A/N: Birthday fic for OutlawQueenLuvr! I hope you like :)

Standstill

Between the two of them, Regina would never have pegged Robin as the one more prone to fits of road rage.

Yet here they are, at a standstill on the interstate, fifty-three minutes in and counting, with the bag Regina had packed running low on snacks, and Robin's temper running on nothing but fumes.

"This would've been a lot faster on bloody horseback," he scowls, tapping the horn for the third time in as many minutes when an overeager Prius attempts to nose its way in front.

"Yes," agrees Regina calmly, "if by 'faster' you mean cause another traffic accident." Then, because she can't help reminding him who's really to blame for this unfortunate delay in their travel plans, "You are the one who refused to let us fly to their wedding."

Robin looks surlier still, because indeed he had, and for very good reason. There was no blasted way he was allowing her to board some mechanical winged contraption, not in her current condition, regardless of the safety statistics he failed to find as reassuring as she did.

The very concept of planes—as he explained after she'd made the mistake of buying their tickets (refundable ones, luckily) without consulting him first—was about as savory to him as hopping onto a broomstick and letting Zelena pilot them all the way to New York City.

"You're being ridiculous," Regina had scolded him while ignoring the slight on her sister's struggles to reform, "I'm barely into the first trimester, and Dr. Whale did say that—"

But it hadn't mattered a lick what Dr. Whale had said, because Robin didn't trust a word from that man any farther than he could throw him; they were going by electrical carriage, whether Regina liked it or not, and that had been the end of that.

It really was endearing how protective he got, when it didn't irritate her so damn much.

To be fair, though, hardly anything seems to faze her these days, not without some effort put into it. Pregnancy suits her, and when Robin isn't bending backwards baby-proofing the house, he makes certain she knows it—in the way he'll pause mid-crouch over a power outlet and simply stare when she walks into the room, or kiss her delicately on the neck as she passes by.

And then dodge her when she reaches out to turn the kiss into something more, hands pulsing once, twice at her hips when she presses them suggestively against his body, before depositing her gently to the side. She's of the firm belief he's only half-kidding when he winks and says he'd rather not break her, or their little one she's carrying.

"I'm not a damn flower petal, you know," Regina will grumble—neither is their child, if she's to take after either of her parents—and he'll smile when he thinks she's not looking.

But Robin is full on glowering now, with not a chance of a grin in the near future, as he shifts the gear into park using slightly more force than necessary. Regina allows him this moment to sulk, her gaze idly tracing the endless line of cars crammed into each lane, the midday sun as it shimmers visibly off the tarmac. Not unlike the anger she can practically feel radiating to her left in the driver's seat, even though they've blasted the air on high to stave off the stifling heat and humidity.

Thank God they've already planned for a winter wedding.

Robin's fingers begin to drum a restless rhythm against the steering wheel he's had little use for in the last hour. If she doesn't do something to take the edge off soon, Regina thinks, his cranky mood is eventually going to sour hers too, and he's not the one with a bridesmaid's dress to squeeze over a gradually expanding waistline later. Nor does he have a toast to give at the rehearsal dinner tonight, if they ever break free of this gridlock in time.

She's starting to have her doubts that they will. (And Emma will surely have her head—unless, of course, Snow beats her to it.)

So, Regina figures, they might as well make the most of it, while they're stuck indefinitely somewhere between Maine and the Big Apple.

Robin gives a pleasant start of surprise when she reaches over to tangle fingers with the hair at his nape, gently coaxing him toward her so she can land a kiss at the angle of his jaw. It's tense with simmering frustration (he's finally given up on edging the Prius out, though there's nowhere for either to go at the moment), but she feels it relax beneath her lips as she murmurs, "You've been stressed, haven't you," and if her voice takes on a bit of a sultry quality then, well, what of it?

"Hmmmm," he agrees, shifting just a bit as her tongue flicks out to taste him, and his grip slackens on the wheel, a faintly accusatory "What are you up to?" falling next from his lips when she nibbles at his jawline.

