A/N: Based on two dialogue prompts I got from Tumblr, "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?", and one which I decided to make its sequel, "If you keep looking at me we won't make it to a bed." I hope you like it!
"Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"
Dusk has just begun to cling to the air when he finishes setting up for target practice. He stands back to eye his handiwork, the thin wooden slab of circles carved within circles that he's anchored to a tree with a few carefully aimed arrows.
Little John had given him a fair bit of grief for tasking him with holding it in place while Robin had strung his bow and fixed his gaze upon its center, then angled up, adjusting for the changing winds before letting his arrow loose upon the exact spot he'd intended for it to land. Still, his closest friend and ally had refused to pry so much as one eye open until the final arrow had lodged in place, withdrawing a shaky hand and grumbling all the way back to his tent that legendary or no, he'd rather he not be the one to put the accuracy of Robin's aim to the test.
"The day I miss is the day you won't live to hear it," Robin calls after him with a smirk before turning his attention back to the issue at present. He recalls, with a thoughtful bite of his lip, that Snow White is just near a head shorter than he, so by his estimation the makeshift target should be at a proper enough height for her to—
He hears the scream halfway across camp.
It first reaches his ears high and shrill, and is then overpowered by a very masculine-sounding holler.
In fact, the second source of sudden commotion sounds very much like Little John.
Robin hasn't heard his friend yell like that since two winters prior, when the man had nicked a burlap sack of grain off the back of a farmer's moving cart—an impressively stealthy feat for one so encumbered by his own body habitus, but the important part was the petrified little field mouse he'd discovered burrowing inside for warmth, and John was no fan of mice, nor grain, not anymore, since that time on.
Robin wonders what could possibly be the matter this time. A spider he'd found in his tent, perhaps?
Deducing that whatever it is can't be all that life-threatening, as he can still detect glints of an intact shield surrounding their campsite, Robin resumes his previous activities, positioning the shaft of his arrow along his line of eyesight and pulling the bowstring taut.
Then, a most bizarre thing happens. It happens so quickly, and with such peculiar lack of ceremony, that for a split instant he thinks he's still fast asleep in his own tent somehow, because the vision before him is one he has, of late, only seen in his dreams.
His arrow, instantly forgotten, shoots to an embarrassing thud meters away from his mark, sending up a cloud of rustling foliage as he turns in a rather dumbstruck fashion to stare after Regina emerging from Little John's tent. Beguiling locks of hair frame her face and fall to grace her shoulders, bare, defiantly stiff and blanketed in furs—John's furs, no doubt—that she's clutched to her chest, fairly indignant though looking no less dignified, save for the baleful glare Robin gets as she walks by with her head held impossibly high.
"Gods," he utters, more or less to himself, as everyone else seems similarly flabbergasted to the point of soundless jaw-dropping—with the unforeseen exception of Little John, who has become quite uncharacteristically vocal, though his words crack slightly at the edges when Regina throws him a hard look over her shoulder.
"Is—is there a reason you were n-naked in my bed?" John stammers out bravely, looking as though he's still recovering from a nasty shock, eyes wild and beard frazzled where he's run his hands through and through searching for some indication as to why he's just found himself on the receiving end of such peril.
Robin might think it almost amusing, that John should consider a naked queen between his sheets a threat rather than blessing, were he not so preoccupied with the exact same question that currently plagues his friend—what reason could she possibly have for—
His gaze slides unwillingly away from Regina's retreating form, bare back creamy-pale and rigid-straight as one of his arrows. His eyes land first on the open flap to John's tent, and then the one directly adjacent to it.
His. Robin's.
What if…
But no, he's being ridiculous for even thinking it. It couldn't be that she…
Could it?
Regina's haughty sniff in response to John's query pulls Robin out of the heated furnace where his imagination has just led him.
"I doubt you could handle it anyway," she sneers delicately with an upturned nose and a flip of that glorious hair over one shoulder, and Little John looks scandalized at the very thought of trying.
