Chapter 4: Avy jorrāelan.

Title translates to "I love you."


Notes: Look who had the gall to show her face around these parts again. Yup, I'm talking about myself. Sorry for the exponentially long wait.

This chapter finally lives up to it's rating! And to those of you who should not be reading- well... you go, you rebel you.


As reluctant as he is to press her intimately, Regina is the one to convince him otherwise on their very wedding night.

Their kisses grow heated, as they are always bound to, and it has him straining against the thin material of his small clothes, hips pivoting against hers as he makes it down her slim neck.

He has to stop this, he thinks, and for fear of his desire causing him to make a regrettable decision, he crawls back up to her lips, pressing a chaste and final kiss there, before rolling over onto his side and letting out a huff of air.

A moment passes with him struggling to calm his wildly beating heart, before he feels her shift beside him, propping herself onto her elbow to look down at him with a confused and rather unimpressed expression on her lovely features.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her kiss-swollen lips pulled into a frown and it is his turn to feel perplexed, though he smiles lightly to assuage her.

"As much as I would love to kiss you all night, my love, I don't think I'm capable of controlling myself… fully," he adds, with a downwards glance at the pronounced tent in his underthings. "Nor do I wish to make you uncomfortable."

His bride's lips form a small "o," expression melding from a bashful one into one of understanding. Only moments before her gaze lingers on the evidence of his arousal, a different look overtakes her features, one that he recognizes as curiosity.

"Does it… hurt?" she asks, carefully, the flush of her cheeks darkening. He laughs lightly, his eyes following the line of her gaze, a feeling of warmth spreading across his chest. When she bristles, lips pinched, he reaches out, with the arm not pinned between them, and brushes away the stray strands of hair that have fallen into her face.

"No." He pauses, swallows as he carefully constructs his words. "It's a dull… throbbing," he explains, feeling just as foolish as he assumes she must have felt moments ago and ignores the burning in his own cheeks.

Her face lights up, brows rising as though she understands. He realizes then that she must, if she's ever desired him as he has her.

"I want to touch you," she whispers, so quiet that he thinks he might have imagined it. But then she's speaking once more, her tone firm as he watches her, his own expression dazed. "There. I want to touch you there." She's searching his face before her eyes fall to his lap and back to meet his gaze, making her intensions abundantly clear, and Robin has to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.

"Yes… I'd very— Yes." He takes a deep breath when he catches her gaze drop once more, watching as the tip of her pink tongue pokes out between her lips. Robin closes his eyes when he feels her fingers brush against his waist, then releases a small groan as her palm, warm and flat against his belly, slips down and over the finally piece of material covering him. "Gods, Regina," he breathes, and it's sorcery, absolute witchcraft that he should react to her touch like this when they aren't even skin on skin, only her fingers tenderly, experimentally, wrapping around what she can of his clothed cock. He hears her giggle, the light, tinkling sound breaking through the slight haze he seems to have fallen into, and he looks over at her, hovering above him with a barely repressed smile, eyes bright and full of mischief.

"If this is always how you'll respond to my touch, how can I expect you to please me with your cock?" she murmurs almost casually, a finger tracing along his length. If she isn't an absolute vixen— he's certain he moans in response to her pretty mouth forming those words. Later, he'll blame it on her hand on the very organ in question. But he can still see that trepidation in her eyes— those dark orbs the window to her very soul— like she's crossed a line by teasing him, as if she isn't supposed to expect to even be pleased and he knows— knows she has reason to feel that way from what he imagines she's learned from her tutors, her mother, and he wants that fear extinguished, gone, wants her carefree and teasing him as she pleases and happy. Gods, he's never wanted for anyone's happiness as much as he cares for hers.

Love, he thinks. That's love. But it's easy to think such things when she's pleasuring him, smiling down at him with those beautiful, brown eyes.

He can't help but laugh in response, tight and breathless when she trails her nails along his shaft, because he knows if she keeps this up there's a very real possibility that he'll make a mess of his underclothes. She's right, of course, she's right. Even the thought of getting the chance to sink inside of her slick, wet heat makes him shudder.

