Robin is carefully perusing the cereal aisle (he's discovered that Henry is rather picky when it comes to his breakfast foods, and why the bloody hell are there so many different types of Cheerios? he wonders as he double checks the grocery list Regina gave him earlier that morning) when he feels something cold and metal prod him in the back.
"Mate," he hears someone hissing at his ear, "I require your assistance on a very…delicate matter."
Robin turns around to frown at Hook. "Why are you whispering?"
"Delicate, mate," Hook insists again, putting a heavily ringed finger up to his lips as his eyes roll in exasperation, then shift left and right to ensure that they're alone (he's safe; the nearest person is Granny two aisles over in the frozen foods section, stocking up on more lasagna).
"What is this urgent business of yours, then," Robin asks, amused, and the pirate drags him with a hook around his forearm away from the food and into an area that looks to be dedicated to all manner of personal hygiene products. He recognizes something called a flat iron—Regina owns one of these contraptions but has been using it less frequently, he's noticed, ever since he commented on how stunning her hair looks when it's slightly wilder at the ends, and then he had twirled them in his fingers to illustrate his point before she batted his hand away.
They walk past what must be about twenty varieties of shampoo bottles (and he will always prefer just the one, the one Regina uses, and he sighs at the memory of its scent, hopes he can get home in time to coax her back into bed with him before the boys wake). Then there are rows and rows of brightly colored boxes of things he's caught glimpses of in the bottommost bathroom drawer, which Regina's claimed for her own private use. He's about to pick one up at random when Hook's hand shoots out and stops him.
"No, mate," he shakes his head in solemn warning, "I wouldn't touch that if I were you."
Robin shrugs and puts the box labeled Playtex Gentle Glide away.
Hook has now stopped them in front of several shelves of boxes more subdued in color, although these appear to be shouting various phrases, punctuated enthusiastically with exclamation marks—Ecstasy! and Piña Colada-Flavored!
Robin leans in and upon closer examination straightens hastily back up as his pirate companion waves a hand and a hook around, looking utterly perplexed.
"I don't understand what she wants me to do with all…these," he says, gesturing broadly.
Robin smirks. "I think it's fairly obvious what you're supposed to do with them," earning a sly eyebrow raise.
"Oh trust me," Hook begins with a lascivious grin, but Robin cuts him off with an eyebrow raise of his own.
"Are you trying to woo me now? Can't imagine Emma will be too pleased about that. She doesn't seem to be the sharing type."
"Sometimes I don't know what on God's green earth that woman wants," Hook mutters, either missing the reference to Henry or choosing to ignore it, "clearly," and he's discarding boxes as quickly as he's pulling them off the shelves.
"'Ribbed for her pleasure,'" he reads, then picks up another, "yet this one is 'studded for her pleasure.' What's the bloody difference?" He flips the box around to assess the back with a studious air, and Robin is reminded of the way Regina scrutinizes every nutrition label for even a hint of gluten now, ever since Dr. Whale diagnosed Roland with an allergy to it (they'd seen a lot of Dr. Whale this year, it seems).
"And what if it rubs her the wrong way?" Hook wonders out loud.
Robin clears his throat. So much for being covert about the whole matter; the man has riled himself up into quite a state of indignation now.
"This one's made of lambskin?" He looks horrified. "And this one's spermicidal!" More horrified still. "That's positively barbaric."
"Indeed," Robin says, but his voice sounds as far away as his mind feels at the moment. He's recalling the way Regina woke him up this morning, with a toe trailing down his calf, a tongue tickling his earlobe, a hand dragging across his stomach and around to grasp his hip, tug it against her own. Had barely given him a chance to open his eyes before she was maneuvering him onto his back, straddling him at the waist, smiling when a groan fell from his lips and she could sense the blood in his body diverting down, down, only speeding it along further with every tantalizing movement of her hips.
And then she had bent over him, breasts just grazing his chest as both his hands and hips lifted to meet her at the waist, her lips and tongue traveling up the side of his neck to breathe into his ear—and then she'd asked him to stop by the grocery store, which had been entirely unfair because at that point he would've agreed to just about anything she said, and damn the woman she'd known it.
Gods, he needs to get home.
"This one claims to be entirely vegan," Hook is carrying on, perplexed. "Does this mean…the rest of these aren't vegan?"
