From This Day Forward
by misscam
Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my words.
Author's Note: For the Siths, who make the dark side quite, quite fun.
II
To have and to hold
II
He's hers, Snow keeps thinking. It is a possessive thought, but one she feels entitled to. He is her husband (twice now), her lover, her prince, her Charming. He's hers in a way she cannot articulate as well, like an instinct that makes her hands reach out to take his without thinking and makes her heart beat more strongly when he is near.
She is his in the same way, she knows. They are equal in this, as they are in so many other things. She can see it in his gaze and feel it in his touches, and most importantly she just knows in the same way she knows him now. She is his, and he is hers, and they are together.
The whole kingdom knows it now, now that they have married so publicly and officially, but she knows they've belonged to each other for far longer than that. Perhaps even since she hit him with a rock and he trapped her in a net, and they were both knocked out and caught.
So here they are. Snow White and Prince Charming. Husband and wife. She still remembers the fantasies she had as a young girl about the man she would marry, an abstract idea of an innocent, chaste sort of love.
This isn't innocent and this isn't chaste. This is love, but it is also lust and need and want, to have and to hold him for all the days of her life.
Snow does both; has him and holds him, over and over and yet always desiring more. They're still in the honeymoon stage, after all. It's to be expected, surely, that they can't get enough of each other.
The council table is slightly unexpected though, she has to admit that. But he kept giving her looks during the meeting, his eyes warm and his gaze brushing her skin in a way that made her long for him to touch her. He kept smiling too, every time she glanced at him, his lips curving upwards and making her want to feel his lips curve against hers.
So here they are, Charming pressed against the table and her lips pressed against his, and if anyone who were at the meeting is now questioning what 'private deliberations' she and Charming have to do after everyone else was dismissed, she does not care. All she cares about is having him, here and now and on the table if need be.
He is smiling into the kiss as if pleased by her impatience, his hands at her back pressing her against him. They're still fully clothed, he in his leather doublet and she in a dress, but she can feel the warmth of his body nevertheless. Her fingertips are itching for the smoothness of his skin, though, so she moves her hand to the back of his neck. It allows her to feel his skin and press him closer at the same time, and he makes a soft moan in appreciation.
She loves the height of him, how he bends down to kiss her, but tip-toeing to kiss him is starting to get uncomfortable. He seems to notice, because he suddenly turns them both, pressing her against the table before lifting her up on it. He moves to stand between her legs, and she brushes her knees against his side.
"Snow," he murmurs against her lips as she parts them, her name a caress and a term of affection both. She sighs his name into his mouth in return, feeling his hands settle on her hips to hold her steady while they kiss and kiss and kiss.
She loves kissing him; loves the pressure of his full lips against hers, the heat of his mouth when she deepens the kiss, the way he angles his head and his tongue brushes her when he deepens the kiss, the sound he makes and the sound he lures out of her, and the way it makes her feel. With a kiss, he can make her feel loved, feel wanted, feel comforted, feel desirable, feel desirious, feel like his Snow, feel like he is her Charming.
He does that now, drawing moans from her as he kisses her passionately and she arches into him. His hands move to cup her face as he pulls away slightly, his lips hovering so close to hers that his strained breath brushes her lips.
"Snow," he says again, huskily this time, making her toes curl.
It's going to have to be on the table, she decides. She can't bear the thought of trying to get to their chambers while pretending they aren't seconds away from tearing each other's clothes off.
"Charming," she says, her fingers already fumbling with the laces of his leather doublet.
"Here?" he asks, as if her fingers aren't betraying her answer already.
"Here," she confirms, and he kisses her again, nibbling at her lips while she works her way through his laces. She takes the opportunity to stroke her knuckles against the skin of his chest every time she hooks a finger into the laces, longing to press her whole palm against his skin.
Finally she can let the leather doublet fall to the floor, leaving only his thin shirt as a layer. It is a new one, she notices, probably because they never found his other shirt yesterday after she tore it off him while he backed her up against a tree. (That was a good afternoon, she remembers, just her and Charming on a bed of grass and wrapped in sunlight.)
He lifts his arms as she curls her fingers around the hem of his shirt, breaking the kiss briefly to allow her to pull it up and off. Then his mouth is hot against her neck, sucking lightly on her flesh. She tilts her head slightly backwards, closing her eyes to the sensation and trusting him to keep her sitting up with his hands while hers roam his skin.
