Written for OQ Rough Smut Week, day 7: Halloween.


Rougher Than The Rest

Well it's Saturday night,
You're all dressed up in blue,

I've been watching you awhile,
Maybe you've been watching me too…

.

.::.

.

He should have seen it coming.

His wife's temper – it drives him mad – has always been one of the entrancing, fascinating details of her, but hell, he's always been more than capable of handling it.

Tonight, though, right before they left for the party, they were yelling in the bedroom – it's been a while since their last fight, and her wrath mounts and mounts and finally explodes, and of course it had to be precisely before of the Halloween party, of course. Words have cut and bruised, coming not only from her, but also from him – he has seen her close to tears, her carefully applied make-up melting just a bit.

"Fine," she has said at the end, and he has watched, horrified, as her well-tested, cold mask of disdain slipped into place. "As much as I'd like to keep going, we have a place to go to. If you want to keep throwing a fuss, I suggest we rain check, thief."

He has opened his mouth, like a fool, but the door has slammed, and right after one second he has heard her, downstairs, listing recommendations to Henry and Violet – about Roland, and the baby, and something concerning pizza and a movie. She's stormed outside; he's gone after her, throwing a quick goodbye to the kids. Henry's concerned frown was immediately burned into his retina.

So yes, he should have seen it coming. After all, damn it, she has spent something like forty years trying to destroy her step-daughter, he knew that some not-so-buried part of her likes revenge so much. She's good at it.

Revenge, is Regina leaning on the counter, in the very spooky and festive Main Room of the Town Hall. Revenge, is Regina sometimes throwing looks at him – as she flirts with Jefferson, of all people.

That, and the dress she is wearing.

It doesn't help him, for sure.

She's refused to wear one of her dresses as the Evil Queen – those black, or royal blue, or crimson red garments that he's come to cherish during their escapades, during the Missing Year. Because she wanted a normal dress, Robin, for once, thank you so much, but bloody hell – the effect – the effect is equally arousing.

She looks like a lady, every bit regal and composed as always, with one of those long dresses, imperial-style, he believes… it hugs her body as if it has directly been modelled from her curves.

And Jefferson looks at her cleavage more than at her eyes.

He's fuming, from his corner.
He's surprised his glass hasn't shattered yet.

He knows she isn't drunk yet – that her game is perfectly controlled, every ounce of flirting carefully pondered, addressed at the other man, but directed towards him like one of his arrows. He wonders, for a second, if Jefferson is aware of this – but he must be. He bets she has whispered in the Hatter's ear something like Back me up on this, will you?

She laughs at one of his sentences – her hand placed on his forearm, her hair cascading down the light blue fabric of the dress, and the flying veils tied to her sleeves undulating lasciviously. Jefferson's black cloak – but seriously, how can you think of dressing up as a vampire in this godforsaken town – is draped on his arm, and Robin observes while Regina nods, laughing, folding the cloak apart.

Then, he loses it.

Because his wife – his love, she is inclining her neck, offering it – he is sure Jefferson has proposed to bite her neck with his plastic, fake teeth.

But before his mouth can even start getting closer to her – he slams the glass on the table, approaches them, clearing his throat. Regina turns her head towards him, slowly, with a wicked grin on her lips.

"I believe you can find some other lady to bite, mate," he spits out, between gritted teeth. Jefferson cocks his head, lifts his eyebrows, and gets up, but Robin doesn't miss the knowing, satisfied smile he throws Regina.

He is angry. Worse, he's furious.

"Are you done?" she says, almost bored, checking her baby-blue painted nails.

"Not quite," he growls, in a low voice. "Are you?"

She throws a look at him – that damned smile again, just a tug of her lip up, on a corner. She knows, she knows exactly what she's done… she leans in, towards him, her hand sneaking on his waist. "What's the matter, dear? Can't stand someone touching your stuff? It's rather… hypocrite, coming from a thief, don't you think?"

He narrows his eyes – and then, despite his best efforts to resist, he covers the distance, cups her cheek – kisses her, almost violently, he doesn't think he's ever been this rude with her – but she moans against his mouth, and that hand of hers goes down, like a lurking serpent. Her smile against his lips tells everything – she's deeply amused to find him hard, all hot and bothered already.

He kisses her, again, he doesn't stop, she lets out another deep, sultry moan. They are practically standing up, now, making out in front of everyone, where anyone could see her hand on his hardness, despite the dark and psychedelic atmosphere.

"I prefer to think it's hypocrite of you, to try and make me jealous," he answers, dragging her closer. "But then, you're such a refined lady, aren't you?"

