Prompt: Snowing Cinderella&Thomas' wedding driving each other crazy with subtle touches...
"This was a bad, bad idea," she says after finally catching her breath.
Behind her, holding her, Charming shifts. "I wouldn't so much call it an idea as a simultaneous and mutual losing of minds. And I wouldn't call it bad… more like mind-blowingly good."
When she turns to look at him, his smile is satisfied, if sleepy, and she wonders at his continued unfailing ability to make everything dirty even when he looks about ready for a nap.
Playfully, she slaps at his bicep.
"You know what I meant," she laughs, surveying the room, the wreckage they'd bestowed upon it. "Our dressing room," she sighs.
At this, he looks around too. "Huh. This was tidy once, wasn't it?"
"Forty-five minutes ago it was. And then…"
She wouldn't have figured he could have managed it, but his smile goes even more smug, and she can practically see the memories playing through his mind. "Ah, and then. My favourite part of any story."
She snorts, pulling herself up to stand. "You enjoy some rather inappropriate stories," she comments, looking around the room. She moves to straighten a frame on the wall, then does a double take.
"Wait…" she says, confused, looking across the room at the disaster that has become her vanity table, pointing at it. "We started on there… when did we end up against the wall?"
He shrugs, innocently. "I needed more leverage."
She would never have imagined a smile could be risque, but his manages it.
And actually, now that he's said it, she vaguely remembers him picking her up off the table, damn near sprinting across the room with her in his arms, and slamming her up against the wall.
She can feel herself flushing at the memory, and tries to play it off by being flip. "My vanity wasn't support enough for you?"
"When it comes to you, my dear, nothing's ever enough for me." He smirks at her, gaze sharpening. "Though you must admit, getting you up higher than me worked out nicely."
She's fairly sure someone turned up the heat on her again. Also pretty sure that a certain blue-eyed prince is responsible, and she glares at him.
"Don't you be thinking things again! Not now… we're going to be late, and we cannot be late to Ella and Thomas's wedding."
He glances out towards the window. "We're not going to be late. We've got three hours before we need to set out for their castle."
Damn if his ability to tell time by the sun's position in the sky won't ever cease to make her jealous.
She laughs, lightly, teasing. "It's their wedding, Charming. Formal. Have you any idea how long it takes a woman to ready herself for a royal ball? Hours. And that's without having to somehow figure out a way to tame sex hair."
He stares at her, honestly bewildered. "But you're beautiful, right now."
Well, damn it.
Now she has to kiss him again.
—-
"That was your fault," she insists, desperately, as she fiercely scrubs at her skin in a tub full of barely lukewarm water. "The time before that too. And now we're really late."
"Excuse me?" he laughs incredulously, having no trouble at all deciphering what his wife was talking about. "My darling, you jumped me."
"I wouldn't have had to if you weren't always saying things."
"Saying things?"
"Pretty things. Things that make my clothes fall off. Or, if the clothes are already off, make me jump on top of you. Again. Ergo, your fault."
He wonders if being so completely delighted by one's wife one hundred percent of the time is a usual hallmark for marriage, and then decides that his is just special.
"Snow," he declares, "the vanity was mutual. I take full responsibility and delighted pride in transferring it to the wall. The floor, that was all you. In fact, most of the time, it's all you."
She stands up, pulling herself out of the tub and wrapping a bath sheet around herself in near the same motion, mock glaring at him. "Is that what you think?"
He's smug about it. "It's what I know."
She smirks at him, challenging. "Any interest in a wager on that?"
His eyebrow raises, already interested. "How exactly could we bet on that?"
She seems pleased with herself, which worries him, and she slinks right up against him, stealthy as a cat, places a kiss to the scar on his jaw, works her way up to his ear, sliding her lips up his jawline all the while, then whispers to him, their own little secret. "Simple. We spend tonight seeing which of the two of us is better at resisting the other. How did you just put it? 'Jumped'? Whoever 'jumps' the other first when we make it back here after the wedding loses."
He feels a shiver go down his spine, hopes she didn't notice, knows she does. "But what will I win?"
She laughs easily, noticing the wording. "The winner gets whatever they want, of course."
He is rather loving the sound of this.
"Terms? Am I allowed to touch you? Kiss you?"
She smiles at him coquettishly, pulling in her bottom lip to bite. "Of course. How could I torture you without being able to touch you?"
He shakes his head at her fondly. "And how 'far' is this touching allowed to go?"
She hums, thinking about it. "Sensual is acceptable. Sexual is admitting defeat."
Damn if that's not a succinct way of putting it.
"Well then, my dear," he murmurs, stroking a hand down her neck and across her collarbone. "Let the games begin."
—-
He thinks, maybe, one day, eventually, he will learn that playing games with his wife is never as easy as he imagines it's going to be.
He figures that out pretty quickly as he waits for her at the bottom of the grand staircase in their castle, and when she finally emerges, he's concerned his jaw may drop.
