Robin groans and squints his eyes as he turns roughly away from the sun peeking into the otherwise darkened room. The bed is soft and the blankets are heavy, and it's easy to forget his frustration as he burrows into a down pillow, deciding he's not quite ready to wake up and deal with the dull ache at his temples.

He takes a breath and slowly releases it–and that's when he remembers the previous night and his eyes fly open.

Regina–the great and terrible Evil Queen– is laying in the bed beside him with the blankets bunched around her. Her legs are stretched out and uncovered, with one knee bent toward him and her face turned away–and it's only then that he realizes that the night before wasn't just a part of some drunken dream.

The night before exists in flashes of hazy memories–from the moment she walked into the tavern to the seemingly endless drinks they'd shared to the moment they disappeared in a puff of purple smoke. He rolls onto his side, attempting to piece it all together as he props his head up with his hand. A smile draws onto his lips as he feels a sting between his shoulder blades, remembering the way her nails dug into his back as she tried to pull him closer and her legs wrapped around his waist.

He can remember pushing her back against a cool stone wall, thrusting into her as a low growl escaped her–and he remembers the way her breaths became shorter, catching in her throat as her nails sunk deeper into his skin. An orgasm has rippled through her, forcing her nails down his back, clawing as she screamed out–and he can remember the wild look in her eyes as her legs slid down over his hips, her feet only just meeting the floor before she took his hand and led him into her bedchamber.

There'd been a flash of something in her eyes as she'd shoved him roughly back onto the bed, ripping away remaining articles of clothing as she licked her lips and offered him a hungry gaze. Her nails dragged down his chest as she leaned in, licking her way down his torso–a grin edging onto her lips as she teased him–before finally taking his cock into her mouth and sucking him hard again. Her lips had been warm and firm and fingers pressed into his thigh. Her tongue flattened down his shaft and she sucked harder and harder each time, kneading his balls and pushing him closer and closer to climaxing. With every stroke of her tongue, he felt it building. His fingers had formed around the soft satiny sheets–and just when he was about to explode, she'd pulled away, a low growl escaping her as their eyes met.

He can remember reaching out to touch her–pressing his palm between her thighs. It took only a moment before his fingers began to explore her, slipping through her the sleek, wet warmth. He can remember the way she's purred as her head fell back as her hips began to rock against his hand–and then, suddenly, she'd pushed him back down. He didn't have a moment to question it, all he could do was stare as she climbed on top of him. She sank down onto his cock, her eyes closing and he took a breath–and then, she'd looked him straight in the eye as she rode herself to a second orgasm.

At some point, he'd come again, too–and he a smile draws onto his lips as he remembers flipping her over, linking his arms beneath her knees and driving her into the mattress.

Taking a breath, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

He'd been here before.

Not here, exactly–but in a similar situation.

The night before, she'd walked into the tavern and offered to buy him a drink–just as another version of her had not long before. There were so many similarities between them–between the woman laying at his side and the woman he'd so quickly disappointed, the woman who'd loved another version of him in another time and place.

It was a common theme in his life–to be a disappointment–and he felt an odd sensation stirring at his core, as he remembered a particular look she'd given him in the tavern the night before.

The first time he'd noticed it, he'd been in the middle of a story–a heist that had been particularly lucrative and particularly thrilling, a story he thought would impress her–and there'd been glimmer of recognition in her eyes. She'd heard the story before, she'd heard it from another version of him–the better version.

It occurred to him, then, that they weren't on an equal playing field. She had memories of him and with those memories came expectations. That had been the problem the first time around–the problem that quickly presented itself the first time a version of her had walked into the tavern and wanted to have a drink with him, the version of her that hoped he could fill a void in soul.

He'd failed her.

He hadn't wanted to, but he had. He could never be the man she wanted or needed–he could never be the version himself she'd known and loved, the version of himself she hoped he'd be.

But this version of her was different, he told himself.

She didn't have the soft eyes or the expectant smile and when he kissed her, there'd been such a spark–something that had been missing before. This version, though, was all passion and fire. There was no hesitation, she took what she wanted and offered no apologies for it. She was rough around the edges and she was flawed, not some idealized version that seemed too perfect to be real.

The night before they'd spent hours talking and he'd never been bored. She was such a mystery to him–bold and audacious, and just the right amount of evil–a mystery he couldn't wait to solve.

Reaching out, his hand slips beneath the blanket to stroke against her bare hip–and a smile edges onto his lips as she began to wake. And while he isn't sure what the future will bring for them, as her eyes flutter open and she turns her head to look at him, he can't help but think that he is damn certain looking forward to finding out.