Robin has to give credit where it's due. For someone who's just exposed herself under rather unfortunate circumstances, her composure couldn't be more regal and self-assured, more suggestive of several indisputable facts. One, that those who stare—as the majority of their camp seems to be doing now, openly and with no shortage of astonishment—stare only because they don't know better, lacking as they are in her refinement and poise. Second, that John is entirely at fault for owning the bed she'd chosen to slip in to; that it wasn't at all a case of mistaken identity or planned seduction gone awry.
Though if that is indeed what she had intended for Robin, he has to admit she's managed to pull it off more spectacularly than even she had likely envisioned for it to go. He's already well and truly besotted with her, a state of mind and an affair of the heart which had not required either of them to step a single foot inside his tent. (Or John's, for that matter.)
However, there is, regrettably, still a sizable amount of ground between them to cover—particularly if he were to, say, request a personal demonstration of what she'd had in mind while lying bare beneath a blanket she thought belonged to him—
Gods, he had better desist with this line of thinking lest he draw the wrong kind of attention to himself and be forced to walk in the exact opposite direction he'd very much like to go, away from the woman he'd quite like to—
But a welcome distraction presents itself, and Robin starts forward when Regina disappears inside her tent, leaving Little John looking torn as to how to proceed (to turn tail on his pride and let her be, or to further test the patience of an evil queen?).
"I've got this, Little John," he murmurs with an appeasing hand on his friend's wide, expansive shoulder. "Stand down, man. I'll handle it."
John looks simultaneously grateful and put out. Perhaps now that the shock of it all has worn off, the reality of missed opportunities has finally begun to sink in. Robin wouldn't blame him.
He is well aware of the gaping and the goggling, the gazes full of solemn concern as though bearing witness to a funeral march, as he strides directly into the devil's lair. He feels their eyes on his back until Regina's tent flaps closed behind him, opening up a whole new world of possibility with a single heated look from the woman inside.
"If you keep looking at me like that we won't make it to a bed."
She tugs the furs tighter around her body when his eyes linger a little longer than he knows they should. But the silky backdrop of her hair alone, cascading down to caress bare skin, is just as bewitching a sight as any other part of her, so his gazes settles there, while the air leaves his lungs with no clear intention of returning.
"I'm not in the mood for company," Regina glowers at him in characteristically mutinous fashion, then looks pointedly at the tent opening behind him, when he seems permanently transfixed to the spot.
"I see," says Robin, and suddenly it's a struggle to keep a straight face—though it's better than having no face at all, which is exactly what he can expect to happen should she deem his attitude a touch too callous for her liking, in her currently vulnerable state. "Is that what you had hoped to find in John's tent, then? Solitude?"
He can't help it. She's a target too well exposed, and too gloriously so, to resist a teasing remark or two as he walks forward, with a smirk thrown in that only adds to her indignation.
Regina's eyes become predictably narrow slits, halting him mid-step. If her hands weren't so preoccupied with limiting his view of everything past her collarbone, they would no doubt be gripping either side of her waist by now, in defiant challenge. "What if I told you I was waiting for Little John to return?"
"Oh, I wouldn't blame you," he tells her, very seriously. "In fact, I think I know exactly what it is you see in him."
The brief twitch at the corner of her mouth could almost be mistaken for a smile.
"He can be quite charming even if he doesn't mean to be," Robin carries on solemnly. "He's the sort of man you'd be lucky to have back you in a fight. A remarkably loyal friend." He clears his throat then, rearranging his features into a sympathetic grimace, as though about to announce something dreadfully tragic. "He does, however, have one unforgivable flaw."
Robin considers it no small victory when he detects the slightest release of surface tension from her shoulders, the thin lines of her cherry-red lips relaxing into something not quite a frown. "And what's that?" Regina asks, dubious but without disdain.
A long-suffering sigh from his end in reply. "He has a rather poor appreciation for the female form, I'm afraid."
She gives a decidedly unladylike snort.