"I'm de-stressing you," she says matter-of-factly, and he looks adorably torn between objection and surrender.

Then there's an audible click of her seatbelt coming undone, and her hands are busy everywhere all at once, running languidly up and down his back, his chest, his abdomen, his stubbled cheek as he leans instinctively into her touch. He looks absolutely glommed now, his resolve to stay stonily unaffected crumbling to pieces as his eyes go half-lidded and his mouth parts open to capture hers in a heated kiss.

And yes, oh, yes, does she have every intention of making out with this man like a horny teen at the local drive-thru.

She slips her heels off, liquid warmth curling her toes as her legs fold up onto her seat, knees bumping the small island of empty coffee cups and crinkled gas receipts wedged between them. Robin has turned sideways, meeting her head-on with teasing lips and dancing tongue, hand dragging through her hair, the other settling at her waist.

Her palm falls to knead his thigh, then inches slowly upward, fingers grazing over denim and his growing desire for her, and he jolts upright, rips his mouth away.

"Regina!" he exclaims, sounding dazed but aghast as he comes back to himself, flattening against his seat and shooting furtive glances at all the neighboring cars privy to their moment of heated affection.

"Yes?" she asks, schooling her expression into a picture of innocence that deceives no one—she's been mocked mercilessly by Henry for her terrible poker face, and it fools Robin least of all, a thought that has her heart suddenly swelling with irrepressible affection.

Stupid pregnancy hormones.

Robin swallows thickly, tells her, "As badly as I'd like for you to have your way with me right now," and she feels a flame flicker low in her belly at the deep, raspy tenor of his words, watches his face twist into something positively tortured when her hand makes no move to leave him in peace, "I'd rather prefer we not have an audience."

"Oh," Regina dismisses, an easy fix, and the windows tint to just shy of black with a careless wave, encasing them in shadow and seclusion from the outside world.

"Isn't that against some law?" Robin wants to know, and she's not sure what she's about to do strictly qualifies as legal either—severely frowned upon, at the very least—but she's still a queen in her own right, her rules are others' to follow and theirs for her to break.

She awards his poor attempt at deflection with a saucy smile, unfastens his belt and pops open his fly without lifting a single finger. His head falls back with a dull thud, eyes drawing shut with a slow, strangled groan when she winds her way between skin and waistband, feels him hardening further as she grasps him in her hand.

"This…can't end well," he manages to get out, and she couldn't disagree more.

"I think I can tell you exactly how this is going to end," Regina whispers into his ear, earning a shiver, then a visible bob in his throat as she pumps him in and out of her palm, works him over into a state of near-delirium. He reaches for something to hold onto, blindly grabs and flattens a hand against the roof of the car as another heady moan escapes him.

"We could—at any moment—" Robin attempts to protest, but her lazy perusal of the road ahead reveals it to be just as clogged and motionless as before. It's rather amusing, how desperately he wants to not want this, she knows just the thing to drive him speechless and slack-jawed, and her answering chuckle is a sinister, sensual sound.

His lips part as though to speak again, but his words are lost in favor of a shuddering breath the instant she bends forward, glancing up to take in the spellbound submission in his eyes as she lowers her mouth to join her hand. His arm falls from bracing the ceiling to burrowing in her hair, fingers pulsing at her neck while her lips form a seal around his cock, and God is he hard for her, gloriously thick between her hollowing cheeks.

Robin moves to palm her rear, groaning and massaging in time with each bob of her head up and down, and then his grip grows lax, almost boneless, as though forgetting itself for a moment, before roaming back to her side. Her pace picks up, fingers rubbing and stroking where the heat of her mouth can't reach, and his hand tightens, clenches, fists the fabric at her hip. But she'll get him back for it later, the bruise he's bound to leave there, because now, this is all for him—for his gallant stupidity that has landed them here, stalled for miles in either direction—every swirl of her tongue, every pearl of moisture she laps from his tip before pulling the rest of him in again.

