Written for Day 6 of OQ Week on Tumblr, and also to fulfil a prompt given to me by aregaloutlaw.
You can find me on Tumblr at wickedshenanigans.
Many thanks go to Addicted1 for enduring the endless amounts of complaining I did about this story, and for being a good enough friend and beta to tell me when it was crap (only she put it nicer than that)! Thanks lovely!
It had started the very first day they showed up, Henry and her, to the archery club's 'Have a Go' day. Oh, the charm had started with her son, of course. Asking Henry if he was there to be the next Legolas or the next Hawkeye, and engaging her eager son in a debate about who was the best Avenger (Regina could barely keep track of which were Avengers and which were X-Men). Effortlessly filling the vacancy for hero-worship that Henry had available while also sealing the deal on the monthly membership fee that would henceforth be coming out of Regina's pocket. No way would she be convincing Henry that this whole archery thing was just a phase now.
The man was handsome enough, she supposed, and, okay, she'd enjoyed the way his eyes caught on her when he was talking to the group and the half-smiles he'd sent her way. His interest in her had been obvious, and she'd been feeling idiotically gratified by his open admiration, sharing flirty looks over the heads of the children he was teaching, including her own son. She still burns with anger and shame now at that thought, at the absurd giddiness with which she enjoyed his attention. Yes, she had smiled when he approached her (and Henry), smiled like a schoolgirl with a crush, and once he was done convincing Henry that Loki couldn't be counted as one of the Avengers (even though he was the coolest), her belly was all butterflies as he lingered to talk to her, alone. He smirked at her and looked her up and down (and she'd liked it, ugh, had practically preened over it, God, she was pathetic), and then he'd made some smartass comment about how she might find it difficult to shoot in such cumbersome footwear.
She'd worn heels to make her feel powerful, confident and a little less out of her element. Except all it took was one comment from this good-looking, outdoorsy man to make her feel the exact opposite of all those things. She felt like a fool, like someone who looked as out of place and uncertain as she felt, and no doubt this man and his colleagues had laughed amongst themselves the moment they saw her, knowing immediately how thoroughly she didn't belong there. And she had spat barbs at him, stalked off with her head held high, fumed and seethed in a seat by the wall while Henry showed both enthusiasm and prowess in his newfound hobby, and braced herself with a tightening knot of dread in her stomach for the request she knew would be coming at the end of Henry's first taste of archery lessons.
The beginners' course fee wasn't cheap, and Regina would quite frankly have rather enjoyed never having to see that smug, puffed up, overdeveloped phys-ed coach ever again, but she couldn't bring herself to deny her son the happiness. So when, sure enough, he bounded up to her at the end of the taster lesson and begged her to sign him up, with a sigh (and a smile, for him), she agreed. Refused to look at the handsome instructor as she clacked her way over to the sign-up sheets, instead giving the large man behind the desk her most charming smile, hello, I'm Regina Mills, and my son would very much like me to sign him up for a beginners' course.
Weekly classes, on a Saturday morning, for eight weeks, and then a discounted club membership at the end of it, if they so chose. She could only hope Henry would lose interest before then (he wouldn't, he was determined, and really she hadn't raised him to be so fickle in his commitments), but until that happened, she had a choice to make. Admit defeat and endure the insufferable, superior looks as she re-entered the range in flats? Out of the question. It was akin to skulking in with her head down and her tail between her legs, which is something Regina would never do, no matter how ill conceived her decision had been in the first place. No, she'd choose defiance over practicality any day, and so the following Saturday, she chose a pair even higher than last week's Valentinos; her favourite Louboutins, classic patent black and red sole. Way over the top for a children's archery class. She knew that. But if one was setting out to make a point, there was no use in making it half-assed.
She supposed, in a way, she was to blame for the continuation of their odd, unspoken battle of wills. If she weren't so contrary by nature, so stubborn and prideful, she never would have worn what were arguably her sexiest shoes to her eight-year-old's midmorning archery lesson. But if she hadn't, she might never have caught the handsome instructor's distinctly dumbfounded look as she tap-tapped in behind her son on those hardwood floors (probably damaging them – good). Caught him drinking her in from her shoes to the rear-hugging pencil skirt and inadequately buttoned silk shirt she'd paired them with. Seen him turn away with the air of a person determined to focus on something else. Oh, he'd seen something he liked, all right. Suddenly, Regina found she wasn't so averse to the idea of coming here every Saturday after all. She'd always enjoyed a good power shift when it was in her favour.
His look, when he casually approached her under the guise of collecting finger tabs from the box near where she sat, was one of amusement. Like he was mildly entertained by her defiance. But she had already seen the way he'd looked at her, and she could see through his nonchalance. She smiled toothily at him.
