Regina dreams in twos.
She used to dream of vengeance. Vengeance, and Daniel. And every dream of Daniel, every night that she revived him with some new spell she'd unearthed, only fueled her need for vengeance even more. But as much as she managed to succeed in her dreams, in her waking hours it seemed she only met with failure. Snow lived, Daniel didn't, and the dreams went on and on.
Now that she's back in the Enchanted Forest, she finds that she still only dreams in twos. One or the other. Henry. Or him. Her dreams of Henry are always heartbreaking - either because they're so perfectly sweet that she dreads waking, or because they're full of peril and failure and death. Every time she wakes, she cries.
But her dreams of the thief... they're biting wit and simmering sarcasm, but only to start. They always end the same way. Sweat, and skin, his body warm against hers, inside hers, pushing her into orgasms so intense she wakes with her fists clenched in the sheets, her sex slippery and sensitive, little aftershocks of pleasure rippling through her when she rolls onto her side and presses her legs together. Her sleeping self has imagined a million different ways they could stop fighting and start fucking, and she finds it infuriating.
Yes, he's attractive.
Yes, he's well-built.
Yes, she can admire the efficiency with which he handles a bow.
But she feels invaded, violated - especially when her dreams bleed over into daylight and she gets that low-down tug when he does nothing more than walk into the room, or give her one of those damnable smirks. Her brain knows he means nothing to her, but her body has grown conditioned to the pleasure she gets from his lips, his hands, his... He's torturing her in the worst and best way, and he has absolutely no idea.
And every night she dreams of him is a night she doesn't dream of Henry, and heartbreaking as they may be, those dreams are all she has left of her son. So she grows to resent the thief, and the nights he steals away from her. She sneers and glares, spits acid words at him every chance she gets, hoping that maybe he'll leave her alone and she can finally sleep in peace.
But Snow and Charming are insistent that he stay, and no matter how poorly she treats him, Robin seems to deflect with ease. Irritation, maybe, but no sign of giving up.
So Regina slips under her covers yet again, and hopes she'll dream of Henry. Or Daniel. Or vengeance. But Henry most of all.
She wakes hours later with a pounding heart, and shaky fingers, and the echoes of Robin of Locksley between her thighs.
Regina rolls her face into her pillow, and lets out a scream of frustration.
Today, she vows to hate him even more.