No one had warned him that her wearing a strapless gown was an option.
She's gorgeous. Her gown is a light purple, a colour he'd never seen her wear before and knows immediately he wants to see her wear again and again. The jewellery to match is lovely, slightly more subtle than the elaborate pieces she'd worn to their own wedding, but beautiful in its own way. Her hair is done up in a complicated updo, her make-up light and romantic. She's glowing, and he knows that's all her, all natural, her delight in the occasion and her life and the game she's playing with him tonight. It makes her stunning.
Fairest of them all.
He thinks the fact that he wants her already might not bode well for him.
She tilts her head, innocently, as if she didn't know how he was feeling, as if she hadn't spent the last hour and a half preparing to torture him with every tool she has in her arsenal, and her extraordinary beauty is definitely one of them.
"Ready to go, Charming?"
He smiles at her, genuine and real, taking a split second away from the game. "Not quite yet," he murmurs, reaching for her gloved hand, placing a kiss upon it. "You are the most beautiful thing I will ever see."
She looks down, almost shy, just for a moment, before looking back up at him. "You don't clean up too badly yourself."
He grins.
"Now I'm ready to go."
—-
It is, she thinks, a painful sort of torture.
She always was her own worst enemy.
They've made it to their friends' wedding, somehow on time, Charming watching the sun as its setting light shone through the carriage, lightly squeezing her knee every time he told her they still had time to spare.
She supposes it could have been construed as a reassuring gesture. By someone who wasn't her, that is, and by someone who wasn't playing a wildly inappropriate, rather dangerous game with their husband.
They both play it completely innocent during the ceremony, by unspoken rule and agreement. He wraps an arm around her just as Ella is saying her vows, and with tears in her eyes, she leans her head on his shoulder. It's a rather blatant public display of affection, especially for a visiting royal couple, but people the kingdoms over had long ago come to accept the rather unusual appearance of a couple who were so madly in love they didn't make any effort to hide it.
Ella and Thomas are happy. The wedding ceremony is perfect. And as is only appropriate, she and her husband are both on their best behaviour the entire time.
The ball following, however, is another story. There are dances to be danced, and other royals and nobles whom they must interact with, but for the most part, they are able to spend the evening side-by-side, subtly torturing each other.
She realizes pretty quickly that Charming's going to be pulling out all the stops, when he leans over while she's in the middle of a discussion with Prince Eric, to whisper in her ear asking if she wants a drink.
Perfectly innocent. Chivalrous, even.
Except he's managed to get their bodies angled whereby her own blocks much of Eric's view of Charming, making it all to easy for her husband to pull her ear lobe between his lips and lightly, so gently, give it a bite.
She hopes Eric doesn't notice when she has to close her eyes to keep herself together.
She knows Charming notices when she's just slightly shaky in her nod of thanks.
He's going to have to pay for that one.
—-
Torture can be exquisite too. The eviler, the better.
The royals attending the wedding have all joined together for a traditional, highly complicated dance, that sends them all spinning in circles around each other, rotating partners as the chords of the music repeat. The key to the dance is that married or betrothed couples are never each other's partner in the dance, but are always near each other anyway, frequently ending up dancing back-to-back.
It is meant to be a playful way of teasing one's romantic partner, by showing off all one's 'other' potential suitors.
He's always hated it, and Snow knows that.
So the fact that she somehow keeps figuring out ways to touch him during each rotation of partners, a slide of her body against his here, a stroke of her hand there…
Well.
Exquisite torture, indeed.
She's dancing with Thomas now, just after her boldest move yet - somehow getting the timing right to place a kiss to his jaw without breaking the dance up at all. He can see the younger man laughing, blatantly amused, and Thomas must feel his gaze, for he looks over and winks.
Snow looks over too, Thomas clearly having just said something, and when they make eye contact, she smiles, teasing, then blows him a kiss.
He can only shake his head at them both, impossibly fond.
—-
She curls her feet with his as they eat.
He places a hand on her leg and leaves it there for the duration of their five course meal, occasionally squeezing. He thinks that eating it all one-handed is quite the feat.
She keeps leaning over, giving him light, deceptively innocent kisses to the scar on his jaw, which she knows - and regularly shamelessly exploits - is a weak spot for him.
He gets his though, kissing her ear, her neck, her collarbone, and her fabulously exposed to him shoulders. (He knew he'd figure out a way to turn her strapless gown against her eventually).
At this point, he's pretty sure the entire royal table is laughing at them, amused. The wine and alcohol are flowing, the times are happy, and everyone present is under a rather cheerful buzz. Everyone notices that Snow White and Prince James can't keep their hands off each other, and still, no one cares.
He's pretty sure Snow might have even told Ella what was going on between them, judging from the young, innocent princess's wide-eyed stares. She seems more entertained than anyone else, and he's quite happy to put on a show.