"I gather we're still not getting you on those feet and shooting today."
"Oh, I have no intention of it," she assured. And then, a conspiratorial whisper, "But if I did, I could certainly manage to ping some sticks at a target in whatever cumbersome footwear I happen to be wearing."
His eyebrows shot up, the amusement genuine.
"Is that so? And you'd deny us such a sight? I'm not sure what we've done to deserve such deprivation."
She smirked, reclining back in her chair, crossing her legs slowly and deliberately, revelling in the helplessly magnetic way his eyes were drawn to the movement.
"I'd be more inclined to ask what you've done to deserve the privilege."
His eyes were dark when they returned to hers, but he simply nodded and voiced his agreement before returning to his teaching.
Round one, and she led the points.
It became a power play, there was no mistaking that. And as it happened, Regina was very well versed in such. Oh yes, she knew how to play this game. She'd been raised on and around these unacknowledged tugs-of-war. They neither of them ever attempted to hide their attraction to each other (well, after that first day and once Regina got over her embarrassment, at least). No, this was about who would break first, and Regina was determined that it was not going to be her.
Every week, she wore heels. Sometimes Vuitton ankle boots with skinny jeans, sometimes slingback kitten heels with a flirty red dress, sometimes her tallest, most lethal stilettos. They both knew it was for Robin's benefit (his colleague, John, whom she'd made a point of getting friendly with just to annoy him, had finally introduced them formally), but whether it was to bite her thumb at him for that ill-advised first comment, or to tempt him, was less clear to them both. Still, every week, she would click-clack in with Henry and he would look at her like she was lunch.
The looks they shared had lost subtlety and gained a sexual charge strong enough to fell a horse. A thread of desire zinging between them, which neither of them could take any further if they wanted to win this little game. Their interaction was stalled at his continued insistence that he would get her teetering over to shoot an arrow at a row of targets one of these days. I'm afraid you'll have to leave that particular fantasy in your imagination, she'd smugly informed him.
Only that one? he'd returned, and if she could say one thing about him (she could say plenty), he was a worthy opponent.
.
.
It's later in the afternoon one of these Saturdays when she realises she's missing something. She has dropped Henry at his friend Grace's house and is about to head to the grocery store when something niggles at her to check the back seat for her purse before she starts driving.
The back seat is empty.
As is the passenger seat, and the trunk, and it isn't long before she's forced to admit that she has indeed left it at the archery range.
Damn it.
She knows exactly where she left it, can picture it tucked neatly under what she's come to think of as her seat. She knows exactly what made her forget it, too. Henry had waylaid their usually prompt exit by bringing her attention to the flyer on the notice board for the group's upcoming performance – a graduation of sorts for the completion of the beginners' course.
And then he had come over, joining in with Henry's enthusiasm, shooting looks at her all the while, and she supposed she'd just been a little too busy having eye-sex with him to remember to go back for her purse before sauntering out the door.
She sighs, heavily. Nothing to do but go back. She's sure they'll still be open. There's bound to be an afternoon class on a Saturday. She'll just be able to slip in, grab her purse and leave again. Probably no one will even notice her.
Nevertheless, her nerves are not so easily convinced, and the ridiculous fluttering in her stomach as she walks up to the door only serves to make her more annoyed about this whole detour.
The range is eerily quiet as she enters, much more so than she's used to. Although, she can hear the unmistakeable thunk, thunk of arrows hitting targets, so she knows it's not totally empty.
She opens the door separating the entrance from the actual shooting range, and is met with the sight of Robin, alone, firing arrow after arrow at the target, without pausing or, it seems, aiming. He's shed his usual light cotton hoodie and she can see the muscles in his shoulders flexing and shifting as he reaches over his back for a new arrow as fast as he can release them. The white tank he's wearing also showcases his arms rather nicely, and, oh, he has good arms. There's something about a man with really good arms. Like he could quite literally sweep a woman off her feet. Or, you know, lift her up and take her hard against the nearest wall.
The thought has her squeezing her thighs together, and of course, that's the moment that he chooses to look around and see her.
He looks surprised, but it very quickly gives way to a smirk, and he shoulders his bow and makes his way over to her. Flustered, she turns away and walks quickly over to the row of chairs, trying not to look like she'd just been standing there in a haze of lust. She bends to retrieve her purse, and when she straightens, he is right there beside her.
"Ms Mills. This is a surprise."
It's an infuriatingly knowing smile on his lips as he says this, his eyes perusing her lazily, from her mouth to her cleavage, down her legs, and back up, taking his time. His gaze alone makes her nipples tighten.
"If you wanted a private lesson, all you had to do was ask."
