Work Text:
Belle sat against a pile of pillows, alternating between A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream and a book of poetry by Aphra Behn. Aside from when she turned the pages, the snores of Madame de Garderobe, and the soft crackle of the fire, Belle was left with her the books and her wandering thoughts as company.
In Midsummer, she was where Titania laid with Bottom, while Behn wrote sonnets to Clorinda. It had been several days since the Beast saved her from the wolves, had done what anyone else would tell her was the opposite of what he deserved. It was an even worst fate to die alone in the cold, left alone memories of her childhood with aching realization told her so.
Memories of her father and carting through back roads and forests. Sometimes doe-eyes would a random body, cradled the roots of a tree. “He’s asleep, no need to worry," he would say, pulling Belle’s small body closer to his, shifting his coat and cloak to give her more of a shield from the winter’s touch.
At least she was able to spare the Beast that fate. Belle thoughts of the Beast being held in those same tree roots she saw as child, instead of him in the castle, in his chambers, on a warm bed, and being cared for. The still body of one too poor to find shelter, Belle replaced it with the Beast’s alive, breathing form.
She had seen men shirtless and naked ones all throughout her life. Men and young boys in the village, undressing to swim in the river on the humid summer days. There had been some hold of childhood innocence lingering that held her attention to books that gave her comfort, other girls would have accompanied their lingering gazes with action.
It had really been the first time Belle had touched a man. Yes, she could soundly call the Beast a man. Under her hands, beneath the fur, as she had tended to him, had been the memory of feeling firm muscles. She supposed he was more man than animal. The longer she thought on the Beast’s form, outlining it in her mind, accompanied by the memory of his weight, the smell of roses and poppies emanated from the fireplace.
The whole castle smelled held the smell of roses, even on the Beast. The waves of the scent right now were that of calm and relaxation. Belle could remember the Beast mumbling, half-asleep, he hated the smell of roses. She honestly doubted that as the scent carried her off. It reminded her of him, filling her with the pleasant feeling of safety.
Reclining against the pillows, drifting as the scent of roses bury her, with the weight of her books on her lap. Belle wondered what this enchanted castle was doing to her. She had never thought about any man this way, but then the Beast wasn’t any man, she could take safety in that.
As Belle’s mind drifted off, she realized the room began to darken, with one of the mirrored wall panels becoming a painting of some sort of creature. She found herself moving closer to the painting, examining it. The artist gave the creature a feminine appearance, resembling something between a stag and a lioness. Moving closer, she noticed the creature doing the same. Both of them the same expression of curiosity. Belle began to see the gold fur ; a pair of delicate coral antlers emerging from the creatures temples and forehead, creating bone like lace; white speckles decorated its face like constellations. brown eyes just like Belle. It was then she realized, in comparison to the creature, it was not just mirroring Belle’s movements, Belle was staring at a vision of herself, as if enchanted like the Beast.
A shadow began to emerge from behind the vision of the of Belle. A familiar shaped one, that of the Beast’s.Turning to meet him, only for Belle to find herself not in her room or a forest she imagined the “painting” would show, instead she was in a ballroom. Golden, filled with phantom dancers and guests, before her was not the Beast, but a man.
“My, my, my. I was told there was a golden hind in my halls, I had to come and see for myself. And here I find you”. His voice was low, not an animalistic growl, but an all too human timber. She stood face to face with the fairy tale prince of dark desires, ones that Belle rarely acknowledged.
His wigged and powdered face glowed like a pale moon, drawing the invisible lines of his handsome face. Light blushes highlighted the brow and cheekbones of his royal barring. Drawn on his lips, was a sweet bow, painted in rouge. The paint on his eyes were almost like petals, but more like feathers, peacock, that made his blue eyes glow brighter. He wore a of midnight blue, with pearls beaded like stars and a waistcoat embroidered with golden roses.
Almost as if his eyes were mirrors for her, Belle could see how he saw her. Wigged and powdered as he was, but weaved into the tresses and locks were sprigs of honeysuckle and poppies, and she was crowned with small cursive hind horns. Her face painted, across her nose and cheeks, with sunshine gold, dappled with white spots markings of a doe, while her eyes and lips were shining gold. She was dressed in a golden gown, decorated with patterns of roses and pearls.
Suddenly, the music began. The prince took a step forward to Belle, his hand snaked its way around her waist, pulling her closer to him. As if Belle’s body moved without her command, her feet moving in sequence with his. Taking her hand in his, moving into a waltz.
Spinning and whirling, prince moved his body closer to hers, enough for a whisper of a kiss. “Hunting a creature such as you is like a flame bringing life to my body.” Now he was sounding like Gaston.
“I don’t like being compared to a creature of hunt.”
“But you are something rarely seen, mythical really. A beautiful golden hind, whom I must give into urges and chase.”
“If I am a golden hind, that make you a bird of prey or a foppish peacock.”
“What creature would you desire me to be?” He dipped her low.
Before Belle could answer, she found herself lowered, by the prince’s arms, onto a soft fur surface. Both were now stripped of their clothes and wigs, that continued to dance without Belle and her Prince in them, before falling to ballroom floor. The prince above her, one hand cradling the base of her neck, the other on her hip, pulling her legs apart. Above him, autumn leaves painted on the ceiling.
He lowered his lips to meet Belle’s. His kisses felt strange and wonderful, what she always imagined would feel like and how they were described in books and poems. The prince's kisses began slow and small, becoming more urgent, demanding, and intimate as his tongue gently parted her lips, exploring her mouth. Something, that was not even herself, or something that was that was instinctively in her arms around him, pulling his weight into her. Her back arched. His lips moving to her chin, descending to her clavicle, against her bare breasts. His hips beginning to move hers and she began to match their slow and languid rhythm.
Once she caught up to his rhythm, now feeling something against her stomach, but would be all too familiar to him. His cock staring at her, laying in the valley of her stomach, flaccid and hard. Belle had seen medical diagrams of manhoods and again the memories of the hot summers when men and young boys would go swimming in the river.
Belle felt a series of soft nips and pressure on the back of her neck, as her Prince continued to brush his lips against hers. Her eyes fluttering closed with as he entered her, the inward spiral of pleasure beginning.
She still felt that spiral, as the weight left her, and seemed to be behind her. And suddenly, Belle found herself on her hands and knees, on a forest ground. A clawed hand at her breast, a gentle but massive weight on her lower back. The ghost of fur covered her body. But none that mattered as the spiral continued, feeling teeth sweetly nipping at her neck, shoulders, and ears. Pressing the back of her head against a chest, walled with thick fur, she knew it was the Beast.
The slight turn of her head and Belle found herself on the bed again, with her Prince atop her. A turn again and she was with her Beast. It happened again and again, each time, the turns and rhythm of the Prince and Beast, matching the same speed. Belle could do nothing but move with the waves of pleasure.
And then she woke in her room.
Belle looked down between her legs, finding the books she was reading closed, pushing up the valley where her legs met. Once completely awake and dressing, trying to forget the dream, Belle picked up Midsummer. Maybe he would enjoy it, she mused.