Robin shrugs reluctantly, like it pains him greatly to admit it. "Considering the impressive fright you gave him—" and the memory of John's spectacular yelping and hollering is one he'll not soon forget, and will surely subject his friend to a tremendous amount of grief for later, "—you'd think he had seen something…"
"Monstrous?" Regina suggests dryly, arms wrapping instinctively around her middle as she says it. "Repulsive?"
"Not from this earth," Robin supplies gently instead, and he itches to cup her disbelieving face in his palms, to banish the uncertainty with a kiss, but where to start? Her lips would be the obvious choice—still slightly pursed, but enticingly plump. That dip in her clavicle, though, looks rather inviting as well, if not more so, if only for the small gasp he feels a growing desperation to hear tumbling from those lips as he kisses his way up to them.
So, all right, fine, her lips can wait. For now.
"Regina," he says, as much for her benefit as his own, to break from his reverie of paying homage to a body she's still intent on hiding shamefully from sight, "I honestly do not know what would possess any living, breathing man to see…you, all of you, and to not—to simply—"
No, this is not coming out right in the slightest, he thinks despairingly. His tongue has tangled with words that had made much more sense within the security of his own thoughts, before he'd had a mouthful of them to contend with; what if she mistook his clumsy, shameless flirting for something else, thought he'd only come after her in her hasty state of undress in order to take every advantage of it?
But then, for what he's sure will be neither the first nor the last time as far as Regina is concerned, she surprises him to the brink of speechlessness when she responds.
"You're not like most men." She says it like she has yet to determine whether it's a good thing or a very, very bad one. It's that same indecision that has her abandoning him in the woods after every frantic fuck, every time he takes her against a tree, or a boulder in a stream nearby. Leaving him aching for more, for what she has yet to offer him—not just her body, though it's certainly a breathtaking one, but her, all of her. He wants the intimacy of making love, not the hollow feeling after having emptied his seed on the roots where she'd just stood.
Robin hasn't let himself touch her in weeks, for that exact reason.
He considers himself a decently patient and understanding man, and for Regina he will wait for as long as his heart still knows how to beat, until she's ready, until the timing is right.
And he will dream of her, every night, until then.
Yet here she is now, in the flesh, with nothing but a blanket to cover it up.
He wonders about the timing now, whether now is the moment he's been waiting for. And there's something about the way she's looking at him, and the look in her eye as she does, that tells him he hasn't been a fool for never losing hope.
"For that I am grateful," Robin tells her, before he amends, "That is, assuming this view…" His gaze grows hooded as it captures hers and then draws a languorous and decadent path down, down, as though falling through a barrel of golden-raw honey, "…was intended for my enjoyment alone?" He resumes a casual approach toward where she stands, not quite so tense and unyielding as before, and his grin goes lopsided in just the way he knows will drive her stark raving mad.
"And if it really was meant for someone else?" Regina insists, though her eyelids look heavier the closer he comes. "What would you do?"
Robin's mere centimeters from her now, can feel his pulse gaining speed as it registers just how easily he could eliminate the distance remaining between her lips and his. "Well," he replies, brow creasing and thumb pad tracing his lower lip in a display of careful contemplation, "I think what I'd have to do is…" He leans into her ear, a conspiratorial whisper, "…this." And he drops a kiss into the hollow of her neck, a delicate, almost shy graze of stubble over skin.
"How territorial of you," she hums, and then exhales sharply when his lips part against her throat, tongue slipping out for a taste.
"Little John doesn't realize what he's missing," he rumbles matter-of-factly into her skin, "and if it's quite all right with you, I'd rather he never find out."
Regina mutters something under her breath, but it splinters at the end into a series of broken-sounding gasps. Not that he could make heads or tails of what it was anyway, as preoccupied as he is with honoring the promise he had made, to save her lips for last.
