Sarah requested "OQ + sensory deprivation". Enjoy some Missing Year smut, honeybun!


Heavenly Blue

"Daddy, where is Majesty?"

His son tugs lightly his sleeve and he looks down, to meet chocolate brown eyes. He bites his lip, uncertain on how to answer, because they're early for breakfast – Granny has just lined up the plates on the table, and a sleepy Ruby has just entered after a night on patrol – she brings an armful of wildflowers, light blue and violet blossoms she places in an empty vase. They're early, it's just dawn, but the Queen is usually here when the sun breaks its way in the sky. She's always earlier than them, blue shadows of sleepless nights under tired eyes.

"I don't know, son," he says, earnestly. "Maybe she's still sleeping."

"Not likely," Granny mumbles, causing him to turn his head towards her. She's poking up the fire, avoiding his eyes, as if she regrets letting the observation slip.

Robin observes her for a moment, then searches for Ruby – motions with his chin towards Roland, and the girl nods, kneels down beside the boy, and ruffles his hair. "Good morning, young man," she greets. "What do you say, want to help me making some pancakes?"

Roland's eyes lit up, a wide grin opening in a toothy smile, and he nods eagerly – Ruby laughs, offers one tempter hand, luring him away with words of syrup and blackberries.

Robin is left with Granny, who has now turned to face him. "What?" she nearly barks. He just lifts his eyebrow, crosses his arms, waiting. "Fine," she sighs. "Just don't tell her I've told you this. It's kind of, you know, private," she says. "Today's her birthday."

His eyes widen, he stays silent, waiting for her to go on.

"And… I remember her birthdays," she adds, more gently. "She used to come at the diner with her son… they'd get their usual table, and he always insisted for her to take a bit of pie with ice cream, and she always obliged, because it was important to him," she says. "So, I wouldn't… bring Roland there, today, okay? I don't think she's up for… young spirits."

He nods, "Sure, I won't," he assures. Granny nods back, and throws him a hard gaze.

"Thank you," he tells her, and she softens, then turns, reaches for a drawer – he observes as she slides it into the pie she baked yesterday evening, still untouched until now. A slice goes on a clean dish, along with two forks. "Here," Granny says. "She could use a little cheer up, that woman."

Robin has to hide the smile threatening to get out. He takes the dish, thanking her again, and exits, leaving his son with Ruby and Granny's newest pie, knowing he will be in good hands for some time.

.

..

.

He's used to the Queen rejecting him. So, her snippy Go away, once he has knocked, shouldn't surprise him. Still, he knocks again, meeting silence on the other end. Sighing, he places the dish on the ground, reaches for his pocket and stumbles out a simple hair pin. The lockets are loose – he'll have to talk to her about that, he thinks.

The lock clicks, and he retrieves the pie. Her door cracks open slowly. He hears a well-known sigh of exasperation coming from the inside, chuckling, but he enters nonetheless.

She's standing in the middle of her room, arms crossed, a simple long-sleeved grey robe adjusted over her shoulder, her hair down. Her frown softens only slightly when she sees him, but flies in place again after one split second.

"What are you doing here, thief?"

He shrugs, entering, totally relaxed, places the pie on her writing desk. "Just bringing you breakfast, milady," he tells her, tilting his head, studying her reaction. She rolls her eyes, adverts them.

"I wasn't hungry, today," she mumbles.

"Is there a particular reason?"

He won't push her. He already knows the reason, after all. But hell, this woman is as easy to discover as the infinite sea, so if he doesn't insist – just a little, just to have a glimmer of space – it's all he needs, a small crack, and then he knows how to enter in a secret vault – if he hadn't insisted, till now, they'd still be at the Don't get in my way stage.

Finally, she meets his eyes.

"Who told you?" she asks coldly.

"Can't say," he solemnly tells her, with a hint of a smile. She doesn't take it – instead, she tightens the grip of her own hand on her forearm.

"Well, you might as well leave."

"Why?"

"Because –" she starts, fiddling with her robe, tangling the tying knot around her finger. " – because I don't have the time nor the energy to deal with you today, and –"

"You have something better to do? Like weeping over yourself?"