She scoffs – her forehead is touching his, their breaths mingling in quick pants. "Don't toy with me, dear," she warns.

Isn't it what she just did?

Oh, it's time for fair play. And judging by the way her body is pressing against him, he thinks she's up to it. He's still furious – and hurt, and jealous, and so in love it pains him – he's all of those things together, so he bends down to whisper in her ear. "I plan to do something better, honestly," he murmurs. "Take us home, and I'll fuck you so hard – that in the end you will apologize, your majesty."

The grin that follows – is pure lust.

Smoke surrounds them, and they're back in their bedroom.

– § –

They're onto each other in seconds – he has no time to waste, that is for sure. She feels him – his hands pressed on her shoulders, closing like a pair of pincers, there's no escaping. He's holding her, tightly so, and she thinks that if he were another man – any man, who dared to touch her like this, she'd have snapped his neck by now.

But it's him, it's Robin – it's someone she trusts, and someone who has made her angry in the past few hours, she couldn't care less of bruises – even if –

"W-wait," she pants against his neck, breaking a kiss. "The – the spell –"

"Do it," he rasps, his hand on her waist, "you'll need it," he says, the cocky bastard – she has barely the time of waving her hand to soundproof the room – and lock it – before he slams her against the door. The wood is cold, the upper part of her back is almost bare – a classy touch in the style of the dress – she represses a shiver, lifting up a hand to trail it between his hair.

He changes the pace of his kisses – they were hot, and open-mouthed, now he's slower, gentler, this won't do. She wonders why – there must be a reason – she doesn't get it until she feels his hand, his fingers loosening their hold on her shoulder to tug at her dress.

"This needs to go," he orders, gripping the blue fabric, pushing down, moaning in protest when it doesn't work.

"You need – ah – you need to untie the knots on the back, first," she informs. Grins against his jaw, too, when she thinks she can win this one – because his trousers have a simpler tying, all she needs to do is to pull a string.

She complies, doesn't let his tentative hands on her back distract her, because this one, she has won it, she represses a triumphant smile when he murmurs to her ear – you witch – and, mostly, when her hand finds him hard like stone.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" he says, outraged by the poor comeback of his plan. She's about to answer, has even opened her mouth to answer, when every possible word she could muster is chocked in her throat by his sudden movement.

His palms have gone to press under her thighs, in one fluid motion, angrily; he lifts her up against the door, causing her head to bump lightly there. But it seems he's not finished, because he tightens his hold on her, and he's suddenly walking towards the bed.

"Don't you dare –" she starts, but he does, he throws her down, and she lets out a small oof from the violence of the impact. "You moron," she complains, feeling the urge of slapping him.

He's not listening – finally, he's working on the dress, because he growls a low "Turn around," his fingers going directly to the knots, tugging and pulling and scratching her bare skin. The elaborate tangle of laces falls down, his hand pressing on her back.

"If you ruin this dress, I swear –" she starts, menacing, but it's too late. The screeching sound of ripped fabric reaches her ears, his voice saying "Ooops – it was taking too long," his stupid, amused voice – she feels the rage mounting rapidly, and she turns again, facing him.

This time, it's her hand which assaults his shirt, it's with satisfaction that she sees the shredded edges of white cotton, his chest becoming uncovered, and she may have added just a little magical help to her handiwork, because now she has the upper hand, here.

He cups her cheeks, his hands sliding behind, pulling her head towards him and drawing her in for another kiss. His lips are hot and needy, her dress momentarily forgotten, the elegant veils lost somewhere around the bed. When he captures her lower lip between his teeth, she lets out a moan – she's not so proud of it, she still has her dignity, and he's so confident he's going to make her scream, but she – won't

It's little harder not to have a reaction, when his hand finds her breast. It's still covered, multiple layers – her bra, and the dress, but still, he passes his hand above the nipple, and her instantaneous reaction is to press her legs together.

"So – oh – when are you going to keep your promises?" she asks, grinning, meeting his eyes, meeting his equal grin.

"Soon enough," he says. He nears his mouth to her ear, whispers, "I need you naked, first," and fuck, it sends shivers down her spine, she loves it when he talks like this, like she's the sexiest person he's ever met.

She leans on, too, aspiring his scent, "Good," she answers. "Because I do like it rough, thief."

"Be careful what you wish for," he murmurs. He resumes his work with the dress, cursing between his teeth, never leaving her breast, his hand sliding under the fabric and finally freeing it. He rips again at the irremediably ruined dress, tearing it apart in the middle, where she has hung some feathers between her breasts, until it's just a piece of clothing hanging from a side of her body. Shame, it was beautiful, he muses, all serious – what a jerk – and pushes it away, finally relishing her almost-bareness.

