitute, and return to a facsimile of the old Fort Spencer days.
If they kept carrying on like this, that might be enough to amuse him for the next couple of decades. So, he bought some land. Then, finding he liked his own space and property, he bought some more. This was the American dream. This was manifest destiny.
Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future
Belle, his doe in the field, looked him squarely in the eye and transformed herself into a little lioness. "What am I? Tonight... I'm just yours."
His cock was so hard he feared he might bruise her legs. Belle, his Belle. All his, all night. And she tasted like nothing he'd ever imagined. Her mouth was heaven, if a monster like him could dare to dream of such a place. He tasted sunshine and magic, and a time and place that he longed for looked back at him through her face. Whatever Belle was, she was not a human from this planet. Not like one he'd ever tasted before.
He should rip her in half before she had a chance to scream. Tear her open and rub himself in the viscera until he came in a frenzy of delight. But that would be over quickly, her taste would fade... In that moment, he barely had the wherewithal to do anything but kiss her desperately, buck his hips into her and moan.
Belle must not die. Not yet. She was everything his body craved.
Oh, but the pain.. the pain was excruciating. Running his tongue over her neck and breasts, tearing her clothing away... she overwhelmed his senses so easily. Ives was his own worst enemy. Belle gasped and rubbed herself against him every time he used his teeth on her pale, flawless skin. She couldn't know. She couldn't realize that ever nip and suck was another temptation for him to break the surface and drink. He should stop. If he wanted to keep her and not eat her all up in one short-lived feast, he should stop.
Belle added her own teeth to the mix then, and whatever semblance of reason and restraint he'd learned in the last century left him gasping.
"Belle, please..."
Her only reply was a needy moaning, and he took that as his cue to proceed. Ives pulled her down to the wooden deck and tore her panties free. The arousal was rolling off her in waves. He could smell her readiness, and his hands quickly found the slicked bundle of nerves between her legs.
As he rubbed small circles around her most sensitive place, Belle gave up trying to think rationally. Reciprocation could wait. His heat and urgency were catching, and – with very little warning – she came all over his fingers.
Belle pulled him into a languid kiss, gently pushing him into an upright, sitting position. He looked completely in awe, as though he hadn't thought sitting or even breathing were physically possible. Ives was looking back and forth, from her hand to his, somewhat incredulously, and he was entirely happy to give her another soft, slow kiss when she prompted him again.
"What are you?" he begged.
This time, she just kissed him. Then slowly, reverently, he lifted his fingers to his mouth, inhaled her scent slightly, and licked his fingers clean.
"Bedroom. God, Belle... let me take you to the bedroom. Please."
By the time they reached his California King, both of them were breathing heavily. His hands seem to tear through fabric like paper, and in a few seconds both of them were divested of their clothing. His body was firm, with well-defined shoulders. Gold's body looked nearly as good, but Ives was maybe a decade or so younger.
She didn't mean to think of her husband, not really. He'd be a jealous fit if he knew what she was up to, but – in 5 years – Ives was the first man she'd wanted. And it really was him, with his haunting gaze and fierce intelligence. She didn't see Rumpelstiltskin when she looked at him, to her Ives was simply himself.
He kissed her again, and then dropped to his knees in front of her on the bed. Belle was a witch. A shaman. An incubus or a changeling. There was no reasonable explanation for the way she tasted to him. Her mouth had nearly crippled his resolve, yet – with only a gentle pressure – her hands could command him.
And her cum... hgn. He would eat well with her. A Windego could live on blood, but flesh was better. Belle's juices blew them all away. Ives knew then that he couldn't kill her. This sumptuous feast for the senses, this darling little lady who turned monsters into beggars and smelled like fresh rain... if his strength escaped him and he started to hurt her, she would let him know. She would let him know, and what's more – he thought, for her, that he might even be able to stop. To soften his clawing hands and swift thrusting.
But he was getting ahead of himself. She gave him one more supple kiss, and he buried his face between her legs. Nothing had ever, ever tasted so good. Not that first guide on the trail west, nor the Russian princess he'd found exiled in Siberia. His tongue was swift, and she was so sweet.
Belle lost track of how many times he brought her off with his fingers, mouth and teeth. Her hands knotted in his long hair, and his pace never slowed. Somewhere, in her moaning, writhing daze, she realized that she was acting selfishly.
When he felt her tug his hair up her body, he once again had to resist the urge to bite. Yes. Belle who pulled hair and clawed his back was what he needed. She could not go to waste. He licked his way to her breasts, pinching at each nipple between his lips, before nuzzling at her neck.
She kissed him. She kissed him deeply, and he knew that she could taste what he could taste. Whatever small goodness he'd done to deserve her, it had not been done intentionally, but he would thank whatever God she liked if Belle would simply continue to lick his mouth clean. Her saliva mingled with her cum brought a sudden rush to his groin.
He'd been selfish for too long, taking her again and again with his tongue. Now his cock was nearly purple from straining and he knew he would not last long.
Belle surprised him again. She moved him gently onto his back, and he was utterly at her mercy. The Windego, the warrior, the constant solider... for her, he would be a willing slave.
Belle took her time exploring him, thrilled every whimper and guttural groan. She kissed and nipped her way down his body, leaving a small trail of marks in her wake. When she finally arrived at her destination, she swirled her tongue around his tip and took him into her mouth deeply. After a few swift bobs and an accidental nudge from her teeth, Ives spasmed and he relaxed completely.
Belle crawled back up his body, tucking her head under his chin. He'd be ready for her again in a few minutes – one of the perks of being like him was the stamina. The virility. Of course, she didn't know that, so she was simply happy – cuddling.
He kissed her then. Kissed her so that she knew that she was his, and that he had no intentions of letting go.
God yes... she'd swallowed his seed. His own saltiness mingled with her and promised of endless nights to come. The kisses were slow, building. He licked her mouth clean and felt himself hardening again.
His precious Belle had swallowed him completely, and he entered her gently as he continued to kiss her mouth clean. Eternity was his, and he had no intentions of facing it without her. She'd tasted him tonight, willingly. She'd make a spectacular cannibal someday