He trails open-mouthed kisses up the slender column of her neck and into that delectable corner behind her ear, then across her jawline. He takes his time, reasoning with what little capacity he has left for such things that he'll give it all back to her, every last moment, should she change her mind and push him away. But his hands have discovered a life of their own, have found their way to hers somehow, palms gentle over fingers that still cling to John's confounded fur blanket. His thumbs massage her wrists, feeling the erratic thumping of her pulse as he breaks off for a moment, pressing the tip of his nose into her cheekbone and inhaling, deeply.
"I want to see you," he says then, plain and low, so low he can barely hear the words himself, and her hands twitch beneath his in response. Shallow breaths intermingle as he ghosts another kiss over her jaw, drawing back as she leans forward so he can look her full in the eye when he tells her again, "I want to see you, Regina. Every last thing there is to see."
"You might not like what you find," she tells him, looking pained, as though she already knows to be fact what he's now determined to prove otherwise.
"No," with an adamant shake of his head, "no, I cannot fathom a world in which such a thing would be possible."
"That's because you live in a dream world," she retorts, "and sleepwalk through everything else. What are you even still doing here? Why—"
"For the same reason John found you naked inside his tent, I suspect," Robin interrupts her, not unkindly. He presses his forehead into hers to smooth out the frown there, then presses further, until her chin tilts and their noses kiss.
"Oh?" And gods help him but she smirks. "You want to seduce him too?"
Robin bites uselessly down on an uncontrollable smile that she can't help but return. "Perhaps I do," he says, a loftiness elevating his shoulder into a shrug and his tone to a pleasantly mocking decibel. "What would her majesty have to say to that?"
"Hmmm…" She nibbles at her bottom lip, with a heady, half-lidded look through long, lush lashes that drops something heavy and warm into his stomach. And he knows if he plays this game with her any longer then he's bound to lose, thinks that perhaps he ought to quit now while he's still marginally ahead, and just kiss her already.
Regina is slipping a hand from under his grasp now, closing his fingers around the blanket that she'd balled in her fist a moment before, and then the other, until the only things denying him the vision underneath are his own shaking hands, his own foolish honor.
When she smiles hesitantly in answer to the question in his eyes, they close in silent prayer to whichever of the gods has delivered him this magnificent creature he's done nothing to deserve. His jaw slackens as she takes it between tremulous palms, and his vision swirls, drunk off the intensity in her gaze when his lids drag open again. Her next words warm his lips and tighten his throat.
"I want you to see me, Robin."
The furs matted against his sweaty hands slip, uncovering creamy acres of skin as they caress bare shoulders in their slow, graceful fall to the ground, pooling at her feet, sequestering them from view.
But the rest of her—gods—
"You're—" he attempts to say, but he swallows the rest of his words by accident, and it feels neither practical nor terribly appropriate timing to try and summon them back up.
Her fingers slip from his jawline to palm his ears and thread through his hair as his chin tilts down and he steps closer, until the mound of furs at their feet will allow his boots to toe no further, and then he bends down, breathes against the swells of her breasts. They rise and fall in time with her own breathing, shallow and quick, quicker still when his hands grip blindly at her hips and her nails drag over his scalp.
"I want you to taste me," she whispers, a hypnotic, husky scratch that would've had him walking obediently off a cliff ledge, if she'd only ask it of him.
His mouth parts over a breast, kisses with tongue, and an instinctive jerk of her back brings the skin in closer contact to his lips, and he burns, he burns to have more of her. Depositing warm, wet kisses in a trail to her nipple, he takes it in, rolls it against his tongue, as his fingers seek to do the same with the other. His free hand gives her hip a final squeeze before moving to the divot in her spine, bracing her there as she sways.
Her elbows dig into his shoulder blades, forearms settling into a gentle embrace over the back of his head, and his skin tingles with each maneuver of her fingertips through his hair, dancing, tugging, coaxing him closer, until she's arched to the tips of her toes, unsteady on her feet, but she'll never know the fear of falling, not for as long as he's got her in his arms.