She places her hands on his shoulders, fingers curving in a strong grip, as he abandons her mouth to descend and take her nipple between his lips, starting to suck, to swirl his tongue, toying with the other nipple in the meanwhile. She closes her eyes, something inside of her bursting into flames, threatening to explode. It's just too good, the sensation, it's as if all of her synapsis are coming alive at once.

Then, he leaves her nipple with a wet pop – goes up again, to her jaw, and sucks right there. His mouth is almost insanely illegal, it's marking her, she's definitely going to have red bruises in the morning. While he kisses her, he manages to tug down a strap of her bra, fervently, but she doesn't care, not now –

Her head falls into the crook of his shoulder, her lips pressed against his skin – they curve up, slightly, when he gives her a particularly strong suck. So she does it – a bite, right near his neck – a small thing, but a bite nonetheless, and she smiles at the throaty sound he lets out as an answer.

Satisfied from his reaction, she continues, alternates sloppy kisses to angry bites and sucks. They're like animals, assaulting each other's necks, like lions, rage and love and need all together, a primal instinct that doesn't leave space to kindness, not today.

"Regina," he murmurs, almost a prayer, when she bites his earlobe. His hand circles her waist, possessive, tries to lift her up. "Take off your panties," he asks, "before I tear them apart too –" and nope, not happening, she has to at salvage her very expensive lingerie at least.

She quickly complies, holding on to him to lift herself, pushing them down. He goes to unclasp her bra, twitching it, like it has offended him, finally revealing her completely naked skin. "You too," she urges, motioning at his underwear. He's faster than she is, he only has one piece to get rid of – and he does, with urgency, without thinking twice.

The time they've taken to get naked feels immensely long, now. She presses her legs together, sinking into the soft mattress, when he gets on his knees and surrounds her body with his arms. She feels him pushing her down, his lips going to kiss her, to distract her. All of that rudeness and violence of moments before, it's gone, now he's almost kind. She wonders, what he's doing, what he's planning. Her back finds the cold of the bed, she feels the warmth of his hands cupping her cheeks.

Then, while she's lingering in the sensation of going slow for a few minutes, he changes his pace, fastens it. She sees him from a weird angle, all splayed on the bed as he's on all fours, kissing her from above, planting quick signs of need on her lips.

His hand finds her nipple, the other one, tugging it, just a little, just the right amount for her to start grinding her thighs slowly. He has to notice, because she feels him smile against her mouth, maybe holding back a snarky comment.

When his hand leaves her breast to slip down, when he finds her humid folds, she closes her eyes. He curves his fingers, testing her wetness – oh, yes, she's so wet already, has been from quite some time – maybe she has started when they were at the party, maybe it's been a mixture of the dangerous game she was playing and his murderous glares from the other side of the room…

He starts pumping, slowly at first, then harder, hitting some sensible spots, spots that have been neglected until now. "Yes," she lets out, biting her own lip right after – damn it, she shouldn't have. Her eyes open, his grin has spread open. He adds one finger, going to lie next to her so he can reach a better angle. It's almost painful, his rhythm, but so nice, so pleasurable, oh, please, more, she thinks.

Or maybe she says it out loud, who cares, as long as he continues – his other hand goes to settle behind her neck, drawing her close, his mouth returns to her neck, sucking, as he draws circles on her clit with the skilled ability of a long-time lover. Heat spreads through her, her hand gripping his hair…

She can already feel the first waves coming… yes, right there

And he slows down.

"R-Robin," she growls, but the bastard is smirking, insufferably so.

"Say it, love," he asks, his wet fingers going from the fast pace of moments before to a slow caress, and it feels so frustrating, as if she's losing something, damn him

"What," she pants, trying to lift her hips to meets his hand, trying to get some friction – she was feeling so close…

"Say you're sorry," he cocks his head, giving two hard thrusts with his fingers, as if he's reminding her of what she could have, if only she were willing to say those words…

"The hell I will," she protests, no fucking way, he can forget it – but he just smiles, retiring his hand – oh NO, no way, that bastard

"Then I suppose my job here is done," he says, even if he's promised to fuck her senseless, got her all riled up, and ready, and soaking wet… she needs it, she needs him, needs him now, needs the sensation of him pounding into her, oh gods, why on earth she has agreed to this…

"If you go away now, I will roast your ass," she threatens, but he shrugs, not impressed at all by her fascinating counter measurements.

"What about we make a deal," he proposes, tickling her skin just above her entrance. "You say it, and I give you what you want… even more so," he says.

