I wrote a thing.
(Set in the same verse as Sacrifice and Inuring, where Rumplestiltskin asks for something a bit more…special than a housekeeper, and Belle trades her freedom, and her body, to the Dark One. There’s a non-con warning for the series as a whole, but not for this particular ficlet.)
Belle thought Rumplestiltskin couldn’t hear her grief, but he did. The castle stones whispered to him of brave facades that crumbled in the shadows of her room; of hours spent in baths too hot for her fragile skin to bear; of bedclothes spattered with tears and blood.