Requested by my sweet Ayla. Happy birthday, Meghan and Sasha!


La Vie en Rose

- just some OQ smut from the prompt: Person A is having a phone call with their friend/boss/relative and cannot drop the call. Person B becomes impatient and starts distracting them (nibbling their ear, kissing their neck). This leads to awkward stutters and gasps over the phone. Bonus: The person over the phone understands what's going on at the other end and tells A to "go enjoy themselves."

Without a doubt, waking up with her husband's head between her thighs is one of the perks of marriage.

Especially because said husband has pulled her sweetly from the depths of her numb sleep, dragging her along with his touches, and she blinks just once, the air of morning already filtering through the half-opened window.

She keeps her eyes closed, a smile slowly stirring its way on her mouth, and she beams. She beams, Regina, because she is in a soft bed, the room submerged in the light of dawn, and a pleasant smell of coffee and crispy croissants unrolls until it reaches her nostrils, making her frown in pleasure.

She beams, because for once she doesn't have to worry about her town or about potentially disruptive threats, and she can enjoy her honeymoon, and focus on Robin's tongue – he's doing things to her clit, her fist goes to hold the sheets, grasping thin cotton, a soft moan exits her mouth.

Then, she feels a lack of pressure, and opens her eyes, throwing a glance towards her husband. That bastard has that smug grin painted on his lips, and he's not-so-subtly chuckling at her – and he knows, oh, he knows exactly what he has done. She groans, finding into herself she half wants to kill him and half wants to fuck him until he cries for mercy.

"Why did you stop?" she asks, and he grins again, his thumb going to press on her knee and trailing up.

"Because, my love, we're going to be late," he says, placing a kiss on her leg.

"The Louvre isn't going anywhere," she protests, stretching one arm up, lands it between his hair. His hand joins hers, lacing their fingers, and he guides her down to his lips, kisses her knuckles.

"Yesterday you seemed rather impatient to finally get to see that statue… what was its name again?"

"Amor and Psyche," Regina answers, slightly distracted by his fingers brushing on her hand. "But it's still early," she pouts, escaping his hold and rolling on a side.

"Is the queen still sleepy?"

"I wouldn't be, if someone hadn't insisted in keeping me up late, yesterday," she says. Well, it's not like she can complain. Three or four orgasms, she lost count, and it was good, blissful, and she has felt cherished. He has kissed every inch of her body, worshipping her, and tears have prickled at the corners of her eyes, because until he came along, she wasn't used to this amount of love – selfless love.

He cocks his head, stretches his body to kiss her hair – she's curled on a side, faking annoyance because he has teased her, he has woken her up with his bloody tongue on her clit, and she's all riled up and he's using a fucking museum as an excuse not to continue.

"Go away," she grumbles. He laughs, she can't tell if he's mocking her or not, but it doesn't matter.

"Maybe we'll have some minutes before breakfast," he concedes. Regina hides a triumphant smile in her pillow, and rolls again on her side to face him.

He kisses her first, a small bite to her lower lip, followed by one of her best hisses. The sheets are all tangled, a mess of white spiral, his hand is pressed on her back, pulling her closer. It's not too hot, this morning – spring in Paris can be ungodly, but today is all chilly air and the far tune of a harmonica, from down the streets.

She's glad they've slept with opened windows; Robin has said you can take the guy out of the forest but never the forest out of the guy. She has accepted this small compromise, as long as she gets to sleep in a real bed and is not forced to camp somewhere in one of Paris' gardens.

She's giddy, this morning – eager, and who wouldn't be, after having been woken up in that way?

His hand slips down, no clothes to get free of, she feels the toned muscles of his forearm, sculpted by years of archery. She flinches, when one of his fingers enters her, and pushes slowly inside, his other hand tangled as always in her hair. She rewards him with a searing kiss, a silent thank you for finally working to get her higher.

He whispers little nothings in her ear, You like this?, she nods, doesn't answer. The way her entire body is pressing against his should tell how she feels. She has just started writhing, just slightly, nothing too powerful yet, and her phone rings.

They still, his finger inside, but he has stopped moving – and her phone rings.

Her head falls into the crook of his neck, her sigh barely audible.

"You really have to answer?" he murmurs, kissing the shell of her ear. She nods, shifting; her hand goes towards her night table. Her phone vibrates, and it's moving towards the corner, she stretches with a moan, because his finger has restarted, touching a very sensitive spot. Her eyes are hurt by the blueish light, but she squeezes them, reads the name in the morning light.

Mal.

"I really have," she answers, and her heart starts pounding.

Shit.

Mal wouldn't call her if it wasn't an emergency – because she's the Mayor while Regina is temporarily gone (her step-daughter is a bit busy with baby Neal, she has said, so Mal has stepped in her position, and she knows no one will dare to mess up with her). She has told Regina she will take care of the town.

Her mind is conjuring every possibility, it could be about the kids, she thinks, immediately filled with horrible images – hearts crushed, limp bodies, Roland, little Ellie, or Henry – oh please, not the kids.

"Answer," Robin urges. She realizes she has been staring at the phone for too long, and swipes the lock on the screen, taps the speaker so he can hear. He retires his finger, because this isn't the right time for that.

"Mal?"

"Oh, Regina," her friend's voice is clear and loud, but not in panic.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing's wrong, dear," Mal says, and she instantly relaxes, feeling Robin's body do the same. He pulls the sheets away, kisses her shoulder, lets his lips linger there. Somehow, she knows he has his eyes closed, and he's thanking all deities that the call doesn't bring bad news. Regina does the math – it's past midnight, in Maine.