He drops to his knees before her then, palms coasting down her spine, following the curve of her hips until he's cupping her bottom, firm and round and perfect and he cannot wait to—
"Robin?" a voice booms suddenly from outside.
Goddamn it, Little John!
"Is everything all right in there?" his friend goes on, sounding extremely concerned as Robin releases a silent groan into Regina's stomach. "You've been gone quite a while. Just wanted to make sure you were—"
"Still alive?" Regina cuts in, and John falls into what Robin imagines to be a horrified sort of silence on the other side of the tent. "Yes, I dare say he is." Her legs fold underneath her as she comes to kneel in front of him, resting her hand against his chest, directly above his thundering heart. "But who can say for how long?" she muses, almost to herself.
Robin tilts his head, confused as to her meaning, until she makes it perfectly clear, with that hand of hers as it abandons its grip on his tunic and reaches down low, seeking out the hardness in his trousers.
He lets out a deep and unmistakable groan.
"Robin?" asks John, alarmed.
For gods' sake, Robin thinks desperately when Regina repositions herself on her knees for a better angle with which to torture him, work him over into a hot and useless mess. "John, I'm—" he rasps, —fine, he means to say, before dropping his forehead into Regina's shoulder. This serves him two purposes; firstly, he's near out of energy to maintain this charade and has to conserve where he can.
Secondly, it gives him an excuse not to look at her, at her wicked satisfaction with his endless torment, because he finds it so entirely erotic that he fears otherwise he'll take her right there, John be damned.
"Everything is—under control," Robin tries again. "Truly." It may have even been halfway true, had the queen's evil side not come out at that exact moment and inspired her to shove him down onto his arse, hard, and straddle her thighs round his waist. Her fingers weave through his as they grip instinctively at her hips, whether to stabilize her there or to further his own suffering, he can't work out which, but it has him positively throbbing for her, all of her. And judging from that knowing glint, that smug half-smile, she has every intention of taking full advantage.
Well he's certainly in for it now.
"All right," says John, though his tone of voice does not suggest one who is convinced that anything is all right in the slightest.
"I'm fine, John," Robin insists, though that look of hers has him feeling quite the opposite. It disarms him, the incalculable depth to this woman, the vulnerability in her resilience, rising like a phoenix but brittle on the inside, delicate in its beauty, uncertain in its strength. "Really. We're simply—"
He pauses to suppress another groan when Regina begins rocking back and forth, rubbing along his length, breasts a merciless tease as they bounce up and down before his eyes. "Working…we're working things out." He hopes John doesn't pick up on the breathless, distracted quality, or the flimsiness, of his excuse.
"Be there—soon," he promises at last, and if that's not enough to appease John then he's fresh out of ideas and the resolve to care.
"You won't be able to walk by the time I'm through with you," Regina says almost conversationally into his ear before giving it a vicious nibble, and when had he allowed for the tables to turn so abruptly in her favor?
But then she rolls those damn hips of hers again, and he thinks maybe this is the way to win, after all.
John's voice grows blessedly distant, speaking something about supper being ready whenever Robin is—and, he supposes as a begrudging afterthought, the queen too, if she pleases. Once they've finished with their discussion, that is.
Or he says something to that extent, anyway; Robin's lost the capacity to listen somewhere between the leather strap for his quiver Regina has just yanked off and tossed across her tent, and the hand she's slipped through the rough-spun cloth of his pants. His eyes nearly fall to the back of his head when she grips him in her palm and applies a firm, steady pressure.
Her smirk is the sauciest he's ever seen it once the spots have cleared from his vision.
"You know," he says, trying to maintain an even tone, "if you keep looking at me like that," and he surrenders to a low growl when she moves against him just so, "we won't make it to a bed."
Regina stills, raises an eyebrow. "You mean you won't make it to a bed?" she asks with a pointed downward gaze, and it's true; he's been so hard for her and for so long that he's starting to feel a telltale pain amidst the pleasure, a restrained desperation that has him seeing stars.