"I can assure you, my lady, there are other ways to please a woman… even if I happen to disappoint with my stamina." He watches her, as those pink lips part, cheeks darkening with lust, the fluttering of her eyelashes. He catches it all, cherishes it, wants to see more. "Which I won't," he adds for good measure, smiling at the roll of her eyes and the quirk of her lips. "Do you want me to tell you how?" Expecting a nod, he's a bit disappointed when she shakes her head instead, her hand falling away from him.

"I want you to show me," she whispers, timid, like she's afraid of him denying her, (as if he could deny her anything). "Tonight."

As much as he wants to get lost in her, her body, those soft sounds she makes, he returns her look with one of confusion, hesitance clear in his tone when he speaks.

"I thought you'd wished to wait…"

"I don't want to give you my virtue because I have to," she says, and he can see the warring thoughts in her mind, well oiled cogs turning, almost as if it was laid out before him. "I want to give it to you because I want to."

"You don't have to, Regina. I don't wish to take anything you're not willing—" She silences him with a kiss, her mouth firm, but soft and pliant all at once.

"You can't take what's being given to you freely. If you're willing, you can only accept it," she says like it's final. And it is. Her word on this matter is final, because, of course, he wants to and he only hopes that she isn't willing only to please him.

"You've been nothing but kind to me," she says, her eyes searching his face, voice hushed, "I wish to bring you as much happiness as you have brought me."

"And I you," he whispers back, awed by her admittance, but quiets when he see's that she isn't through.

"I wish to give you an heir… a son."

His decision to stay quiet breaks when he tacks on, "and daughters," seriously, watching as her face breaks out into one of the brightest smiles he's seen, tears filling her eyes as she lets out a small, broken laugh. This would be enough for him. Even if she was barren, he wouldn't care. The whole notion of an heir be damned, she would be enough.

"Robin," she says, expression turning timid once more, before bitting down on that full, lower lip of hers. He reaches up, fingers tangling in her dark hair, offering her what he hopes is an encouraging nod.

His heart warms when she speaks the words he's been thinking for weeks now, chest constricting with joy. "I love you," she admits in a whisper. A pause, long enough for his lips to pull into a smile he cannot contain and then he's surging up, mouth on hers in an instant as he turns them over, one hand on her hip and the other beside her head on the mattress, holding himself from pressing his full weight onto her. He breaks away from her lips with a groan of gratitude, pressing a series of kisses over the line of her nose, across her brow and down the side of her face before she's letting out a shriek of giggles that have him warming all over.

"Gods, you're a blessing, you wonderful woman," he practically groans into her neck and feels her soften beneath him, her arms coming around to embrace him as he hovers over her. "I love you as well," he says when he lifts his head to meet her gaze, faces so close that their eyes cross. It is then that he knows he didn't have to tell her, that she'd already known of his love, but he can't be sure when she'd uncovered it. And even then, she appreciates it, lifts her head and only stops smiling to press another kiss to his mouth.

"Are you certain you wish to consummate our marriage?" he teases, his nose running along her jaw, but he lifts his gaze to her after a moment, just in time to see her nod once.

"I want you to show me just how it is you please a woman," she practically purrs, dark eyes narrowing into a smouldering gaze and he feels her legs part, knees bending and lifting to cradle his hips.

"Now?" he taunts, already shifting between her thighs, one hand leaving her hip to run down her leg, left exposed, and hooks her ankle behind his back. He can already feel her arousal against his erection; his own underthings the only barrier now that her flimsy excuse for a nightgown has been rucked up to her waist. With a short swivel of his hips against hers, he has her emitting a short gasp, lashes fluttering when he rocks against her cunt.

"Again," she whispers, teeth digging into her lip as he heeds to her wishes. Though the angle's not quite right this time, and he's leaning back, letting his hand wander between them to touch her where she's hot and slick with arousal. She's watching him now, lips parted as her breasts rise and fall with each shallow, trembling breath and he has to bite back a groan at the sight of her, pliant and willingly open for him. She tenses when his thumb brushes over the sensitive little nub between her legs, has him brushing his other hand up and down the soft skin of her thigh for reassurance before he repeats the action over and over again, adding just enough pressure to have her eye's rolling back and jaw dropping with another gasp.