She scoffs, a little too loudly, trying to rid herself of the moronic stupor she seems to have wandered into. Something about seeing his physical skill and athleticism has her hormones singing, which apparently means she is quite unable to behave like a remotely intelligent person.
His breath is coming harder than usual from his exertion, and there is a light sheen of sweat on his face, neck and arms. She wonders vaguely what it would taste like.
"I forgot my purse," she says, in the absence of a cleverer retort.
He aahs and nods, looking far too much like he's humouring her for her liking. "You know what they say when one forgets something."
She adopts her best unimpressed look.
"That one hasn't been getting enough time to herself lately?"
He chuckles, concedes with another nod, makes to turn back to his target. Giving her a chance to leave without further interaction. She could walk out right now and that would be that.
"What are you doing?" she finds herself asking instead.
"It's called instinctive shooting. It's a different style to what we teach here. A little more… primal."
She raises an eyebrow. He's got to be kidding.
He gives in, laughs at himself with a shake of his head, and to her extreme consternation, wanders over to where a collection of other bows are resting, selects one and holds it out leadingly.
"No."
"Oh come now, m'lady."
"It's Regina," she interrupts firmly, irritated with his affected chivalry. His eyes lock onto hers with an intensity that wasn't there before.
"Regina," he repeats, practically savouring her name and making her eyes drop to his lips completely involuntarily. "It's just us. No need to feel intimidated."
She barks a laugh, at his audacity as much as the suggestion itself.
"Intimidated? By you?"
He shrugs, all false innocence.
"It can be daunting to try something new," he says lightly, all hey-I'm-not-judging. But his grin is a wicked thing when he lifts his eyes back to hers. "Then again, you did insist you could shoot in those stilts, and I've yet to see the proof of it."
She lifts her chin, smiles dangerously, takes the barest of steps forward. More fool her for being so easily figured out, but she still can't back down from his obvious challenge.
"Go on then. Dazzle me with your expertise."
He waggles the bow he's already holding out. She sighs and walks towards him, heels tapping, feeling like a walking exhibit with his eyes following her progress the whole way. She plucks it from his hand when she reaches him, refusing to back down from his stare. He waits, lips quirked, then steps in a little closer, hand gesturing out near her hip but not quite touching.
"First, you may want to turn to face the target," he suggests, his voice a low, amused murmur.
She rolls her eyes and turns away, snarking, "What astonishingly productive advice. Somehow I don't think I'll be signing Henry up for the intermediate class."
He doesn't answer, passing her an arrow instead.
"So, nocking the arrow," he says softly. "This little ledge here is the arrow rest – that's where the arrow shaft sits. See how this vane is a different colour? That's the index vane, you want that pointed into your body, away from the bow."
He is close behind her, too close, and she is far too affected, all her senses attuned to his proximity, calculating how far she'd need to pull her elbow back to casually brush his chest, wanting and yet not wanting that hovering hand to make contact with her hip. This won't do at all.
Drawing on her memories of the couple of times Henry had convinced her to try with his second-hand bow at home (she spoils him, she knows, which is half the reason she didn't want to give in to this archery class idea in the first place), she slips the bowstring into the arrow nock, raises and draws without waiting for further direction and treats him to a saucy smile over her shoulder. He looks surprised, impressed surprised, and she sees his eyes flicker down to her lips again, less deliberately this time, sees his throat move as he swallows. Feels the thrill of it skitter over her skin.
"An advanced student, I see," Robin hums. "Very well. Where your hand touches your face is called an anchor point – "
"Yes, my son has already told me all about this," she interrupts. "Do you have any new information to offer, or shall I just take my lessons from him?"
His eyes narrow, and she suspects she may have just awakened a competitive streak.
He steps away, palms raised in a show of surrender, though his eyes are all challenge.
"Well, I wouldn't want to step on young Henry's toes, and it's clear you know what you're doing. By all means, m'lady. Show me how it's done."
He sweeps his arm in front of his body, inviting her to take up her shooting position. His eyebrows are cocked and his mouth is unsmiling, but decidedly self-satisfied. The prat already thinks he's won.
He's got her all ruffled, and annoyed, and she's tossing her hair and turning away from him as though she's got this in hand when really, they both know she's bluffing harder than a gambler without two chips to rub together. Oh, she does hate to be predictable, but, well, she hates losing more.
She does her best to replicate Henry's technique: planting her heels firmly, raising the bow again so it's vertical and she's looking directly down the arrow at the target. She draws the string back – it's harder than she thought it would be – and touches her knuckles to the corner of her mouth. She takes a breath, doesn't care that she can feel his eyes on her, remembers what Henry said about follow through, and looses the arrow.