Damn him.

"You give me what I want, and then I'll say it," she bargains, cupping his cheeks, throwing him that look she knows he can't refuse… and apparently, he has some needs too, because he grins, again, and nods, and his fingers re-enter her. "Let's hope the queen has honor," he mocks her.

And – oh, that's more like it, that's what she wants – he's actually keeping his promise, now, in and out, slow circles and fast movements. Her eyes close, the heels of her feet dig into the mattress, pushing down, her hips lift again, against his hand. She's rocking, now, curling her fingers around the sheets, her teeth sink into her lower lip.

His murmurs in her ear don't help at all – he's giving an accurate description of her in that precise moment, so wet, so slippery, love – you're gonna come so hard for me – her breaths quicken their pace, she abandons the sheets to grip his shoulders, maybe leaving some scratches with her nails – he doesn't mind, he bends down and trails his tongue on her nipple.

"I – I need –" she rasps out, it's incredible she hasn't screamed yet – he nods, letting out a breath around her stiffen breast, "I need you – inside," she manages, her hand moving from his shoulder to his back and then to his hardness, "I wanna come with you inside," she says.

He smiles – not his usual, gentle smile, more like a luscious smirk, and maybe she overestimated his capacity of holding back – it's clear, he needs her too, he wants her, and he's been the most neglected of the two. His sex is noticeably ready, he slides his tip against her juices, slowly… then, he does it, without holding back, he enters her, and this, this is so much better, even better than his fingers, he gives her space before filling her completely.

"Yes," she hisses, holding on to his forearms. She meets his eyes, full of pure desire. "Robin?" she says, slowly. He doesn't answer, but looks at her, questioningly. She grips his arms, more, stronger. "Don't go easy," she requests.

A moan escapes from his throat – when he finally starts moving, his thumbs pressing on her shoulders, she can feel him, hitting her again and again, so hard, so fast. She doesn't think he's ever been so rushing, so careless, so needy – fine by her, as long as he keeps pushing against that particular spot. He's really going, now, making good on his promise, with swift thrusts, his hands have left her skin – he's positioned them differently, one splayed on the mattress, the other holding on to the headboard.

Regina has managed, until now, to keep her mouth almost shut – but it's getting rather impossible, so she moans, surprising herself with the primordial, throaty sound she lets out – "oh, more, harder," she says, her voice harsh. He complies, she didn't think it was possible, but he pins one hand under her back, lifting her hips, so she is pressed against him.

"Oh – fuck," she curses, biting the inner of her cheek, so hard she tastes blood. "Yes, don't – don't stop," oh, this is so good, he's saying things, but her mind his wandering around, full of incoherent sensations, full of pleasure – he's saying things to her, like you're so tight, fuck, you're amazing, she stops listening, she focuses on the rhythm, the surging of her orgasm, the feeling of him, filling her, holding her…

He has bowed his head, it's the last thing she sees before she closes her eyes, her mouth opening in that much needed ecstasy – it's the best moment, right before the explosion, when she's going through the stars, just before –

Before it hits her, like a violent storm, her scream comes low and then high, her nails sinking into his flesh – she feels him, she does, in the black oblivion of her pleasure, she knows he's come too, in sync, reaching the peak – his breaths have quickened, then slowed, and she feels it, him, always.

He loosens his grip on her side, panting, with one last thrust, he slides out. She's sweating, and her legs feel like jelly, still practically trembling. He passes his fingers between his hair, looks down at her, and what a sight she must be – splayed on the bed, hair like a mess and covered in bruises and bites. She smiles, though.

In the blissful sensations of their aftermath, he finally comes to lie next to her, resting his head on his closed fist, his other hand caressing her stomach.

"Was it… satisfactory, love?" he says, as if he doesn't know already. She feels the urge of rolling her eyes, but she's still cherishing that glow of happiness and tiredness, so she hums. He smiles at her, leaning on to kiss her lips. He lingers there, for some instants.

Then, when he gets up, he lifts an eyebrow, expecting she'll say something – she has to say something, a certain sentence, so she huffs, smacking weakly his arm. "Fine," she tells him. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"It's extraordinary how difficult it is to make you say it," he muses, almost laughing.

"Oh, well," she lifts her arms to stretch them, in a lazy move, "You knew I was difficult when you met me."

"You're right," he agrees, and again, captures her lips in another kiss. He goes slower, now, this is the part where he usually cradles her against him, lulling her to sleep…

But that will come later… for now, she is content where she is.

Next to them, resting on the pillow, there's one of the blue feathers from her dress.