"Aha," she lets out and chokes back a moan, fingers tightening their hold on the sheets beneath her. If his own hardened arousal wasn't progressively becoming more of a nuisance, he swears he would do this forever, uncaring of his cramping wrist, just to watch her writhe and gasp and sigh beneath him. She is a vision, this close to tumbling over the edge, has him letting out a growled "fuck," and burying his face in her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses down to her collar bone, tasting the salt of her skin and whatever remnants of perfume linger there.

It's when he slips two fingers inside of her, one at a time, and calls out her name, that he feels her tense, emitting a series of high pitched gasps, as she begins to flutter around his digits. He rises to watch her, unwavering in his touch, loosening the pressure of his thumb, but he doesn't stop, slips his fingers in and out, searching for that roughened spot inside of her until he has her release building up and up, once more, the sounds she makes louder and more desperate than before. Her lips are parted with frantic gasps, brows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut and he's never seen her look more beautiful than she does now. Hips pivoting up into his touch, she lets out a high pitched mewl when he noses her nightgown off to the side to expose her breast to his questing mouth, groaning in response to his tongue laving against her hardened nipple.

"Robin," she sighs, when he switches to the other breast, her fingers coming to thread roughly through his hair right before they tighten at the base of his neck and she's falling apart for a second time, back arching, thighs trembling.

He lets off, palms returning to her thighs as he sits up, watching as she catches her breath, more patient than he has possibly ever been despite his raging hard-on. Or maybe that's just what it seems like to him in that moment. He moves back off the bed, stripping the last of his clothes and crawls back, laying down next to her to see that she has thrown an arm over her face, shielding her eyes. He has to bite down on his bottom lip to tamp down on his smile when she blinks her eyes open, lowering her arm and offers him a gorgeously dazed, lopsided grin.

"That was wonderful," she sighs, just slightly breathless, skin flushed and glowing with perspiration.

"I'm glad you think so," he responds, following the trail he makes with his fingers as he draws patterns across her exposed skin, making his way down between the valley of her breasts, over her clothed belly and back and forth between the jut of her hip bones. He glances up to see her watching him, teeth worrying her lip with a hint of a smile.

"What is it?"

She sighs, turning to face him fully, mirroring his position on her side. "You are so… patient with me," and it is like a whispered confession, the way her expression turns bittersweet, eyes downcast. It's a peculiar thing for anyone to call him patient, not when he's lived a life of nobility and indulgence, his patience reward only in the bedroom (his ego, mostly) and the woods, when they hunt for sport. "It's a rare thing for a man to allow his wife to make decisions on whether or not—" she shakes her head, cutting herself off with a frustrated sigh, but he gives her however long she needs to express how she feels. He wants to understand her completely, this fascinating woman he's married, so he waits. "I never expected you to be… as you are. And I feel guilty for every assumption I've ever made of you and equally grateful that I'd been wrong."

"There's no need to be guilty, my lady," he responds, not a moment later, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I've more than earned all the rumours you've undoubtedly heard about me." A kiss on the back of her hand. "As they say, tales are often based on truths," he says, giving her a rueful smile and a quick nip to her wrist. Regina laughs, eyes dancing with amusement and he hopes he's done well to assuage her worries. The thought of her displeased and miserable has his heart twisting with anxiety.

"So what you're telling me is that the tale of you wandering the streets of Casterly Rock, piss drunk and happily singing at the top of your lungs, while trying to pick a pocket or two, isn't a tale at all," she says, her voice rising in question, a smirk gracing her lips as she gives him a look that has him properly chastised and blushing. He finds her just as attractive when she's smug and cussing, if not a bit more excited and intrigued by this side she's been revealing to him every so often.

"I'll admit, it wasn't my proudest moment," he admits, recalling the rather embarrassing story his friends had retold the following morning after that particular stunt. His father hadn't been impressed.