But then Snow reaches to wrap his arm around his shoulders, begins stroking her fingers through the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, gently scratching her nails around his neck too, in random patterns.
It feels absurdly good.
And also, the gesture is so insanely sensual, so beautiful, so her, that he feels like he's at risk of losing then and there, witnesses be damned.
He doesn't know what to do about that.
—-
They dance some more.
No longer choreographed, elaborate dances either. There is no more rotating of partners, no more customs or traditions that must be adhered to.
Just music, and swaying couples, and her in his arms.
If he's got her pulled in tighter to his body than would usually be acceptable in public, what of it?
The party is winding down anyway, and there are not nearly as many people left there to see.
She looks so happy, content in his arms, and as always, he feels almost overcome by how desperately he loves her, and how much he always, always needs her to know it.
"I love you," he murmurs.
She smiles at him with heavy lidded eyes. "Oh, I know."
At this, he has to laugh.
—-
They make it home very late in the night, closer to sunrise than midnight, having taken their time saying good-bye to Ella and Thomas, expressing their congratulations. The carriage ride back is long but easy, and Snow spends the entirety of it perched in his lap, wrapped in his arms, her head on his shoulder. Like that, they are both able to doze, even sitting up, and it's enough sleep for them both that when their driver awakens them at their castle doors, they are both, quickly, wide awake.
They slip away to their chambers quietly and with little fanfare, neither of them wanting to overwhelm the workers of the castle with their late return. She looks into a mirror, begins pulling pins out of her hair, shaking out her curls as she does it, until her hair flows free and wild.
He has to look away, wanting her.
He turns into their dressing room to strip away his formal wear, handle it carefully, while Snow disappears into their washroom.
He can't resist looking around the room, smiling satisfied at the mess that they hadn't had the chance to tidy yet. The memory alone is enough to make him want her again, desperately, and he wonders at how he's going to break her before he breaks himself, which feels dangerously close to happening.
He changes into a pair of basic black pants, doesn't bother with a shirt at all, and returns to their bedroom, just as Snow is exiting the washroom.
He knows his jaw hits the floor this time.
She is wearing a slip the exact colour her gown had been, the same light purple that had floored him earlier. If anything, it's a slightly lighter shade, mockingly innocent, for the silky, lace outlined garment is tiny, hardly covering her at all. Miles, and miles of her milky skin are perfectly visible to his hungry stare.
And she's not even paying attention to him at all, as she looks around the room, walks right past him to peer into their destroyed dressing room.
"Have you seen my dressing robe?" she asks, innocently. "I was thinking I'd go down to the kitchens, I feel like cocoa."
He shakes his head, mute.
She looks down at herself, her barely covered body, then shrugs. "Well, no one else is awake in the castle right now anyway."
She turns towards the door.
She doesn't make it two steps.
"Oh, hell no," he proclaims, as he runs to make a grab for her, allowing his momentum to propel them both towards the door, his body pinning hers against it. He reaches for her face, directing it towards his own, not difficult considering their bodies are as close, as intertwined as is humanly possible without actually being connected.
Which, you know, he intends to progress to as soon as possible.
He kisses her, passionate, demanding, hands already pulling at the straps of her slip, leaving no doubt as to what his intent is.
"Uh," she pants once he finally abandons her lips to work his way down her neck to her chest. "For the record, this means you lost."
"Screw it," he mutters from the valley between her breasts, allowing himself to flashback for just a second to losing a swordfight to her not all that long ago. "Losing to you tends to work out well for me anyway."
"Mmm," she hums in agreement. "I like to make it - ah - worth it for you. You should lose more often. I promise to reward you for it."
He swears his brain goes offline completely, and suddenly getting all remaining clothes off as quickly as possible seems a fantastic idea.
"Huh," she mutters, still too capable of speech for his liking, as she watches him desperately pull off his pants. "We going vertical again?"
"Yeah, we're not making it to the bed."
—-
Bed comes hours later, her body sprawled over his, sated. He's still kissing her, her hair, her forehead, any part of her beautiful face he can reach.
"You know," he murmurs after placing a kiss to her left ear. I believe you have a prize to demand."
She smiles, so satisfied. "Yes, I believe I do."
He chuckles, low and deep. "Are you going to let me in on that little secret?"
"Mmhmm," she murmurs, turning in his arms to rest her head on his chest. "Tomorrow, we're going back to the Enchanted Forest."
That throws him.
"And what, may I ask, are we going to do there?"
She bites her bottom lip, peers up at him through her lashes, deceptively innocent. "We're going to go back to where we first lay eyes on each other, that part of the trail where you tackled me from a horse and you were oh so shocked to find that I was a girl. And I'm going to ride you there, proving to you exactly how much of a woman I am. And then, once I've had my fill of you, I'm going to lie back, and let you take me, however you want me, right there in the grass."
He's pretty sure he just swallowed his own tongue.