"We shall see about that," he promises darkly, and her hands fly instinctively to his neck as he establishes a firm grip round her bottom and hauls them both up to stand. His thighs protest from the unexpected readjustment, but the minor discomfort feels entirely worth it, to hear the queen respond with such a highly undignified sort of sound.
Which she then sees fit to punish him for by ripping his shirt from collar to navel.
"You'll pay for that one," he tells her mildly before tossing her with minimal warning or ceremony backwards onto her bed of brocade pillows and silken, lace-trimmed sheets. He pauses to admire the view while he toes his boots off, grunting in surprise when the knotted ties at his waist loosen as if of their own accord and his britches tug, violently, to settle just over his hipbones.
The look she gives him is distinctly predatory as she leans casually back onto her elbows, fingers tracing seductive little circles into the planes of her belly, one knee knocking coyly into the other. She tracks his progressive state of undress with a devious glimmer in her eye that sparks and darkens when her efforts are rewarded and his pants completely divested from his body, erection springing free.
"Are you asking me to pay for a shirt you probably stole off another man's back?" she wonders innocently as he edges closer, closer, until his hands encounter bedding and drag his body up to a low crouch just above hers. "Because," and her palms chase each other up and down his chest, "I'm pretty sure I actually did you a favor."
"Is that right?" Robin chuckles, and there's an audible hitch in her breath when his gaze rakes appreciatively down to her pebbling nipples, back up to linger on the involuntary sigh parting her lips. "Perhaps, then, if your majesty were feeling so inclined, you could indulge this petty thief with another small favor?"
He braces his weight with a forearm into the cushions, then lifts his other hand to graze a knuckle over her cheekbone, run his thumb through her hairline. Her hands give pause at his shoulders and uncertainty clouds her features, as though she hadn't expected this sudden turn from teasing to tender. As though he's thrown their entire dynamic off by exchanging carelessness for caution, by acting like her appeal lies in some unfathomable affection he has for her, rather than plain and simple raw attraction.
She is utterly ridiculous for it.
And he is utterly furious with whomever has conditioned this fear of hers, this assumption that he is not there to give, but to take, that she exists for others to use and discard.
He sees her closing back in on herself again, like a flower that only blooms in reverse, and he wonders if she'd even allow for it now, to let him kiss her where he's driven himself to near madness trying to set aside till the very end.
But what has he to lose, to ask?
"What is it?" Regina asks finally, sounding small and hesitant and inexplicably brokenhearted.
Robin bends down until he's exactly a breath away from the slope of her breast, until he can feel it graze gently over his lips with every rise and fall of her chest. He's mindful of where his lower body has settled, careful not to press into her center too urgently, to convey anything but a sense of patient desire.
"I was wondering," he murmurs, "if I could kiss you…here." His lips part against her skin, a quick but heated touch, and her answering hum acts like a beacon, drawing him toward its source. "Here." He turns his attentions to her collarbone next, followed by the dip in her neck. "Here." Across to her ear, then along her jawline. "And here." The last kiss he leaves at the corner of her mouth. "And…"
"And?" she prompts breathlessly.
"Here," he whispers against her mouth, and her eyes hold his captive when they open again, because he is, in every way, hers to take, and hers to refuse.
But they are warm as they gaze back at him, warm and hopeful and a trial on his heart, the way it runs rampant from one easy glance, one moment of conviction that her hope is in his hands and she has not misplaced it there.
So he holds it close, and he kisses her.
He often thinks she tastes like the sun after a midday rain.
Her lips part slowly over his, opening the kiss into a heady, luxurious tangle of tongue, as they each grow lazily reacquainted with every sensation and curve of the other's mouth. A tiny whimper catches in her throat when his free hand burrows into the hair pillowed beneath her neck, like fingers twining through silk, to angle her head back, deepen the kiss.