"Then what is it? Do you know it's like six in the morning here?"

"Oh, ops," Mal answers, a trace of guilt in her voice. Regina breathes slowly, repeating herself don't get mad, she's not used to the jet lag, don't get mad. But now that the panic has gone, it has been replaced by a sort of annoyance. Especially because she was about to let her husband make her come for the fifth time in less than twelve hours. And she's a bit disappointed. Hell, she's starting to get angry.

"Mal, what is it then?"

And in that moment, she hasn't even ended her sentence – she catches a smirk in Robin's eyes, a glimpse of that devilish desire, and his finger is back inside her. She gasps. Oh no, he didn't.

Mal is speaking over the phone, babbling something about the annual feast of Flying Fires – they have missed it, but for a good cause, like spending endless hours in a Parisian hotel room, crying out loud in each other's arms.

"And then, Roland wanted to call you, but I told him he had to go sleep, so Emma has brought him home…"

She's trying to focus. She's really, really trying.

His eyes are locked to hers, she mouths a silent please. He shakes his head slightly, and whispers in her ear. "Focus on Mal, love," he says. Bastard. "And… be quiet," he instructs, moving his finger. Oh my god, she thinks. Then, she narrows her eyes, and tries to listen to Maleficent again.

"…Regina?"

"Yes – yes, I'm here," she says, fisting the sheets. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I said, what did you two do yesterday?"

Mal's voice is almost bored, and she can just picture her, sitting in the Mayor office, probably right on that elegant sofa where Robin has once had her screaming in pleasure – because he was drawing circles on her clit, just like the ones he's drawing now, damn it

"We went – up the – Eiffel Tower, and – ah! – then Notre Dame in the afternoon," she says, the heels of her feet pressing on the mattress, her body arching up. Robin has cupped one of her breasts, and she's finding it really hard to focus and be quiet. Her hand tightens on the phone, and the jerk she has married is pinching her nipple.

"Ah, I see," Mal says, with a trace of amusement. "So, are you enjoying the honeymoon?"

Regina hisses – she literally hisses, she can't help it. He has decided his finger isn't enough, and he's going down. Oh, she's not going to be quiet. "Oh, yes, sure," she stumbles, quickly, before he can reach her there, "It's ama – " too late, she was already wet from before, and it takes him a second to work her up, " – ah, amazing," she says. He lifts his eyes, his mouth currently occupied with lapping at her clit. She's definitely going to kill him.

"Are you sure you're okay, Regina?" Mal asks, and she can almost see her lift her eyebrows and throw her a knowing smile.

"Yeah, yes – why – why wouldn't I – be okay?"

"Your voice sounds weird, dear."

Regina closes her eyes, her hand grasping the edge of the mattress. She bites her lip, choosing to delay her answer rather than to scream. He gives her a break, because he can hear it all, and he wants her to last a little longer, to torture her more and more, because she can tell he's having fun.

"Regina?"

Oh, Jesus Christ.

It's Snow.

"Yeah?" she says, and if she weren't the refined queen that she is, she could scream her best selection of blasphemies to all the gods of this land and of the other. This can't be happening.

Robin chuckles against her skin, sending a puff of warm breath between her… pulsing points, and she bites the inner of her cheek, so hard it hurts. He resumes his strokes, adding intensity and care, just in the way he knows she likes.

"Nothing, I just wanted to tell you that we miss you both," Snow says. Her surge of affection is brief and strong, but wasn't Mal enough? "But you can relax, we have everything under control."

"Oh, sure as hell I can relax – " she lets out between her teeth. Robin is busy, down there – she wishes she had her magic, she could really use a poisoned apple right now – because she has said she wanted him, but not like this, not with Mal and Snow over the phone.

Oh, it is good.

He has removed his tongue, and replaced it with his fingers, and he's looking at her – lifts his eyebrows, she keeps her gaze locked to his.

She's silently challenging him.

He fastens his rhythm, but when he nears his mouth to her ear, and whispers Scream for me, love, she loses it.

"R-Robin," she breathes, angry, pleading, it doesn't matter, because her orgasm is coming, she can't stop it anymore. Maybe she could resist some time, but she is definitely going to scream.

"Yes, dear?" Mal's mocking voice reaches her ear, and Regina just knows, Mal has understood it all – Mal knows how she sounds before an orgasm, after all.

"I – I think I – I'm gonna com – I'm gonna go now," she corrects herself, cursing inwardly, and Robin is openly laughing in her ear, but she'll have his skin later, she swears, he can't possibly think to get away with this –

"Oh, sure, you have to," Mal says, and lets out a light chuckle. "Have fun, darling – and call me, sometimes, when you're not too busy," she adds, as Regina is fighting all of her strongest wishes to scream out loud, just some more seconds. Before Mal ends the call – at this point she is sure her lips are bleeding – she gets a fragment of conversation.

"Were they…?"

"Oh, dear," Mal sighs, "of course they were."

And the phone goes silent.

Oh thank god.

Finally, she can ride the stars, the Milky Way and all the seven oceans, and she goes up, up, until the air of Paris is filled with the regal screams she has held for too long.

Robin's breaths slow down against her hair, she relishes the sensation of freedom – exquisite, pure freedom, air and perfume of chilly morning.

His hand caresses her shoulder; his whisper is low, sweet, sexy.

"Am I in trouble, Mrs Locksley?"

She turns her head, still panting, and meets his eyes. "You can't even imagine how much, Mr Mills."

After all, turns out the Louvre can wait.