His chest is smooth under her palms, muscled and toned from his life as a shepherd and then as a fighter. He is strong, but it is the strength in him that makes him so willing to be gentle and openly loving that marks him apart. He uses his muscles to defend and protect, just as he does his heart, and she loves that in him.
His mouth is warm against her skin as he continues with a trail of kisses across any inch of exposed skin, then moves up her neck.
"Lie down," he whispers against her ear, pressing kisses along the shell. "Lie down, Snow."
She has no idea what he intends, but she trusts him. Gently, she lowers herself on the table with his hands for support. Her knees are still at the edge of the table, but he makes no move to shift her further onto the table so her legs are not dangling in the air. No. Instead he gives her a wicked smile, and then he is kneeling and ducking underneath her dress.
Oh. He's done this to her before so she isn't entirely shocked. The days and nights they spent at the summer palace leading to a lot of interesting discoveries of how to bring pleasure to each other. His mouth on her does it for her, she now knows very well, and her mouth is already dry with anticipation as he pulls her underwear off and then pulls her closer. Gently, he moves her legs further apart and lets them rest on his shoulders.
She knows what's coming, and bites her lip. She still can't quite hold back the moan as his thumbs stroke her inner thigh, and she can feel his breath between her legs. It sends a minor jolt through her, making her muscles clench, and then even more as his fingers brush just there and her breath catches.
She has no time to exhale either, as he kisses the inside of her thigh while his fingers keep brushing, light as a feather and maddeningly teasing. She scrapes her fingers across the wood of the table without even thinking as he continues, as if trying to hold on to something. She can hear her own breath, ragged and uneven, mixing with soft noises and then a sharp gasp as he slips two fingers inside her and holds still.
He loves doing this to her, she knows, imagining his expression right now without any problems. It will be loving, determined and with just a hint of pride in knowing he can do this to her. She would kiss that pride right off his face if she didn't know she feels the same when he is lost to her touch.
He presses a loving kiss against her skin, his thumb beginning slow strokes across her skin as his fingers begin moving slowly in and out. She tries to press against his fingers as much as she can, wanting, wanting and not quite getting. It's maddening, so much pleasure and yet wanting more, wanting to be overwhelmed by it and afloat in it.
Her heartbeat feels like thunder, a rhythm Charming's fingers seem to almost follow. Faster and faster, and with his thumb drawing circles, the sensations in her head becoming a roar.
"Charming!"she breathes, her voice breaking as she arches upwards and then falls back, and falls and falls and falls.
She's dimly aware of him standing up again, looking down at her with an expression that does nothing to help her regain her breath. It makes her wonder how she looks to him, her hair spread around her on the table, her dress now a rumbled mess, her cheeks burning and her lips feeling swollen. But he smiles as if he finds it a beautiful sight, leaning down to kiss her softly.
"I love you," he whispers, snaking his arms around her and helping her sit up before kissing her again. "Let's go upstairs."
"No," she says, her voice low and throaty even to her.
"No?" he repeats, his forehead furrowing in confusion.
"I said 'here'," she reminds him, and his pupils dilate wonderfully. "Here, Charming."
"Oh, Snow," he says, his eyes caressing her and his hands slipping down her back and underneath her ass. "You're going to be the wonderful, amazing death of me."
Before she can protest that, he is kissing her and lifting her up. She links her legs around him as he turns around, then sits down on the table where she was just lying. On his lap like this, she can feel the hard bulge in his pants pressing against her, and she grinds into him in response.
He groans into the kiss, tugging at her dress impatiently. She has to help him slip it down enough to reach her breasts, and she can feel him growl in frustration at the sight of her corset underneath. Still, he does the best he can, cupping through cloth and drawing his thumb across the exposed skin at the top of her breasts.
"I'm going to ban corsets," he murmurs against her lips, and she laughs. "What good is being a prince if you can't ban a frustrating contraption that keeps the wonderful breasts of your wife away from you?"
"Mmmm," she giggles, as his mouth wanders down to said breasts. "Only if I can ban something as well?"
"What's that?" he asks, the sound slightly muffled by her skin. His mouth moves across the exposed skin of her breasts, and she gasps as he bites lightly, then kisses the mark of his teeth away.
"Leather pants," she says, grinding against him again while her hands move down to the waistline of his leather pants. He makes a noise as if he agrees, and she kisses him at that, demanding and hot, and wanting, so very wanting.
She has no shame in wanting him. He is hers, hers, hers; a thrilling, possessive thought that she allows herself to indulge and act on. She has always believed in taking action, after all. If she wants her husband, she will have him.
He makes a soft noise of protest as she breaks the kiss to stand up, following her.
"Stay," she tells him firmly, pressing a hard kiss against his lips for emphasis. He grins, but indulges her, remaining still as she pulls on his leather pants. When she succeeds in pulling them down, she makes a soft noise of triumph and hears his breath catch at that. He watches, licking his lips lightly as she pulls his underwear down too.
"Sit," she tells him, and he smiles at the regal tone. Slowly, he sits down on the table and she lifts a hand to touch his already hard manhood. He growls at that, biting his lip as she touches him softly. As always, the combination of hard and soft feels like him, her Charming in her hands.
He is panting by the time she's drawn her hand up and down the length of him a few times, leaning backwards on his arms with his head falling slightly backwards and his eyes closed. He looks wonderfully, wonderfully lost, and she can feel a twitch of pleasure between her legs at the sight of him.
She lifts her dress up as she climbs up on the table, bracing herself with a knee on either side of his thighs .He opens his eyes as he sits up, lifting one hand to her back to help brace her and one hand at her waist. He is hard underneath her as she uses her hands to angle him him, lowering herself inch by inch until he's hard inside her.
He cups her face and bends his head to kiss her as she lifts herself up, then sinks down on him; they both moan at the sensation. He keeps kissing her as she keeps moving, occasionally grinding when he's as deep inside her as she can get him. She imagines her knees will be bruised from the hard table by the time they're done, but she does not care. He opens his eyes as he sits up, lifting one hand to her back to help brace her and one hand. All she cares about is his chest pressing against hers (though she has to agree with him, corsets should be banned and might be from now on), lips caressing hers, his body underneath hers, the feeling of him inside her; having him.
He seems content to let her set the pace, kissing her and caressing her while she moves. As her breath becomes pants, he moves his hand to her back to steady her, slipping the other underneath her dress to brush lightly every time she lowers herself fully. She gets her own though, clenching her muscles around him more and more frequently, biting down on his lower lip as his hand on her back presses her against him hard. He's close, she knows, so very close, but then, so is she.
He clings to her, breathing hard to keep control as his thumb circles her most sensitive spot over and over, and only when her head slips to his shoulder and she bites into his skin to keep from crying out, does he shudder and his hips jerk beneath hers.
She presses her head against his shoulder as he holds her and they both breathe heavily. Finally, she lifts her head to see him smile lovingly at her and brush strands of her hair behind her ear.
They must be quite a sight, she imagines. Charming naked with his clothes scattered around, she still in her dress but with it pulled down to her waist and her corset exposed and both of them sitting on the council table.
"What was that about?" he asks softly.
"Are you complaining?" she teases.
"Noooo," he says, giving her one of those smiles that makes it very, very hard not to kiss him. "But I love you, Snow. If something worries you, I would like to know."
She nods, pressing her hands against his chest and feeling his heartbeat against her palm. As always, it seems to beat in sync with hers. She knows now that her heart cannot be whole without his, and she lowers her head to press a kiss against his skin.
"I need to know I have you," she whispers, feeling his lips brush against her forehead.
"What?" he asks, as she lifts her head to meet his gaze.
"I've almost lost you so many times," she says. "I know you're mine. I just... I just need to remind myself sometimes that I still have you."
"Snow," he says lovingly, kissing her with aching tenderness. "I love you. You have me. I am yours, Snow. In body as in heart. To have and to hold."
She knows. He is hers; she has him. That's the problem. It's not enough to have had him. She has to have him. It cannot become past tense. It must stay infinite. She cannot lose him or she will lose herself.
"To have and to hold," she agrees, and kisses him back.
"On the other hand," he whispers, his expression almost boyish, "if you need frequent reminders of that..."
"Mmm?" she says, biting down on her lip and looking up at him through lowered eyelids.
"I will definitely not complain," he says teasingly, and she kisses him while wondering if they're actually going to make it off this table at all.
They do in the end; they make it to a chair.