"Certainly not the lambskin one, I'd wager," replies Robin, wondering if there's any polite way to extract himself from this situation as soon as humanly possible. This aisle is the last place he needs to be, given the current state and whereabouts of mind.
"And what the bloody hell is a Night Light? It claims to glow in the…oh." He rifles through some more boxes, then chuckles triumphantly, "Ah, now here's something I can speak to," and he tosses a package labeled 'XL' up and down in his hand.
"Right, well," Robin examines his watch in an exaggerated fashion, "best of luck in the rest of your search," and he turns to leave.
"No!" Hook protests, reeling him back in with the absolutely pitiful look on his face. "Come on, mate." He gives what Robin can only assume the pirate believes to be his most dashing grin. "Help a man out? I thought about asking Charming, but, well, given the circumstances, what with him being Swan's father and all…didn't seem highly appropriate."
"I just don't think I'm the right man for this job at the moment," Robin tries, and to his chagrin Hook tilts his head, looking terribly intrigued by this bit of information.
"How do you mean?" he wants to know, already speculating before Robin has a chance to answer (though he would be remiss to do so anyway). "What do you do, then, when you're—you know?"
"I can't fathom what you're going on about, sorry," says Robin, and this time he is able to walk away successfully, but only because Hook has followed closely behind.
"Are you not, then? Mate, it's been well over a year, hasn't it? What are you waiting for?"
"Waiting to get home, actually," Robin mutters under his breath.
"Certainly not until after the wedding, I would presume," continues Hook, looking thoughtful. "Regina doesn't strike me as the type to—"
Robin looks at him.
"—allow silly little conventions to define her life choices," Hook finishes easily.
Robin smiles despite himself. Quite true.
"Well, you know what they say," Hook says with a wink, "no glove, no love, mate. Or does—I know," he's snapping his fingers, looking utterly impressed, regarding Robin now like he's the slyest fox in the world. "Regina casts some sort of spell on it, doesn't she?"
"Sure," says Robin. And actually she had, for a while, up until their last visit with Dr. Whale (that time entirely unrelated to the gluten, when they'd realized protection would no longer be necessary; his heart twists at the thought, he struggles to contain his breathing).
Granny saves him then; she smiles at them from the check-out line, though coming from her it looks more like a grimace, as Happy bags her groceries and Robin sets his nearly empty shopping basket on the conveyor belt. Hook, disgruntled once more, gives him a slap on the back in farewell and sidles away. Robin can hear him arguing with himself about the potential merits of 'pleasure' versus 'pleasure plus' all the way back to the condoms aisle.
.
.
.
"You're home from the store early," Regina comments from the kitchen sink as he sets a single paper bag (she scolded him the first time he brought their groceries home in plastic) onto the counter.
"Mmm," he agrees, "I realized I forgot something."
"And what was that," she starts to ask, drying her hands on a towel, when he comes up to her from behind, palms anchoring to the edge of the sink as he traps her there with his body, can already feel himself responding to the exhilarating proximity of her curves, the intoxicating scent of her hair.
"Oh," she breathes in understanding, tilting her head back to catch his eye, and there's an unmistakable twinkle in hers. "Someone is feeling a little frustrated from earlier, I take it?"
"You used me," he accuses, nipping at her neck in belated retaliation, but he pauses to smile when he hears an uncharacteristic giggle issue from her lips, and he kisses his way up to them before they can release another.
"Don't make it so easy next—time," she gasps out as he presses himself shamelessly into her backside, and his hands, having valiantly fought against the urge to run up and down her body, finally give in, slipping between the folds of her silk nightgown; he hums his appreciation when he finds her wearing nothing underneath.
"Oh, I don't plan to," he promises her lowly, has every intention of torturing her until she's begging him to stop, and decides to start now, stepping abruptly away from her, and she sags from the sudden loss of his body anchoring hers upright.
But if he'd thought she wouldn't go down without a fight, wouldn't play a little dirty herself, then he would be wrong and she wouldn't be his Regina, and he smiles crookedly when her shoulders square in determination and she turns slowly around to face him. Her nightgown seems to have magically come undone at the top, fabric falling down to caress the swell of her breasts, and he swallows heavily despite himself.
"Take us upstairs," he all but growls, and she is smirking now, but this is far from over, as far as he is concerned.