"I'm… I'm sorry?!" her voice rises in a high-pick, in an outraged disbelief. "I – I wasn't planning on –"

"Sure," he complies. "I don't believe you."

"Oh, is that so?" It's a low, dangerous whisper, her eyes narrowed. "Well, thief, I don't want people around for this exact reason – and least I want someone like you, someone who can barely mind his own business, and never leaves me alone!"

Her words shouldn't sting, but they do. "I was merely checking on you," he says, an icy shade overwhelming the comforting words. "But since today you're so busy, I'll make sure to go, milady." He adds a mocking curtsy, before turning on his heels, taking one first step towards the door.

And then…

"Robin… wait."

It's the use of his name, more than her request, that has him freeze on the spot. He stills, unbelieving. She used his name, and from her lips it's like an apology, a mere whisper of a prayer. When she speaks again, he draws a breath.

"Make me forget."

He turns, finds her eyes again. She's holding his gaze bravely, hard as stone. Time of a heartbeat, and she has covered the distance that separates them in two steps, her hands fly up to his cheeks, and she kisses him – Regina kisses him, with a gentle pace and brushing fingers on his skin. It's hardly their first kiss, but… it's new, and sweet. She's usually more rude, almost uncaring. Then, she parts slowly, her eyes still fixated in his.

"Make me forget," she whispers again. And it's all it takes.

– § –

He's gentle, at first. His hands travel on her skin, above her grey robe, he brings her hair behind her shoulders, lets his finger trail between the dark tresses. After her last murmur, they don't speak again. He just nods, once, simply. She can't tear her eyes apart from his, she can't leave his gaze – those shining pools of blue, is it fair to have such a wonderful color for your eyes?

He's gentle – he has always been – and she doesn't want his kindness. She wants to forget she's even in this world, she wants… oblivion. Sweet, sweet oblivion, she wants to lose herself in waves of pain or pleasure and never come back.

His hands go up to her shoulders, stalling shortly, as if he needed to seek permission. She nods, he lowers her robe, reaches the lace that keeps it tied, finds the end of the knot. His fingers are quick, working the knot, he goes just there, and folds apart the fabric, revealing nude skin. She can see his gaze drop down, his mouth part slightly. He clearly didn't expect to find her bare.

Her mind is crossed by a legitimate thought – that he's wearing far too much, compared to her. Her fingers go straight to his trousers, starting to unbutton them, but his hand curl around her wrist. She lifts her gaze, confused.

"This is for you, milady," he says, low. He keeps taking care of her robe, finally sliding it down her shoulders, throwing it on a chair.

"For my purposes, you'll need to be a bit more uncovered, thief," she tells him. Honestly, he doesn't actually think he'll stay dressed, while she's already naked?

"Not yet," he says, but anyway he slides out of his boots – damn, why on hell is he even inside her rooms with his boots on – at least he removed his cape, least dirtying the floor with leaves and who knows what else – but these thoughts are not so important anymore, because he has cupped her cheeks, kissing her. Softly, at first, simple pecks meant to soothe her. She's about to tell him – she needs to tell him, she doesn't want softness, she needs –

oh

– when he takes another pace entirely, quicker, his tongue darting in her mouth, the kiss becomes free and – passionate, since when she's passionate with the thief?

While he's distracted, her hand goes down again, finally managing to unbutton his trousers. She'd forgotten how unpractical they were, the Enchanted Forest clothes. He leaves her body to help her, finally tugging the trousers down. He's in his shirt now, sharing open-mouthed kisses. Regina shivers, not from the cold, even if it's one of the coldest days of the years. His hand is now on her skin again, and it's magnificent how warm it is, pressing on her back.

She parts from the kiss, for a moment – just the time for a whisper, Come to bed, pulling him from his shirt. They take the step they still have left from the bed, and Regina pushes him towards the mattress – maybe finally he catches her eagerness, because he drags her along. She nearly falls above him, and he lets out a little oof that has her chuckling.

"And who exactly told you I was okay with you being on top, milady?" he says, lips at four inches from her face.

She pins her hand on the mattress, steading herself. "I'll have you know, it's your Majesty, and that is why I am on top," she smirks, satisfied.

"Oh, I see," he nods, serious. "But I seem to recall you told me something about… making you forget?" His hand, now, has found her back, a solid and warm presence.

