Regina parts her lips, catches the droplet with her tongue, and licks her way up to the rim, moaning in satisfaction. He bites his lower lip and watches. Rubs the back of his neck (aches to rub where he's straining against the laces of his trousers) while watching her take another sip of her wine. She's evil. Positively evil (though, not in the way most think her to be). But that doesn't stop Robin from making a guttural sound deep in his throat.
Her tantalizing eyes hold his heady gaze, and she chuckles. "See something you like, thief?"
Yes. Yes, he does. She knows he does, he's lost track of all the ways in which he's shown her over the last several months how much he likes her, wants her, is eager to ravage every inch of her. Winter had barely bled into spring before she'd let him show her the first time, let him taste the bounty she'd laid bare before him and sink head first into blissful debauchery.
And look at him now? Now as he watches another drop of wine ease its way down the side of her goblet, the glint in her eyes, the deliciously sinful smirk painted on her crimson lips. The phantom warmth of her tongue licking up the shaft of him, root to tip, flashes through his mind. Hot, searing.
Gods, the things Regina can do with her tongue.
Just last night he'd been buried balls deep inside her, watched as she cried out, growled his own release as she'd raked red trails down his sweat-slicked back in the stables. Beneath moonlight. In the silence of midnight's glow. Sweat glistens at his temples now, his cock twitching at the mere thought of bringing her pleasure.
They're going to fuck. Here. If she'll have him. With the lake at their feet, and this fallen log at their backs, and the earth beneath them. That might not have been Robin's original plan for this picnic, but plans change. He certainly knows that to be true.
They've been meeting in secret for months - against her apple tree, in a quiet corridor. When everyone else has been feasting upon pheasant and summer squash in the Great Hall, he's been feasting on Regina and she on him. And at night, after sleep carries his boy into the land of dreams and imagination and the rest of the castle goes quiet, well… a little magic has gone a long way toward silencing screams of ecstasy and the slapping of sweat-slicked hips.
They've almost been caught a few times, been close to being seen in compromising positions. It's scandalous, risky, far too arousing for his own good, but Robin can't stop. He doesn't want to stop, doesn't think he'd be able to resist the pull she has over him. He's hers, for as long as she'll accept him into her heart and her bed.
He tells himself it's the chase, the rush of adrenaline that courses through his veins at the thought of being caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. It makes him feel alive, has him envisioning his calloused palms sliding over the smooth skin of Regina's back more often than not these days. Has him imagining her nails scoring his, marking him as hers. Only hers. Not that she has to, not that there's a need, because it isn't just the chase. It isn't just the rush.
There's been a tug toward her - deep in his chest - a tug that's wrapped around every fiber of his being and begged to be near Regina, to see her safe. A cursed needle and her lifeless body haunt his dreams. He's watched her walk through this castle's halls like a ghost over the last several months. Watched as damp cheeks were hidden behind paint, rouge, and crimson lips. Watched as she'd leave the library with a scowl on her face but red-rimmed eyes.
He saw, he sees, he's not blind.
It's her son. The ache buried behind her rib cage, the agony clear upon her face, though she tries to come off sharp, and harsh, and evil. It's a farce, her mask, and he's tried ever so hard to just be there for her, to support her, to make her feel alive.
Sadness still lingers, heartache still bleeds bare, but she smiles more. Roland with his childlike wonder and merriment makes her smile more. And Robin… he likes to think he makes her smile more as well. Not in the open, never that, but in moments like this one, where she doesn't have to be anything other than herself. Not a ruler, not an Evil Queen, not even a sorceress.
Here, she gets to just be Regina.
Just Regina.
A breeze carries hints of honeysuckle and her perfume to his nose. She smiles at him, slowly wiping the corner of her mouth with the pad of her thumb, caressing her lower lip, teasingly. Robin gulps, and the urge to touch, taste, beckons him closer. She does things to him, makes him want, crave, beg to nip at her pulse point, bury his fingers in her hair. He's greedy for her, yearns for her the way his younger self once burned for pints of golden ale.
And it's not just the way her skin flushes moments before she's about to come, gloriously open before him. Or the way her brow scrunches up and her jaw goes slack in pleasure as he spreads her legs wider, thrusting deep, deep, deeper. It's the way she rolls her eyes at him when they're in council meetings, like he's a great thorn in her side, an annoyance she can't quite shake (even though he knows - he knows - he's more). It's the way she pretends to be all hard edges, cutting remarks, and a permanent frown despite the softer side of her that he's seen over the last several months.
The vulnerable side, the side he catches in rare moments.