He's already mid-step by the time she's poofed them to the master bedroom, the door swinging gently closed with a wave of her hand, and then he has her backed against the vanity, bracelets and earrings jangling together as his hand sweeps blindly across the wooden surface for leverage, the sounds muffling as jewelry scatters onto the plush carpet beneath their feet.
"You're making a mess," she admonishes, punctuating her disapproval with the force she uses to tug his v-neck sweater over his head, exposing his bare chest to the mercy of her fingernails.
"You're making me into one," he retorts with a groan, and her nightgown glides silently off her shoulders with the aid of his hand, palm pressing, kneading her breast before the fabric has even pooled down to her ankles, and she is glorious, a vision, he feels breathless just looking at her.
But then looking is not enough and he removes his hand from the vanity to cup her bottom, lifting her forcefully up to meet him at the hips; her calf links around the back of his thigh, and then her other foot comes off the ground as he hoists her more firmly into his arms, her elbows come to rest over his shoulders and her hair tickles his neck as she lowers her lips to his. Their kisses are deep, feverish from the start, tongues dancing, she grips his hair and tugs to angle their mouths more openly into each other as he begins to stumble backwards, until his legs hit the side of their bed.
They sink into it with her straddling him on top, just as she had earlier, but groceries are the furthest from their minds now as she prioritizes the removal of his pants; he lifts his hips obligingly up, smiling dazedly as she grunts in frustration when one of the pant legs gets tangled at the ankle. Giving up, she waves a hand and they shimmer into nonexistence.
"I was hoping to put those back on at some point," Robin rasps out as she positions her hips above his, begins to move them in a torturous rhythm.
"Mm," she responds, "I'm sure I can find you a decent replacement…later," and her hand reaches down between their bodies, grasping him firmly, and oh God his head falls into the bed as his eyes roll back, shuddering closed. Fingers convulse at her hips as she positions him just so, lowers herself down onto him and he gasps outright at the sensation, the tightness enveloping his core, his entire body is throbbing and he wonders when she gained the upper hand, realizes she'd never lost it in the first place, she owns him, every part of him; and as her hips quicken their pace and his hands come up to drag across her breasts, rub against their hard pink centers with a calloused touch, she throws her head back in ecstasy, her lips part in a silent moan, and he knows, she's given herself to him too.
But he needs to kiss her, can't bear to be joined together without the feel of her tongue against his, so he flips them both, buries his face into her neck as the rest of him buries itself further into her, she starts to stutter out his name but a breathy cry escapes instead, God he loves that sound, loves that no one else in the world is privy to it, that no one else has the power to draw it out of her; but he needs to kiss her, so his lips fall clumsily onto hers, and they kiss, they kiss, her leg comes around to press into his hips, coaxing them to go faster, harder, his arm is tense, shaking from carrying half his weight so he doesn't crush her, but his other hand comes up to caress her face as his mouth moves hungrily over hers, there's a telltale hitch in her breathing and she gasps, he answers it with a groan, and her fingers scrabble over his back as her entire body arches up off the bed, rigid, she cries out, and he shudders violently as he comes with her.
They collapse, boneless, into each other, and it's several minutes before either is able to speak, so he settles for trailing a hand down her arm, watching the goosebumps appear. "What do you think?" he asks when he's finally caught his breath, though the words still come out ragged, and he presses a palm to her tummy. "Will they be getting a baby brother or a sister?"
She turns languidly, throwing a leg over his as she drops a kiss to his shoulder, smiles. "I didn't even check my ovulation calendar," she muses, tracing random shapes into his chest with a fingertip.
"Oh, bollocks to Dr. Whale and his ovulation calendars," Robin murmurs, playing with her hair now. "I believe it will happen, when the timing is right. Until then…" He nudges her cheek with his nose, smiling when she does, "we better keep trying, yeah?" and his hand releases her arm, starts traveling down her body, down, down—
They hear shuffling movements from upstairs.
"The boys are waking up," she whispers and he sighs in agreement; they lie still for a blissful moment longer, listening to the puttering sounds of footsteps over the ceiling above.
"I should go get their breakfast ready," she says finally, though she doesn't move. "Did you pick up Henry's cereal?"
Robin's head drops into her shoulder, and he groans. "Damn it."
A/N: Originally a tumblr prompt from the most wonderful rrumpelstiltskins. Leave a review, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Never written this sort of thing before and I think my face is still red from it, so, bye now.