Regina diverts her eyes – now she has remembered what she wanted to forget, wonderful, but he doesn't let her indulge in these thoughts. "Sorry," he says – somehow she knows he means it. His fingers go up and down on her spine, now, sending electrifying, pleasing jolts of a promising something in the nearest future. His other hand finds her chin, making her meet his gaze. "I have to ask you something, Regina," he says. He doesn't use her name, he never uses it. He knows she doesn't want to hear it, but sometimes – very special occasions, like this one… sometimes she lets him.

"What is it," she whispers. His eyes are so close, burning her soul…

So close…

"Do you trust me?" he questions.

She's taken aback – a little surprised.
Yes, it's the first thing that her heart roars. I don't know if I can, her mind bites back. He lets her ponder the question, still breathing her in. Finally, she resolves for another question. "Do I trust you… with what?"

"It'd be a bit much to say with your life, wouldn't it?" he smiles. "I meant… here, right now, to make you forget."

The answer slips out before she can stop it. "Yes."

He visibly relaxes, trailing restless paths on her skin. She feels oddly comforted, and… safe. Safe?

"Good."

She clears her throat, embarrassed – they aren't used to this… intimacy. "Then… what do you have in mind?"

He cocks his head, watching her, then rises his arms together, pushing her gently. She gets it, he wants her lying on the mattress – crumples the sheets apart, following his guidance, and they flip, and now he's watching her from a different angle.

She finds being on top… reassuring. To her, it means having control of the situation. After her… marriage, she has never let someone above her, nor her knights, or the huntsman. No one. But she trusts him. Of all the times they've been in bed together, he's always let her take control, never pushing her. This turn of events is something new, something they have yet to discover. Is she ready to let him take the reins?

"Close your eyes, love," he says.

That's it. If she does it, there's no coming back.
She does it.

Love, she thinks. When they're together like this, he always calls her love. She knows it's a mere term of endearment, she's never stopped asking herself if it's more to him, she doesn't want it to be more. She keeps her eyes closed, hearing him fiddle with something around her. One caress on her skin, every now and then. It's taking every ounce of her willingness not to open her eyes, but she forces herself to wait. Be patient.

She feels, instead.

His weight lifts from the bed – then comes back, with a creek of the bed's wooden structure. She smiles by herself, not so sneaky for a thief, and then freezes. It's the unfamiliar caress of something on her skin – silk? Velvet?

Still, she keeps her eyes closed. "What is that?" she enquiries, her heartbeat fastening.

"Just something to help you relax," he says. She feels his hand sliding under her head, his lips pressed for a moment on her brow. The silken material is trailing above her face – softly, slowly. Now, he's lifting her head, and she lets him, he passes it under her nape, then moves away some hair from her eyes before tying the knot.

And she's blind.

She shouldn't be this aroused from being blindfolded, but she is.

The silken scarf he has chosen is blue – there's no way to see what's happening, now. She presses her thighs together, a bit uncomfortable, feeling his fingers on her cheek.

"You okay?" he asks, checking on her. She bites her lip, oh, gods, she's not used to this, he's terribly kind and hot and they're not like this, not usually, they're angry and sassy and always fighting, he shouldn't be so gentle when all she has ever done was pushing him away –

"Regina?"

"Mmm, yes," she mumbles. "Yes, it's… weird, but… I like it," she says. Well, it's true. Still, he leans on – another creek of the bed – to kiss her lips. "I trust you won't remove the scarf, milady," he tells her, and she can feel his scent, his breath above her skin.

"Okay, thief," she sighs, pretending to be annoyed.

She's not – she's starting to get wet, down there, damn it. And him being in control means she has no way to see what he's doing, to get him to do certain things. "What are you waiting for?" she asks, closing her fist. His hand is on her thigh, now, fingers going up and down. He pushes her apart, slowly, making her spread her legs. Oh, that's better.

She can feel him – his slow breaths, his slow strokes, everything is so slow, it's driving her mad. He leaves her skin for a second – then she feels him again, his mouth, more precisely, kissing her thighs. He draws a path of kisses, while his hands are busy in other ways. She squeezes her eyes shut, it doesn't make any difference, but she can feel. She feels his lips, sometimes of a feather-touch, sometimes wet and pressing, and his hands are everywhere. His fingers circle her nipple, giving a light squeeze, and she is feeling he's coming up, he's reaching – he's reaching that point, she can –

He stops, he lifts everything, and he isn't touching her anymore. Her hand wants to fly up to her blindfold – she wants it so much. "What are you doing?"

