Day 3 (Wednesday) of #OQOnHolidaysWeek
51. Regina and Robin are best friends who decide to go on a trip to Las Vegas together. As they say, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
A/N: was crapping on me last night, so I couldn't post this yesterday :( Alas, now it's fixed!
Robin did not account for any of this to happen.
He'd gone through every possible outcome, every possibility in his head, and it always ended up the same. He'd always seen himself in the arms of a stranger, a stranger, someone he bumped into at a bar or at a casino or at their hotel pool, but, damn, not her, not his best friend (childhood friend at that) who sleeps peacefully and blissfully naked right next to him.
He has the memory, remembers bits and pieces of the night before (or was it early morning?), of giggling as they got into the bedroom, of undressing each other, of the slight feeling of slick tight heat surrounding him, of nails biting into his chest, of her breasts, perfect breasts with dusty nipples moving sensually with every roll of her hips, every thrust of his. And how hilarious it is, that the ever perfect, ever well put Regina Mills was that exquisite in bed. Always wanting more, writhing beneath and on top of him, smirking and trying to make him lose control, only for her to do so in the end, so loud, so vocal that he's sure her moans are imprinted on him, tucked away into a little place close to his heart because there's no way this will happen again. No way. It already feels like it didn't happen, like he dreamed every little thing, from her taste to how she feels because he had gone through the outcomes and this wasn't listed in it. It hadn't even crossed his mind. No. Nothing. But there had been drinks, oh so many drinks as they celebrated the finalization of his divorce... five months after it actually happened.
But again, he didn't account for this to happen.
He didn't account for them to sleep together, shag, fuck.
And great at that, the slight ache in his thighs, red marks on his chest and dried sweat enough evidence of it.
Regina groans at that moment, pulling him back from his thoughts as he stills and waits for her to wake. But she doesn't. Instead she rolls on her back, arms spread on each side of her head on top of her pillow, and the movement is enough to move the sheets just so that one breast is full on display, nipple tight as if begging for attention. Robin takes a deep breath at the sight, feels shame at how his blood travels lower, and lower, a slight ache already beginning low on his belly, but instead of focusing too much on it (he is a gentleman, after all) he quickly averts his gaze to her face as he slowly and carefully pulls the sheets up her chest, covering her breasts. His gaze skims over her face, searching for a sign of her waking up, but she doesn't, instead she remains that way, sleeping soundly as Robin, slowly but surely, becomes a mess right next to her. Because she looks beautiful, oh so beautiful, even with smudged mascara, even with traces of a blood red lipstick, even with one earring missing, hair tangled around her head. She looks gorgeous, as gorgeous as she does when she's well put with a tight pencil skirt and long sleeves buttoned up shirt, serious expression on her face, words cutting, not an ounce of vulnerability visible to the outside world, or when she's laughing, sweatpants and t-shirt clad sans makeup as they play their monthly game of Scrabble.
But a second later, dread runs through his veins because fuck, they slept together and he cannot, won't, stop thinking and stressing about her reaction when she does wake up.
How will she react to knowing she fucked her best friend? The same guy that cried over a dead frog on the street when they were 9. The same guy that held her hand as they waited and prayed for a negative result on a pregnancy test weeks after she lost her virginity. The same guy that cried on her shoulder over his failed marriage.
That guy.
The guy she's known for over twenty years.
He hopes, with all his might, that she's not entirely angry at him, perhaps at the situation, at the cliché way they ended up being each other's one night stands in Vegas, of all places, but God please not at him, he can't handle losing her over something like sex, well, very very good sex.
But that thought alone stresses him out even more, and instead of being nervous at her reaction, he's nervous over how good it actually felt for her. Of course Robin doesn't doubt his performance, never has, but then again, he's never quite experienced what he did the night before. And he hopes that it was as good for her as it was for him, because at the time, when his cock had been surrounded by tight slick heat, and his senses were on overdrive with the scent of her perfume and her actual scent, at that time, to him, it felt like it was not even good, but great.
But now, now that alcohol has left his system, leaving behind a dull pounding in his head and slight pressure behind his eyes, now he has his doubts. His worries. The stress that there's a high chance she will remember how last night went. That she'll remember how he burst quickly after she started coming around him, not enough willpower and stamina to hold on for another second. But it had felt too good, she had felt so tight, so warm, so slick around him, the taste of her release still imprinted in his mouth and it had been too much too soon and his balls were tightening at the first flutters of her release, a shout moving past his lips as he held tightly to her.
"Fuck," he lets out softly, rolling to his back as he tries to rid himself of the memories, of how good it felt to be with her finally after twenty years of just... curiously wondering how it would feel to be with her. Curiously wondering what type of lover she'd be
But she's still his best friend, his childhood friend, and it'll be more than disrespectful and shameful to continue this train of thought with her naked next to him and his cock beginning to stir.
So he sighs, winces slightly at his headache as he sits up in bed and without looking at Regina, he slides his legs to the edge of the bed, and lets out a relieved breath at the sight of his boxers on the floor in front of him, completely forcing himself to ignore the flimsy thing that passes for her underwear. The same underwear he gently slid down her toned legs while kneeling in front of her, kissing every inch of her skin, teasingly licking at that spot between her legs, impatient to fully give into his desires of just eating her out and then fucking her and no, no, enough of those thoughts.
Shaking his head, Robin bends to reach for his boxers with one hand while tightly holding on to the sheets to cover his lower body, because even though she's seen his naked backside more than enough times (and even though they've fucked), it's the view he'd want for her to wake up to the least, precisely because of what they've done.
But when he wraps his fingers around the boxers on the floor, his blood freezes, breath catches on his throat as he sees the unmistakable golden band on his ring finger. He drops them in shock, still staring at the ring as he tries with all his might to think back, to remember what exactly went down last night.
What did he do? No, perhaps it's a mistake. A joke. A game. He couldn't have possibly done it. Just couldn't. There is no way. Who would he—
No
No
He turns around quicker than he'd anticipated, mattress moving under him and under other circumstances he would've grimaced at the fact that he very carelessly woke his best friend. But he can't, he doesn't feel bad, in fact he doesn't feel anything at all, is numb as Regina frowns and blinks the las vestiges of sleep away.
He's speechless as he waits for her to fully wake. And when she does, is by giving him a murderous look for waking her up so abruptly. But then she brings her left hand to her eyes, rubbing on them furiously and his gaze is glued to her lithe finger, specifically to that wedding band similar to his neatly placed on her fourth finger.
Though he knows, deep down, that there must be an actual explanation behind this, he cannot help but chuckle darkly at life because it seems fitting and entirely logical for him, for them, to celebrate his divorce finalization with a marriage of their own and, well, a definite annulment.
And if sex with Regina in Las Vegas was something he never ever in a thousand years thought it'd happen, even less was him joining her in oh so holy matrimony while the two of them probably smelled like a distillery.
"We'll fix it, I promise," is what she says a couple of minutes later, gaze glued on her ring finger.
And though he's surprised at the slight disappointment he feels with those words (and the knowledge that this will last a few days at most), he cannot help it but believe her.
Because he knows that they'll fix this, whatever this is between them.