Nails scrape skin and send shivers down his spine, still carefully straight and tense from his valiant efforts to give her space, but then he hears his name, a breathy sigh on her lovely red lips when he leaves them for one regrettable moment; and for the life of him he can't recall why he'd thought the space bloody necessary in the first place, space is bad, very bad, the more of it there is, the greater the hindrance to a proper worshipping of Regina's body, every exquisite landmark for his lips to explore, every delectable path for his hands to wander.
Robin nearly groans in relief when her breasts cushion his chest as he lowers himself down to her, belly to belly, hip to hip. She locks a knee to the back of his thigh, coaxing him to quicken the languid, thoughtless rhythm he's set there, teasing his cock along her center, coating him in her slick, wet heat.
He frees his fingers from her hair, pressing a smile to her dissatisfied frown; but he has no intention of letting his touch go idle, and she gasps her understanding as he sketches out with his palm the curve of her breast, the dip and flare of her waist, then slides it between her body and his. He runs a finger along her folds before slipping in, sampling her warmth, and her low purr of content has him moaning into her mouth; his tongue seeks hers out again, matching the slow, steady pressure he builds with one finger, then two, pumping inside of her.
Regina breaks the kiss on a sharp exhale, head falling back when his thumb finds her center and rubs tight circles until it throbs. Hands scramble up his back, biting with nails, then seem to find what they're looking for buried in his hair, all frenzied massages and forceful tugs.
The leg she's slung over his thigh moves to his hip next, urging him now where she'd merely suggested before, and in no terms so as to make her meaning unclear. But he lifts a questioning gaze anyway up to her dark, hooded eyes, and he sees another world within them.
"You wanted to know why I was in John's tent," she murmurs, hands coasting down to cradle his jawline, fingertips tracing the line of stubble across his upper lip. "Well, I…" and she ghosts a kiss over the tip of his nose, fairly ruining all likelihood of any response he'd been about to give, "…would like to know why all your damn tents look the same."
His answering chuckle is cut off by a strangled groan when she decides to take matters into her own hands, reaching down, gripping and guiding the tip of his cock to replace the touch of his fingers. He moves them obligingly to the side, holding onto her hip as she sinks him slowly into her, feeling something he has no words to describe stealing through his heart. Her lashes flutter and her mouth parts open, a small "oh" escaping out when he's filled her to the hilt, stretched her walls tight to a perfect, snug embrace.
"Gods, Regina—" and the way he says her name has her surging forward, or drawing him down, it's of little importance to him which, so long as the result is the same, with their mouths meeting and their tongues clashing, moving hungrily over each other as he pulls his cock out near to the tip, then pushes back in, establishing a glorious cadence of friction in heat, of velvet in silk.
Panting for a breath (but only a breath, because the sight of her lips all pink and plump from his kisses makes him wonder wildly why he's not still kissing them), he leans their foreheads together as his hips rut into her and anchor her further into the bedding, hand grasping blindly below her knee to maneuver it back, change the angle of his thrusts. Their bodies press and slide, both slick with the sweat of their lovemaking, as the sounds of skin on skin and gasp over groan fill the air and weigh it down with a headiness that intoxicates him.
Their mouths grow desperate as his hips quicken, erratic now, pumping in and out with very little evidence of polish or practice, and why does every time with Regina feel like the first time, ever, but it also feels good, she feels good, so, so damn good, and he recalls enough of himself to do the gentlemanly thing, to rein in his pleasure so she can reach hers first, her deep, lovely sighs filling her ears like rapturous lines of music, building, escalating, to their coda.
"This is what I wanted," she tells him, a breathless confession that denies him the ability to take any air in himself. "I wanted—I wanted you, Robin."
Her walls clench around him as she comes, trembling and crying out with her admission still freshly fading from her lips, and he drops a groan, low and guttural, against her throat; ecstasy arches her spine, and he deposits a sloppy kiss to her breast when it rises into view, his cock pulsing, nerves tingling, bursting apart as he shudders to his own finish before collapsing bonelessly into her arms. He feels himself falling as though from a great distance, though their world stays calm and unmoving, and the lasting euphoria clings to their skin, leaving them spent and spellbound to the spot.