"I won't hold it against you," she titters, making him laugh along with her. He quiets and closes his eyes when he feels her fingers lightly scratching along the bristles of his jaw, just before smoothing up to cup his cheek.

"I want to make love to you," she whispers, leaning in towards him, lips meeting his softly, slowly, making his heart thrum in his chest. When she shifts, straddling his waist and pulling her nightgown over her head, he sucks in a breath, because suddenly she's sitting atop him, gloriously bare without a stitch of clothing, looking every bit the goddess that she is and he can feel her, still warm and wet, on his cock. Robin groans in anticipation, dropping his hands against her thighs, and running his palms along her smooth skin in encouragement. She lifts, just a fraction, wraps her fingers around his cock and gazes at it with such an intensity that it has him holding his breath. He imagines, hopes, that it's the first hardened cock she's ever seen, held within her grasp, and he convinces his tense muscles to still, unwilling to intimidate her with impatience. He's not particularly large, but he's not small either, and when her eyes meet his, he catches a look of apprehension, masked almost completely by the determination that she's etched into her features.

"Let me," he says, words hushed, his fingers wrapping overtop of her hand. He urges her closer when she nods, her relief obvious, and he is biting his lip in concentration as he drags the tip of himself through her folds, bumping against her clit. He teases her, (though it takes great restraint not to pull her hips down on him fully,) spreading her arousal and riling her up until it is her who is twitching her hips impatiently, thighs trembling from exertion. Only when she is dripping and releasing these almost inaudible sighs at each pass of his cock over her swollen bundle of nerves, the tip of him coated in her, does he spread her apart and slowly, carefully lowers her until he's half way in, then back out, in and out, watching her face all the while for any signs of discomfort, until gradually she has sunk down on him, his cock enveloped by her velvety walls.

"Is this alright?" he asks, just to be sure, even now when he's got her how he's dreamed of since he's met her.

"Yes," she responds, breath heavy, her face scrunches up in a way that would have been adorable in any other situation, (it still is,) and he feels his lips twitch along with his cock. "It's just… very tight."

He huffs out a laugh, his hand making its way up from her hips to run over her breast. "You are."

"It's good," she says, arching towards the hand stroking her. "Not like before… but good."

"We can't have that," he responds with a shake of his head. He's careful when he flips them, tries not to jostle her too much, but fails when he slips out. But she's smiling again, brilliant and light, unweighed by whatever normally seems to burden her, and her quiet laughter soon turns into a heated moan when he's inside of her again, pulling her legs up higher and thumbing her swollen little jewel between them.


Her mother interrupts them the next morning, sweeps into his bedroom just as they'd been waking, and orders him out like she isn't the one infringing on his quarters, denying them sloppy, warm kisses and sabotaging the plans that he'd had to have his head between Regina's legs. But Lady Cora is speaking of consummation and proof and his mood darkens because there hadn't been blood— the happy, naked state that they'd been in should have been proof enough.

The only reason he allows himself to be pushed out, half dressed, into the stone corridor, is the drowsy smile that accompanies Regina's "go, Robin."


That smile doesn't come as easy when he sees her again, and he vows to kiss the frown off her lips until she's giggling and laughing and keening beneath him again.


Robin neglects his duties for a week straight, spending as much time as he can with his new wife, unashamedly using the excuse of wanting to continue his family legacy. He tells his father that he is sure she will have a son, and prays for a daughter, with dark eyes and chocolate tresses.

She skims her fingers through the light dusting of hair on his chest, sighing softly.

"I have a theory."

"Tell me."

"I believe that you and I were born for one another," she says, eyes wide and bright, her expression open. "That we were created of the same soul— destined— and by the blessings of the Gods, we have found each other."

"I didn't realize I'd wed a poet," he responds, though he cannot keep the love and adoration from his gaze— not that he tries. That horribly indecent snort falls from her lips, her hand swatting at his bare chest, and his teeth sink into his lip in an attempt to tame what he is sure would otherwise be an excessively sentimental grin.