His hips jerk up into her, a little more impact behind it than he'd clearly meant for as he utters out a broken apology and tries to still his quaking thighs, muscles tensing beneath her touch in a valiant show of restraint, but she only sucks harder, takes him in deeper, and he gives in, begins to fuck her mouth in earnest, breathless gasps tumbling out of him with reckless abandon, and gods, Regina, this is exactly what he'd needed, don't stop—yes, just like that—unh—Christ, he's about to—

And then he does, spills into her with a grunt and a low, hoarse Fuck, Regina, and at just that moment, a loud, jarring beep! nearly deafens her ears. She thinks for a second that he's come so enthusiastically he's jammed an elbow onto the horn, but instead of one persistent blare, it's several at once in quick succession, some close by but others more distant; she lifts her head to see the Prius somehow several cars' distance ahead of them now, the adjacent lane rolling forward at a snail-like speed but moving all the same.

Ah, perfect timing.

But Robin's utterly useless at the moment, his hands with the slightest tremble where they still clutch at her hair and hipbone, looking as though he has no hope to even locate the brake pedal much less navigate a vehicle in a straight line. Regina swallows, sighs (this is her doing, after all), detangles herself from him, swipes quickly at her mouth and straightens her blouse before purple smoke engulfs them both, seating her primly in front of the steering wheel, while Robin's weight collapses gracelessly onto the passenger's seat beside her.

"Fuck," he's still muttering to himself, but at least he's regained enough sense and feeling in his hands to stuff himself back into his pants and zip them shakily up. "Fuck."

Regina has to bite back a smug smile, then frowns for real when her pocket buzzes. She pulls her phone out to find no fewer than three missed calls from the bride-to-be, plus a series of increasingly anxious texts from Henry (a selfie of him showing Roland around the city captioned with a We miss you! See you and Robin soon?, to I think Mom might be starting to lose it…, then Mom. MOM. Where are you?! Help?).

She'll call back as soon as they've reached a good cruising speed, she decides, maneuvering the car into the slow but steady stream of traffic. The impatient honking finally subsides, and Robin stretches contentedly, reaches down to the handle below his seat to adjust it back, make room for longer legs. Looking more relaxed than he has in ages, he turns to Regina with a drowsy, crooked half-grin, drops a hand to her neck and squeezes there lightly.

But then it travels lower, trailing her spine, palming her side, pausing to rest at her hip before going lower still, between her thighs, and oh, now he wants to get handsy with her?

"Are you wet?" he asks her curiously then, with a lingering coarseness in his voice that shoots straight to her center, where she has, in fact, been feeling quite tingly and warm, distractingly so, and if this is his idea of helping, then he's going about it in all the wrong ways.

She slaps his hand off, tells him sternly, "Don't even think about it." But she knows full well it's all that's likely to stay on his mind, for the next hundred miles, for the endless hours to come of dinners and dances, aisles to walk down and altars to stand on, champagne and cake, tears and toasts, until he's able at last to act upon it.

Sure enough, Robin smirks at her, "Oh, believe me, I have every intention to." And soon enough, he'll have her—sooner than she'd expected, but her thief is a resourceful one, stealing moments and making time stand still—hands anchoring her hips to the chapel wall, the silky train of her dress gathered around his shoulders, his tongue between her legs, teasing, tasting, kissing where she aches, and quivers, and longs for him.

He'll fetch her bouquet where it's bounced to the floor, hold it until she's regained use of her fingers, then hold her until she no longer wobbles on four-inch heels. He'll playfully offer to carry her down the aisle himself (surely Emma would appreciate the romantic overture), and Regina will grumble that she's not that delicate—to which he'll agree, true, but he'd rather like to protect the things most dear to him, her heart he's been destined to claim as his, and the family they were meant to raise as theirs. So, in the end, she lets him.

But not without torturing him a little for it, too.