They creep up on him, these moments, knock against his chest the same way Roland's laughter fills his heart to the brim. He'd be lying if he said that doesn't surprise him - that Regina, the great and terrible Evil Queen (not so much, he's come to find out) occupies any part of his heart. It does, surprise him. Or it did, at first. But it's been nearly a year since she appeared in his life with quick-witted comebacks and sass-filled retorts. Nearly a year of him unveiling her layers, and her letting him get to know her better. And he does know her better. Oh, how he knows her better.
Regina is warmth, open and affectionate warmth for his son that makes Robin's heart sing. She is kindness, disarming and compassionate kindness for her people that goes mostly unnoticed, but not by him. He sees it all, sees everything - the wave of her hand behind her back to fix a crying child's broken doll, the mouthed-spell spoken from her lips to heal a lame horse's leg, and the tireless nights she spends in the library, long after everyone has gone to bed, searching for ways to get her people back to their Storybrooke.
She's also fire, and fight, and heat whipped back at him during her furious rages.
And so, he revels in showing her that she is more than she believes, takes pride in discovering new ways to woo her. She may have been the once and terrible Evil Queen, but Robin knows a different side of her, a side that loves wild flowers left on her vanity, picnics with him and his son in her garden, and afternoons in the stables where the wind carries the scent of hay and horses through the air. There's so much weighing heavy upon her, so Robin enjoys finding ways to get her to relax.
They should be doing that now - relaxing - but liquid heat is pooling in his belly, swirling a welcomed desire deep in his gut. And well, there's more than one way to relax, more than one way to get sated beneath summer's sun.
Regina smirks, stretches out next to him, her fingers coasting up the deep, vibrant red bodice of her dress to the swell of her breasts pushed up by the fabric. He groans. Gods, that dress. He loves that dress, loves how the fabric hugs her curves, how it does very little to hide the bounty that lies beneath.
Robin swallows. His Adam's apple bobs down, and then up (John and Tuck mentioned fishing this afternoon. Are they still going? Have their plans changed? Are they packing supplies as he sits here thinking about all the ways he could make Regina moan, and keen, and scream his name?), and he wonders: what are the chances of someone stumbling into this meadow within the next several minutes? Even if John and Tuck had already packed up their supplies - fishing poles, and line, and bait, and net - they'd still need to find a boat, drag said supplies to shore. How long will it take? Do they have time to —Regina sighs and grins up at him, setting her empty goblet down beside her - She knows what's coming before he's even had a chance to pounce— fuck it.
They're on each other before he has a chance to move the bottle of wine out of the way; wine crashes out onto the earth beside them, tannin and sugars mingling with dirt and grass as Regina fists her hands in Robin's collar and her lips bruise his lips. He grunts in surprise, bending to her crushing kiss like metal bows under flame, electricity licking up his spine.
He pulls her up so they're both sitting on their knees, tunnels his fingers into her hair, brushes his thumbs across her cheeks, deepening the kiss. She moans into his mouth, and his tongue dives into hers, drinking her in as her nails bite into his arms, the sting of them hindered by fabric. Too much fabric. He can't kiss her, or taste her, or touch her the way he wants, can't devour her the way he wants, and the deep, carnal hunger growing in his belly riles him further.
Breaking his lips away from Regina's, Robin's tongue rasps over her throat where her neck meets shoulder, dips his head and nips at her collar while she wraps her arms around him and rakes her nails over the back of his scalp. It sends a shiver up his spine, tendrils of pleasure throbbing in his cock, and when his teeth scrape against the hollow of her neck, he earns a gasp from Regina. His palms ghost down her shoulders, her sides, his fingers spanning at her hips, gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing.
He can't breathe, but who needs air when the sweet, tanginess of her breath is hot on his lips, when her tongue is sliding against the roof of his mouth, when he's greedy for every inch of her skin, every mewling cry crawling its way out of her throat. Robin fists his hand in her hair, angles her head back, deepening their kiss, and Regina bites his lower lip, drawing blood. He hisses, heated lips break apart, and her lust-filled gaze pierces his soul, panting breaths caught between them.
Something primal and male shudders in his stomach.
Fuck!
He tears at her dress next, pushing it down her shoulders, arms, until the material gathers at her waist, while she fumbles with the laces of his trousers. Can't get them open fast enough. Nimble fingers tugging, pulling, wine on her breath, desire staring him in the face. His hands travel up her arms again, cup her breasts, and Regina's making little moaning needy sounds that make him beg for mercy, yearning to be inside her. With his laces finally undone, her hand delves into his trousers without further hesitation, awkwardly wrapping her hot fingers around his cock and swiping the precum from the tip of him.
"Regina," he breathes between clenched teeth, his brow furrowing in pleasure and pressing against hers as she strokes, root to tip.
"Do you like that, thief?" she teases, pulling her hand away and spitting into her palm.
He groans. Does he really need to answer that?
He likes it, oh, how he likes it. Bussing the grin off her lips, he kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat as she hurriedly yanks his trousers down.