"Hush, Lannister."

"Well, I, for one, am very pleased with what the Gods have given me," he says, the fingers of the arm trapped beneath her trailing over the curve of her backside. She rolls her eyes and smiles.


The first day they spend apart has them fervent for each other when they finally reunite in his chambers, (her own rooms going unused.) Their coupling is frantic, messy, but no less effective at driving them both mad with passion, toppling headfirst into that long-awaited release, only to settle, curled up, and satisfied, drunk off one another's touch.

She traces the scars on his chest, the pressure of her fingertips gentle yet sure. "Tell me what happened?" Robin runs his hands through her hair, her cheek pillowed against his shoulder.

"A battle."

"And here?" she asks, lifting his arm and inspecting his wrist. Her fingers run over the upraised skin, shaped in the form of the Lannister crest, a roaring lion. The skin is inked now, to disguise the ugly white patch that had once been underneath, but she spots it with those sharp eyes of hers. How could she not when she is so close? And still, he pulls her closer.

"The Boltons are a sadistic bunch," he offers, kissing the crown of her head. The smell of burning flesh irritates his nostrils, skin irrupting in gooseflesh as a high, fiendish laugh echoes in his memories, eyes, too large for their sockets, glinting at him and his arm tightens around Regina's waist. She lifts her head to look at him, almost immediately, lips parting and brows furrowing.

"They branded you?" The accusation in her turbulent, dark eyes makes his heart swell despite the anxiety-ridden memories she's unknowingly dredged back up. He has to force himself not to laugh, not because he doesn't respect her, but because the way she takes to him, just as he takes to her, makes him so unbearably happy, pushing out every thought but her, as does the sight of the fierceness.

"They had to make sure I hadn't forgotten why I'd been captured."

She moves up then, lifting her lithe body, to press those soft lips against his. As chaste as he is sure her kiss is meant to be, it grows in intensity, lips pressing more firmly, tongues stroking.

"I'm glad you were rescued," she says when their mouths finally part and she's breathing harshly against his bristly cheek. Robin lets out that laugh then, more breathless in nature than he'd been expecting.

"We were not rescued," he says indignantly, though his lips are still quirked in a smile. "Their encampment was raided by the Tyrells and we were released."

Regina raises a brow, her lips pulling into a smirk.

"That sounds a lot like a rescue to me," she quips, her voice light. She has a sort of expression on her face as if she's admonishing him and Robin huffs, his lips forming a pout. He loves how ridiculous she can make him feel with just a look and wonders if he's a stickler for emotional pain or if she's the only one that can bring out his masochistic streak. She laughs and kisses that pout away. Definitely the latter.


"Have you ever been to Sunspear?" He's laying on his back, with her draped across him, when she asks— a position he's come to expect when they retire for the night— both of them bare, but for the furs covering their hips.

He shakes his head, adjusting the pillow beneath it to see her clearly. "I've only been as far south as The Storm Lands— in Westeros."

There's a brightness to her eyes as she perks up. "You've been to Essos! Have you been to the free cities?"

"Only a few, my lady."

"Where else?"

"Winterfell… Though I'm not in any rush to visit it again. It's damn cold up north."

"I've heard the Starks are very honourable people," she says with a small smile, drawing patterns through the light dusting of hair on his chest. He shrugs, as much as he can with her weight pressing him down.

"I suppose there are a few of them."

"I would have chosen to marry one of them if my arrangement would have been my decision," she says, almost offhandedly. He lifts his head higher to look at her, eyes narrowing slightly, only to see her mouth pull into that mischievous grin.

"Do I not please you enough, my Lady?" he asks, his hand, whose arm is currently trapped beneath her, moves down from her waist to cup her backside.

"You'll do," she quips, with a rather haughty expression. Robin growls, low in his throat, and moments later, he has her shrieking and bucking wildly beneath him, as his fingers tickle her beneath her ribs. "Robin!" she gasps, her hands batting away his wiggling fingers. Eventually he relents, sitting back on his haunches between her legs with a victorious grin as she struggles to catch her breath.