She keeps her elbow out straight, she swears she does, but somehow the arrow still flies wildly off-target, landing with an anticlimactic clatter on the floor. Not even point down. She grimaces, her whole body shrinking in anticipation of his triumphant mocking.
"Try again."
She starts. His voice is right at her ear now, his warmth at her back, just barely touching, but a hell of a lot closer than he was a few seconds ago. His chest is brushing the thin fabric of her shirt, his upper arms ghosting past her shoulders as he reaches for the bow in her hand.
"May I?"
He's asking permission to touch her, his fingers hovering over her wrist, and there's a private, intimate tone to his voice now, all low and right in her ear, that makes her pelvic muscles clench. Oh, the jerk. Attractive jerk.
She nods mutely to his request, and he gently covers her hand with his, shifting her grip slightly and guiding her bow arm back out straight. His other hand glides down where her other arm has fallen by her side. His fingers trace the lightest of touches down her forearm before he finds her wrist; so light it tickles a little and makes her shiver. A shiver he detects, because he says,
"Is this all right?"
There is disarming sincerity in his voice, he is concerned where he should be victorious, and she thought she could win this game but now she thinks he might be playing a different one altogether. She nods again. He places another arrow in the curl of her fingers, and she just manages to hold onto it.
"I know I don't need to tell you how to load your bow, so go right ahead," he says, softly teasing. She puffs out a breath and nocks the arrow, giving herself a mental shake.
"Now," he says. "Try not to move your upper body so much. You don't need to brace yourself, just relax your shoulders, let your arms do all the work. Your foot positioning's good, but keep your body facing the same way, at a right angle to the target. It will help you get used to aiming down the bow."
She does as she's told, heart pounding ridiculously. He cups the elbow of her relaxed arm.
"Reach for the string and draw it back, but don't twist your torso into it, and keep your head up."
She lifts her chin, lengthening her neck and rolling her shoulders down her back.
"Good," Robin murmurs, and she swears she feels his breath move the hair on her neck. She wonders what it would feel like to have his lips there.
He traces his hand lightly from where her fingers are grasping the arrow end to her bent elbow, nudging the elbow up and slightly to the right. She's practically putty in his hands, malleable and pliant, and she should be embarrassed but she's a little too distracted by the feel of his hands and the seductive closeness of his voice.
"When you loose the arrow, it's a release of the fingers, that's all. Keep everything in the same position and simply relax your grip."
"Okay," she says, her voice breathier than she would've liked.
"Okay," he repeats, a smile in his voice, and she feels him step away to give her room.
She does her best to reign in her desire and returns her focus to her shot. She brings her knuckles in to the same point at the corner of her mouth, lines the arrow tip up with the centre of the target, and shoots.
It hits. It's not even close to the centre, and if it had been any lower it would have shot right under the target, but it hits. Swiftly, solidly, and with a pleasing thunk.
Regina smiles triumphantly, turns back to look at Robin, startled when she realises how close he still is.
"Very good," he says, his voice a low rumble. His gaze is liquid and he lets it run all over her. There's a distinct hunger in his eyes that sends a throb of heat to her core.
"What?" she demands, blushing with both self-consciousness and arousal.
"Well, if you'll pardon me for saying so, I've just discovered that there's something quite unfairly sexy about a woman shooting a bow and arrow in high heels."
She smiles archly.
"And you doubted that I could do it."
He steps even closer.
"I'm a foolish, foolish man."
And then he is claiming her lips in a fierce, heady kiss that has her dropping the bow with a clunk and fisting her hands in his wife beater, pulling him closer with a ferocity that causes them both to stumble. He secures her to him with one arm around her waist, the other in her hair. The kiss is all tongue, wet and unrefined, passionate and dizzying and God, she is already damp and aching between her legs. He begins to walk them backwards and she almost trips over the bow at her feet – he keeps her upright by grabbing an entirely necessary handful of her ass. He has lost all hesitation in touching her; he rolls a nipple through her shirt with one hand, causing her to moan into his mouth, explores under her shirt with the other, splaying his fingers over her bare back, then moves it down again, dips his fingers just under the waistband of her skirt. Her hands are busy too, one grasping his bicep, the other sliding down to grope his ass in return.
She oofs when her back hits the wall and their mouths separate with a pop, both of them panting for breath. They look at each other, both wanting to be sure of what the other wants, neither wanting to break the moment. Regina is the first to speak.
"Maybe I will sign Henry up for that intermediate class after all."
Robin chuckles, and agrees, and kisses her again.
And if she ends her afternoon with her bare legs wrapped around an attractive archery instructor's waist, her Jimmy Choos digging into the small of his back, shoulders grinding into the wall, crying out with every one of his deep, delicious thrusts, well.
She supposes this one could be considered a draw.