"Patience, milady," he instructs. Another sound of sheets moving, of him getting up. Oh, gods, he can't do that, work her up and then leave. She writhes a little, searching for friction, and she thinks he didn't say anything about her own hands. She bites her lip – if she were able to see, she'd spy on him, to control if she could easily sneak one finger inside of herself and relieve some pressure – oh, to hell, she thinks, lifting her hand, finally landing it there. She has just found the source of her needs, when his hand closes around hers. She gasps in surprise, because he is moving her fingers away.

"Not yet," he says, sounding amused. She smiles, she'd lift her eyebrow if she could.

Then, he's going to lie next to her again. "I thought we could make good use of your birthday gift, while we're at it," he tells her. What?

It becomes clear, after a mere second – a cold sensation on her stomach, a weird, splashing material, dripping substance in fat drops. "It's whipped cream," he informs her, oh, it probably was with the pie. His lips are back on her skin, where he has splayed the wet cream. He kisses her, then lifts his mouth, moves, and lands again on her mouth, and she can taste the cream and his scent. He kisses her, slowly, mingling breaths and cream, it's so nice, his hand is toying with her nipple, her eyes closed.

She's so lost in his kisses – the whipped cream tastes good, his other hand is between her hair, down to her shoulder, to her arm – that she doesn't notice he has stopped with her breast, until he reaches her there.

She's almost startled, for a second, when he cups her wetness, sliding one finger along it, but then she rises slightly her hips to meet more of him, more, she needs more, she has for some time now.

"You're so wet already?" he says, cockily – she lifts one hand to reach for his hair, tugs him towards her. "Shut up and touch me," she hisses, hearing his low chuckle, but he finally starts stroking her, finally, damn it, goes to kiss her, his finger sinking deeper, her hips fastening their rhythm. It's torturing, now, because she can't see him. Faster, she murmurs, her legs growing weaker, and she can feel it coming, and it's intense.

His hand finds her clit, pressing there – she has had the urge to add her fingers, but now she doesn't need them anymore, he's putting the right amount of pressure, up and down, she bites her lip, harder!, she nearly screams. It's amazing, what he can do with one – now two fingers, how he can mold her, making her come apart. She can't see him, but who cares, she can already feel the first zinging waves coming up her legs.

"Oh, please!" she moans brokenly, she's so close – she can feel it, her thighs are shaking – he follows her, fastening, then she feels him moving – no, not now, she roars inwardly, outraged – but he's not abandoning her, he's just adding that final touch. His mouth is on her clit, sucking, one more second – she's up, finally, with strangled moans and those unbelievably perfect buzzes of release and electricity, yes! She reaches the top, and slowly descends, slowly, her hand going to slower his own – she can't take any more pressure there, or she'll die – has anyone ever died of an orgasm?

She breathes loudly, pants, almost, coming back in the land of the living, feels his hand on her forehead, then down, he lifts her blindfold. She keeps her eyes closed, not used to the light yet. "You okay?" he asks, as he did at the beginning, and she would laugh, right now. "More than okay," she tells him, finally blinking once or twice. The light is… manageable, his features still a bit confused, but she's already getting used to it.

He's scrutinizing her, she thinks, watching her carefully. "I'm fine," she repeats. He smiles, then, brushes her cheek.

"Did it work, then? The forgetting strategy?"

"Quite," she confirms. "But we still have that one to take care of," she says, motioning at his hardness, but he shakes his head. "Later," he says. "This was for you."

He finds her eyes again – now it occurs to her, he loves to watch her face when she comes, so this whole blindfold thing has been quite the sacrifice on his part. So, she says it.

"Thank you."

She says it, meeting his smile halfway with one of hers, feeling his fingers again between her hair. "Happy birthday, Regina," he answers. She scoffs a laugh, it's not bad, this birthday, until now, she thinks. Chooses to focus on the good things of today.

"Is there any pie left?"