She is an absolute vision, he thinks, brushing his palms over her thighs.


He moans at the taste of her, at finally— finally, after all this time waiting and pinning after this woman, and he curses himself for not doing this sooner because by Gods, the gratification is good.

Above him, Regina is quiet, tense and breath hitching. Any indication that she's enjoying herself are the fingers of her left hand, tightening their grip on his hair when he does something she particularly enjoys, but he can tell she's holding back and he's regretting forgoing explaining his intentions before he'd settled with his head between her legs. She'd hesitated when he'd kissed his way down the length of her torso, past her frantically beating heart, her small, slender hands gripping his shoulders. He'd only given her a roguish grin when she'd asked just what exactly he was planning to do, and she'd relented easily, watching with her lip trapped between her teeth.

It is a rare moment that he regrets keeping his mouth shut, but he does now, because he wants to hear her, those soft little moans, (she's so quiet, his love,) greedily craves to hear her singing her praises but he suspects he won't have it until she's comfortable. Springing from Dorne, he can't imagine that Regina is unfamiliar with what he's doing, but it wouldn't surprise him if her own mother's put it in her head to look at an act such as this with distain. So, he gets a thought, rather peculiar, but he voices it anyway.

"Regina, love," he says against her thigh, kissing her gently and rousing her attention.

"Yes?" she replies, her voice trembling.

"Do you want me to stop?"

The shake of her head is immediate, he hears it rustle against the linens. "No… I like it."

"Are you certain?"

"I am."

"If…" he hesitates, knowing how odd of a request it may be, and he really doesn't want to put her off, no matter how harmless it is. "If I were to continue, could you sing for me?"

"Sing?" she says, surprise evident in her tone.

"Yes."

"Why?" He can already tell her face is scrunched with confusion, nose wrinkling, even without lifting himself up to look at her and he buries his chuckle in her skin.

"I'd love to hear you."

"Oh…" She whispers, breathing shakily for a few moments. He can practically feel her mulling it over, piecing together the reason for his request and it seems she's figured it out when he hears her let out a huff of amusement and take a deep breath.

Not long after, she is singing softly, her melodious voice echoing throughout the empty room. It's the tune he's heard her sing once before in the stables and he warms at the memory of her dressed down in servants garb, his only bright spot that day. Oh, how he'd wanted to touch her then, to give her comfort when she so clearly needed it, but he'd been so unsure if she would have accepted it from him. Now he knows she's willing to be more than just touched and he won't waste a minute of their time, for the nights are only so long before they must rise and part in the morning.

Robin returns his attentions to her sex, keeps his kisses light, his thumb caressing the jut of her hip, just until she settles, feels the tension leaving her thighs, voice serene and body subtly responding to his touch.

He avoids the hooded nub at the apex of her thighs, until her skin glows with a thin sheen of sweat, the warm colours of the flickering candles painting her a masterpiece. It is only when her voice has a slightly more breathless quality to it, that he gives into what he knows she won't demand (not yet) and soon, he's laving at her in earnest and her voice wobbles and hitches, rising in pitch where the melody does not call for it. Nevertheless, she continues to sing, tongue tripping over the High Valaryan she'd so effortlessly spoken before, and not long after, he has her crying out, his lips sucking at sensitive flesh, the song all but forgotten, almost sobbing with pleasure as her back arches off the bed. The candle fires leap, bold and bright, as the note her body sings crests, thighs quivering and pulse hammering madly.

When she settles, and he's kissed his way back up her body, she looks down at him with a tranquil expression on her face, her hand smoothing his hair from his forehead and caressing along his jaw.

"You look like the cat that got the cream," she comments, thumb gliding along his smiling bottom lip.

"I did," he states with a playful nip to her breast.

"Pig," she snorts.

A thing of beauty, indeed.


Notes: Just wanted to point something out because, unless you're a mindreader or a genius, this probably hasn't occurred to you. Belle is the Tyrell girl from the previous chapter, (referring to her/her family rescuing Robin from Rumple/the Boltons).

Let me know what you think!