"Off. Want these off," she says, leaning back onto her heels, but he's not fast enough. He mustn't be, because the next thing he knows a cloud of purple surrounds him, feels like cool rippling water swirling around his hips, down his thighs. He blinks, and Regina's magic licks away his clothes, and hers, leaving them both exposed, naked, the way the gods first spit them out into this world.
He blinks again, and in that split second of time, her hand is cupping him, stroking up the shaft of him, and that's all it takes. That's all the encouragement he needs, his hands searching her out, skating her curves until he can thumb a pebbled nipple, feel her shiver before he dips his head to suck at a stiff peak. She groans, arching into him, hand falling out of rhythm around his cock as his tongue tastes the salt on her skin. Open-mouthed kisses travel from breast to sternum to the nape of her neck, his nose burying in her hair, and he says, "You smell amazing," breath coming out hot over her damp skin, and then he sucks again, swirling his tongue at her pulse point, her head falling back, hair cascading down like a waterfall behind her.
But she's still sharp as a thorn, quick-witted (and he loves it, it terrifies him how much he loves it - loves her - makes his heart beat rapidly in his chest, a cacophony of emotions brewing inside him like a storm on the horizon), so when she tells him "You still smell like forest" on a gasp as he's rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He chuckles against her throat.
Pressing a kiss to her collarbone, he retorts, "And now so do you." A smirk on his lips as he angles his head back to look at her. Regina's eyes snap open and her eyebrows shoot to her hairline, and he snickers, far too pleased with himself, or at least that's how he interprets her surprised expression.
"Wipe that smirk off your face before I make you."
"Are you threatening me, milady?" He asks, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. He couldn't have done that a few months ago, but he can now, even though this - them - is still secret. He doesn't mind. He holds these moments close to his heart. He'll wait until she's ready, no matter how long that takes.
"Are you" —she pokes him in the shoulder— "challenging me, thief?"
"Always." He smiles, biting his lower lip.
She arches her brow, and he watches as the corner of her mouth inches into a grin.
And then she's desperately clawing at his back, pulling him toward her, tumbling them back into the heather on the ground, his body colliding into hers.
The air knocks from his lungs, and he tries to keep most of his weight off her, his elbows digging into the ground on either side of her head, but he's spent enough time with her to know, the fall didn't wind her the same. But he offers an apology nonetheless.
"You can't hurt me," she pants, kissing him fiercely. It's the magic coursing through her blood, makes her more resilient than most, like a armour thrumming through her veins. She still bleeds, still gets injured - he's seen that, watched as she put herself in harm's way, recklessly bared a snarl and spit venom from her teeth as they've battled demons from the pits of hell, creatures from the pitch bog of Forest Black, and the Wicked Witch and her simian beasts. But this? She could break him before he had the chance to flinch.
She grabs the back of his neck and pulls his mouth down to hers, each breath she breathes into him fills his veins with lightning hot energy. Better than air, better than sustenance. It feeds him, pumps blood low, low, lower still until he's achingly erect and throbbing.
"Enough foreplay," she says, whispers it against the lobe of his ear and wraps her legs around him, ankles crossing above the dimples on his lower back, locking them together.
She's so, so gloriously bare before him, skin flushed, a light sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. It's all the telling he needs before he skims his hand down her side, slides his touch between her legs and swirls his thumb over her clit. She's slick, and slippery, and wet, and ready for him, and thank the gods for that, but he wants to make sure so he dips two fingers down to her entrance and continues to rub tight circles over her clit.
"I'm fine," she says, squeezing her thighs around him, drawing him closer until the head of his cock bumps against where he's dying to be inside of her most.
Robin takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then guides himself into Regina, groaning as he finally pushes inside her, stretching her, filling her pleasantly.
Regina sucks in a breath, groaning, "Ohhh Robin," and gods, she feels amazing, this feels amazing, warm, and tight, clenching splendidly around his cock. And there's this sensation building, coiling deep in his gut at first, slowly spreading out and up, flushing his cheeks, prickling gooseflesh across his skin. It blinds him with clarity, bathed in her scent - lavender and something that's just Regina, in her taste – the sweet, saltiness of her skin, and her touch - soft, smooth against the callouses of his palms… that coil springs free and ricochets around inside his chest.
He loves her. He does. Loves every bit of her, but most of all —Robin spreads her thighs wider, hooks his arms under her knees, pulling out and staring into her eyes before thrusting again. Regina cries out in pleasure, and he does it again. She digs her fingers into the earth on a moan, and when she kneads her breasts, rolls her hips to meet his, Robin groans, deep and honest, with summer's heat at his back and Regina's quivering thighs spread open before him— most of all he loves that Regina feels like home.
:.:The End:.: