True Love Doesn't Just Do Kissing
(or Five Times Snow and Charming Made Up For Lost Time (and How))
Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my words.
Author's Note: Set after 2x09.
II
True love, the fairytales tell of. True love's kiss, and end it there with happily ever after, not specifying exactly what that entails because fairytales are often told to children and it's just easier not to get into the birds and the bees.
But true love doesn't just do kissing, that's the thing. There is a fucking lot of birds and bees also. Especially with Snow White and Prince Charming.
II
The first time after twenty-eight years, they've barely wished Emma and Henry a good night and seen them both walk upstairs before Snow literally jumps him as he turns towards her; her legs lock around his waist, her arms cradle his face and she's kissing him, kissing him with such fervour it's like an onslaught of lips and tongue and he can only respond with equal eagerness.
He has enough presence of mind to close the curtain as he walks (or staggers, more like) them both towards her bed, knowing that bonding with Emma will probably be slightly more awkward if she's seen her parents make out (more than she already has, at least). But honestly. It's been 28 years. Twenty-eight fucking years, and David Nolan and Mary Margaret doesn't count because that was David fucking Nolan and Charming has banished that guy to the dark corners of his mind where bogeymen resides. (But like all bogeymen, still be there to remind him that certain things are wise to be feared least you become like them.)
David Nolan hurt the woman he loves, after all. The woman now biting down on his lower lip, making soft moans into his mouth and not letting go as he lets himself fall ungracefully backwards onto the bed. Snow White. Snow. Snow. He wants to caress her name into every part of her skin, because it's been twenty-eight years for her cursed with another name and though she might not mind their daughter and others still using it, but he also wants her to remember years of being loved with this name.
"Snow," he breathes into her, and she laughs a little against his lips. Not because it's funny, he knows, because he knows all the sounds of her by now. Just laughing for joy, as he is smiling for it. She's home. She's Snow and he's Charming and they've found each other again (as always) and fuck everything else right now, because he's going to damn well have sex with his wife right now.
She puts her hands on either side of his face, pressing them into the mattress, her nose brushing against his every time she dips her head down to kiss him lightly, teasing him while she works the buttons on his shirt.
His hands has already found the hem of her dress, just waiting for an opening, and as she pulls up to look at him fondly, he gets it, pulling the dress off in one relatively smooth motion (with a little help from her, at least). The rest of the clothes are shed with equal lack of ceremony (and far less grace) and then he is pressing her into the mattress, kissing her neck while her fingers trace his shoulders and arms and his fingers have moved down to caress her just there.
"Charming!" she says in a ragged breath, biting a little into his shoulder when he doesn't let up and bucking a little; he moves his head to kiss the noises she makes, her teeth scarping against his bottom lip. She mouths his name again and he smiles at the feel of it.
Charming, she named him. It still clings to him, carved into his bones the way James never was. James was the brother's name he took to pretend, Charming was the name he was given and made his. It feels like him when she says it, and feels like he is hers too.
And she is his, and he relishes in the possessiveness of the thought; all the shepherd ever wanted, after all. Love and a family. He has that. He has her, and he puts his hands on her hips and presses his forehead against hers as he slides into her.
David fucking Nolan read romantic novels and offers up some flowery metaphors in the back of his mind for how it feels; they all feel like words when this is skin and flesh and Snow and Charming and twenty-eight years to make up for and words, words won't do right now.
Snow seems to feel the same, already moving against him and drawing his tongue into her mouth also; she never was one to be passive or lie back and think of the Enchanted Forest (as she once told him she had been adviced by someone who was clearly an idiot or knew some really idiotic men). He loves that in her as he loves everything else, sometimes so much it seems to fill him and make room for nothing else.
It's no wonder true love can leave you empty without it, he tries not to think and fails; kissing her and fucking her a little desperately when he can't get the thought out of his head.
It's not the best sex they have ever had in the end. Too much need and impatience and intensity, both of them so desperate for it that it is almost too overwhelming. It's a little savage, to be honest. Twenty-eight years without the feel of her nipples against his chest, the way she clenches her muscles around him and laughs into his kiss, the look on her face when she watches him let go, the flush in her cheek when uses his fingers to make her come, the feel of her body against his afterwards. Twenty-eight years and one time alone can't make up for that even as they try.
Not the best sex then, but still - pretty fucking good, as it turns out.