.
.
.
Robin wakes from the most pleasant dream and feels satisfyingly sore all over. This one had been astonishingly vivid; and unlike the others that have been similarly torturous to wake from, he hadn't been stirred rudely from sleep until after reaching the height of bliss.
That's something to be grateful for, at least.
It's always a terrible inconvenience, sneaking shamefully from his tent and into the nearest stream, to attend to a very prominent problem that he'd rather not have to explain to a son who, as far as Robin is concerned, will never be of an appropriate age to know the inner-workings of such things.
Roland.
Robin turns over, expecting to see a familiar tuft of curls fast asleep on the ground beside him, but instead he rolls into a minor mountain of expensive-looking cushions, earns himself a mouthful of expensive-feeling tassels for his troubles.
These are not his, he observes blurrily; then, as he stretches out aching joints and encounters an odd sensation of silk instead of rough-spun linen all across his body, he thinks with some distant horror, it's also rather unlike him to sleep…completely unclothed.
Oh, gods. What has he done?
Countless explanations run panicked circles inside his head—the most likely being that his subconscious desire for Regina has clearly gotten the better of him this time, has inspired a midnight stroll that's led him stark-naked and straight to her tent.
He ponders, as the last bit of sleep clears from his thoughts and gives way to growing fear, how best to remove himself from this mess he's walked so boldly into; judging from the blinding halos beaming through the bottom cracks of her tent, night has gone from his aid, and it wouldn't do to just saunter out in broad daylight for all of camp to see, to bear witness to his shame and inexplicable state of undress.
And while we're on that matter, where are his damn clothes?
But apparently he's not the only one who's wondering the same.
"Is there a reason you're still naked in my bed, thief?"
Robin's eyes close as dread descends, begging him to return to sleep. For once, he thinks miserably, just once, would it be too much of him to ask, to live in a dream rather than have to wake from one?
He has every expectation of being flung violently from the bed within a matter of seconds, but then several more pass before it dips suddenly beneath her weight, and he feels lips press into his shoulder.
"You were supposed to check on Roland, remember?" she murmurs. Her palm sneaks under the covers, sets fire to his skin where it drags from chest to hipbone.
"Hmmm?" he queries, voice scratchy with sleep and confusion. Is he still dreaming?
"He's doing fine, in case you're wondering," Regina continues, hand moving treacherously low, then lower. "John stayed the night with him. I told them you'd…fallen asleep. I'm pretty sure John thinks I've poisoned you." His eyes open just in time to see her smile, a stunning, wicked thing, and she doesn't shy away when he reaches up to stroke a tentative thumb across her cheek.
It starts to occur to Robin that perhaps he is awake after all. Quite awake, in fact, as he feels desire pooling down where her touch has traveled, hardening his cock, twitching it against the fingernail she's now trailing lightly from head to base and back.
He means to say something useful; instead, all he manages is a dazed sort of look, then a clearing of his throat, followed by a brilliant observation of, "You're…clothed." Because, as his returning memory has seen fit to finally remind him, she had most certainly not been earlier, which is what had led them to this entire marvelous mess to begin with.
He feels properly scolded by the single, mocking raise of her eyebrow. "I had to put something on when I went to return John's blanket to him," Regina tells him, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world and he's utterly daft for needing it explained. She pauses then. "I think he plans to burn it."
Robin snorts a laugh, feels a bubble of hope re-inflate his lungs. Regina situates herself more securely on the bed beside him, allowing his arm to drape around her back as she rests a chin to his chest and he takes inventory of her apparel. Layers of velvet on leather on velvet. Too much. Her hair is twisted back up into some elaborate configuration, too. No good. He'll have to do something about that very soon.
"Wait," he wonders suddenly. "What had you planned to do if you waited for me in my tent and Roland walked in?"
Her teasing movements still. Red lips smirk, then hover by his ear. "Why do you think I chose John's instead?"