II
The second time, they're still in the aftermath of the first, sweat still clinging to and cooling their skin, lying on their sides and gazing at each other; she moves one leg between his and he lifts the other over his. She's warm next to him, her eyes bright as she looks at him and it fills him with so much joy he can only bask in it.
He caresses her ear, she tilts her head and kisses him, and he's hard again and pushing into her and she sighs his name; this time he takes all the time in the world until she's tense and panting and he's caressed and kissed every inch of her at least twice. Then, only then does he press his thumb against her clit and thrust a little at the same time; the exclamation she makes as she comes he hasn't heard in twenty-eight years but is determined to hear for the twenty-eight next ones.
II
The second and a half time it's morning and he wakes to her mouth and hands on his dick and he's already hard and fuck, fuck, it's all he can do to dig his fingers into the mattress and clench his jaw not to cry out.
It would be slightly embarrassing to have Emma wake up and assume they are under attack from Regina or something judging by the noise and instead find her mother giving her father a blowjob, after all. Even if it is a fantastic one.
In the end, he does manage to be quiet; Emma still giving them a few looks over the breakfast table that morning as if she doesn't need to have heard anything and can just read it on their faces.
II
The third time it's in the bathroom, both of them drenched and looking like a mess and bursting with adrenaline from yet another Storybrooke crisis dealt with. She is still breathing hard, he's still clutching her hand and when their gazes meet, they pretty much collide together in the eagerness to kiss, properly kiss and not the slightly restrained version they did in front of too many people when they realized the other was safe.
He crashes back against the door, parting his lips as she practically licks into him, demanding and slightly breathless. He manages to locate the doorknob with his left hand behind him to lock it, the other hand against her back to steady her.
"Shower," she murmurs, tilting her head and changing the angle of the kiss while at it. Right. Shower. They went in here to have a shower before there is yet more to deal with and people are waiting for them and shower, shower is good.
It would be most efficient to just stop kissing for a few moments and remove their clothes on their own, but efficient must bow to need and instead they fumble each other's clothes off piece by piece, almost falling over more than once and breaking the kiss as little as possible.
He's not losing her again. But at the same time he loves her too much as Snow White, who charges into danger right along with him. He's always going to be eternally frustrated between wanting to see her safe and wanting her to be just who she is, he knows, and suspects it's exactly the same for her.
Essentially they're both fucked, he concludes. Wouldn't have it any other way either.
He lifts her up as the last piece of clothing falls to the floor, managing to get them both into the shower. She turns the water on a bit clumsily; it's far too hot and and neither cares. As she slides down his body to get on her own feet, he groans, especially when she pauses to stroke the length of him with both hands.
Sheep, he thinks determinedly, a very un-sexy thought. Ogres. Wraiths. Dragons. Ogre sheep. Ogre wraith dragon sheep. Yes. Ogre wraith dragon sheep terrorizing the land and being stopped by Snow and himself, she using a bow and... Fuck. That's way too much of a sexy thought and he groans.
Snow smiles when he kisses her, lifting her hands to his shoulders as he puts on on her back to steady her and uses the other to lift her left leg. She steadies herself against the wall as well as he buries himself in her in one slow motion, the water still drenching them both.
They did it in the rain once, he remembers. Back in the Enchanted Forest one day when they were out riding and were surprised by a sudden downpour. She laughed, he remembers, soaked to the skin in a priceless dress, so beautiful to him because he couldn't care less about the dress and couldn't love her more if he tried.
They didn't stop until the rain was over, he also remembers; this time they don't even stop when the hot water runs out.
II
The fourth time it's night and he wakes from a nightmare to find Snow already kissing him, as if true love's kiss can take away the aftereffects of curses too. A candle is burning on the nightstand as well, and it makes him smile against her lips.
"Snow," he murmurs affectionately, moving a hand to her breast and feeling her nipple harden at the touch. As he rubs his thumb against it, she presses her body closer to his.
Under the blankets like this, it's always felt just like them, he remembers. Whatever outside, the castle or the forest or now Storybrooke, this is just him and her and as little space as possible between them.
She clutches his hair when he lowers his head to kiss her stomach first, moving downwards and drawing a circle on her inner thigh with his tongue. He doesn't get to do more before she pulls his head up again, kissing him and locking her legs around him.
They make love almost lazily this time, him only getting slightly frantic at the end and even then she captures his hands over his head and doesn't let him push her along. It's just him and her bright, bright eyes watching him as he can't hold it any longer.
The only emotion he feels then is a strange sort of stillness, like the eye of the storm in the torrent that is love and lust and life.
It passes, as all lulls do.
II
The fourth and a half time is her body underneath his and his fingers and mouth on her flushed skin and hot flesh until she comes, her eyes closing as she does.
Lashes like ebony too, he thinks, moving back to the space next to her. She puts her head on his shoulder, he puts his hand on her back and they fall asleep just like that, no space between them.
II
The fifth time actually isn't the fifth, but could have been. It's evening and Snow is getting a few items from the school that Mary Margaret was a teacher at, and he comes along just as she did to the Sheriff's office and they both still do to Emma a great deal (and Henry does to them all).
The school is dark, devoid of life without its children here and a little eerie to walk in. Snow is looking at it all with a slightly strange expression, and he squeezes her hand in his lightly as they walk into the classroom that made up Mary Margaret's office.
"Were you happy here?" he asks.
"Mary Margaret did love teaching," she says, an answer and yet not quite. "It was everything else she struggled with."
"Something missing," he says, and she nods. David Nolan felt that too, that sense of so much being a struggle he would constantly lose, something missing and making everything else wrong. "I'm sorry."
She looks up at him. "For what?"
"For David Nolan," he says, and she lets go of his hand to touch his cheek instead.
"Don't," she says simply, kissing him for emphasis. If it's forgiveness or telling him there is nothing to be forgiven, he's not sure, but he is willing to accept it either way.
He manages to locate her desk and sits down on it, placing her between his legs as she keeps kissing him. Slowly and leisurely, almost nibbling at his lips; he lets her direct the pace while he simply rests his hands on her waist.
He finds himself wondering if Mary Margaret had fantasies about doing it with a Prince Charming on her desk, because he is starting to develop a few. With him in the role, of course, the role she has graciously granted him.
Sadly, Henry chooses to pick that moment to walk in and inform them there might be a troll in the school basement and he's sorry for having followed them when he's meant to be home doing homework (despite not look sorry in the least).
There isn't a troll, as it turns out. But there is a lost dog Henry decides to name Troll and Emma isn't happy about at all.
II
The actual fifth time is entirely Emma's fault, leaving them handcuffed to each other and locked up in one of the Sheriff's cells while she's off confronting someone she won't tell them who is.
"Fuck," Snow says, such an unexpected word from both Snow White and Mary Margaret he has to laugh. She gives him a slightly irritated look, clearly wanting to cross her arms but not being able to because of the handcuffs.
"You did say we were not leaving her side despite her very clear insistence she was doing this alone," he points out.
"She's my daughter," Snow says, and he smiles at her.
"Exactly. She's our daughter."
She looks comforted by that for a moment, then her face crumbles a little. "I can't lose her again."
"We won't," he assures her, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and caressing her earlobe gently.
"How are you so calm about this?" she demands.
"Because otherwise I would lose my mind," he says simply. "If I think about losing her or Henry or you... I have to have faith or I would be lost."
"Charming," she says, something between a plea and a caress, and he smiles at her with all the confidence he can muster.
Her kiss is rough as she uses her free hand pull his face down to hers, biting his lower lip slightly. Trying not to think of the danger their daughter may be in, he knows, as he is.
He can't think of what he might lose. He can only think of what he has, and have faith he will always find it again should he lose it.
She straddles him as he sits down on the cell's bed, her short skirt already riding up her thighs slightly. That won't be a problem. Pantyhose and underwear, that might post more of a challenge, but Snow has always had nimble fingers and helps him push them just far enough down. His jeans require a little lifting while she's still across his lap, but he manages and then she lowers herself on him and he's hard inside her and moaning her name against her lips.
She rides him hard, driven and purposely; her kiss demanding and locking him to her as if handcuffs aren't enough. Their hands link too, Snow and Charming and the case of being unable to let go.
As always.
II
When Emma returns an hour later with Henry in tow, Snow accepts none of the apologies Emma doesn't quite offer, and he merely watches, suspecting Emma is going to be just like Snow – with eternal frustration between wanting to keep her safe and wanting her to be just who she is.
That's true love for you. No one ever said it was easy.
(It may still have some perks.)
II
Of course, it doesn't end there, neither the story nor the true love's sex. There is a sixth time too (home), and a seventh (home) and eight (Mayor's office) and ninth (home) and tenth (the Jolly Roger) and on and on, until Charming stops counting but certainly doesn't stop doing, maybe into happily ever after.
A sort of fairytale after all, perhaps.
Just also with the birds and the bees.
FIN