A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, I adore them. And thanks to Bea and Brooke for beta-ing, I adore you.
She takes time off work.
She calls in sick while she licks her wounds. Spends time telling herself over and over again that she stays away from the outside world because her injured hand will draw questions, questions that she's too tired to answer over and over.
But the real reason she is holed up in her mansion has crystal blue eyes, a chiseled jawline, wears a slight, rugged beard, and one of the most aggravatingly sexy smirks she's ever known. The man who had made her feel the most comfortable with herself, made her feel valuable, the man who gave her all those feelings and now took them away, replaced them with dark, seething hatred. She isn't ready to face that.
But it's almost worse sitting in her home and waiting for something to happen. Everytime the doorbell rings, she expects to find him, or an angry mob of people he may have told about her. Instead it's Graham offering her some soup for the cold she's claimed she is suffering from, or Whale dropping off the new proposed budget for the hospital because it needs immediate attention and just can't wait. And she finds she doesn't much care for this, the feeling of dread, the feeling of waiting for something to happen.
Regina Mills is a woman of action, has never laid in waiting for danger to find her. She faces it head on, takes a running start and dives in headfirst, caution to the wind.
So on the fourth day, she readies herself for work, wearing a pristine, beautifully tailored pantsuit with a bright red silk camisole underneath. It's a bit hard to do her makeup and hair given that she is one handed and feeling a bit feverish, a bit shaky (not from her wounds, she tells herself, it's just a side effect of lack of sleep). But despite her one, shaking hand, she manages to make herself look presentable. She doesn't dream of wearing a more comfortable outfit, won't think of wearing her makeup or hair more casual. She needs to look like Regina Mills, town mayor, today. Needs to look like today is any other day, like she is strong, and confident and undamaged.
And she's succeeded. You wouldn't notice anything is different or wrong unless you were to look past the crisp cuff of her suit jacket to see the hand that peaks out from under it is wrapped in a flesh colored bandage. Few people will bother to look at her that closely.
She walks to Granny's to stop for breakfast at the usual time, and yes, everything is the same. She narrowly avoids bumping into a flustered Snow White, breezes by a preoccupied Archie, and stops to pet Pongo and scratch him behind the ears. Pongo barks happily, though his nose nuzzles against her injured hand, sniffing wildly and planting little licks against her bandages.
"Pongo, stop that," Archie says, as the dog presses against her further, "I'm sorry, he must smell food."
Perhaps he smells the blood of her hand, or perhaps he smells the honey she continued to use when she redressed the wound. Robin had found it acceptable, afterall.
Or perhaps Pongo, the only perceptive resident of Storybrooke, could sense she was hurting, and was offering her a friendly nuzzle of comfort.
"He's fine," she waves off Archie, who is tugging wildly at the leash, "Pongo means no harm, isn't that right?" She scratches behind his ears and smiles when Pongo wags his tail furiously.
She walks the rest of the way to the diner with her head held a bit higher.
The only difference in the day, as she can tell, is that she does not see Ruby wildly arguing with her Granny on the sidewalk. Regina wonders if she's late, if she's missed the usual stand off regarding the morning shift.
But as she approaches the diner, she discovers the reason for the change.
Ruby is distracted.
Robin is sitting at the counter, eggs over easy and bacon and toast, a mug full of what she assumes is coffee but hell, could be tea, and he's talking to Ruby.
Flirting with Ruby.
Ruby's leaning over, elbows on the counter, giggling and making those dopey eyes she knows so well.
Apparently she and her soulmate also share the same taste in women.
She ignores the dull ache in her heart (it has no right to be there) and focuses on a place to sit to be unnoticed. That spot by the corner is open, she won't be hiding from him, not completely. She will just be having her breakfast some place quiet.
She won't even need to walk past him to get to the table in the corner. Perfect.
But she forgets that the door to the diner is attached to a bell that rings, and god, she hates that, because the noise draws his attention instantly — eyes stare into hers, a deep, unabashed stare. She meets his gaze in time to see him swallowing heavy.
He doesn't break her stare until Ruby's voice pipes up.
"Madam Mayor! Take a seat!" She motions to an empty seat by the bar, her seat, the one they always reserve for her, and no, that won't do, not today, no. She won't sit in the seat right next to him. "I'll get your coffee ready. Fresh pot, right?"
She clears her throat, "Ruby, I'm going to sit over here, if it's just the same," she motions to an open table by the window.
"Sure, anyone joining you?"
"No, just need the quiet today." She grabs an abandoned newspaper off of a near table. Something to read. That's good. A distraction is what she needs.
Ruby smiles, gathers utensils and a menu, directs her to the table, and prances off back behind the counter.
Robin's eyes are back on her, dark and menacing. She meets his gaze with a stare of her own, and a sly little smile, because, no, she won't be intimidated. Not by anyone. Least of all him.
He breaks eye contact first to focus back on Ruby, muttering things that have her giggling and blushing. It's all for her benefit, she knows, can tell by the sideways looks he gives to make sure she's watching, to make sure she knows what he's doing.
She tells herself she doesn't care and focuses her attention on the crossword puzzle. It doesn't bother her, the way his eyes look Ruby over, the way his hand touches down her arm, the way he is looking at her ass when she turns around to the pot of coffee.
It doesn't bother her. Not at all.
"Madam Mayor, is this seat taken?"
Graham is smiling coyly, gives her a wink when her eyes peruse his form. She touches her hand to her neck, lets it wander down to her shoulder slowly.
"Yes, take a seat, Sheriff." Her tone is deep and sultry, such an innocent sentence should never sound so sexy.
They eat together, she and Graham. It could be domestic, but even with the history they share, the carnal attraction for each other, it probably looks like more of a business meeting than a romantic breakfast for two. The two of them...they just...there's nothing there, nothing below the surface. It's boring.
She wonders if this is how she will live the rest of her life. Graham as her companion, while Robin makes his way through the women of the village.
Or maybe not. Maybe he will stay with Ruby. Maybe she will give him everything he wants and needs. Ruby is a better person, with all her faults and moral failings, than Regina could ever be. And though looks may be deceiving, she's kind, good with children, and she's warm…
It's no matter.
Whatever he does with his love life, it will hurt, to see him navigating this life, this town, this world without an end. For eternity, she will see him make another happy, and have to live with the knowledge that she could have been happy, that she could have made him happy (what would it be like, to be the cause of happiness in someone? She had never made anyone happy in her life, try as she might), if only she had been brave enough to meet him before the death, destruction and chaos she caused. Before the young bride became the Evil Queen.
And what had it brought her? What was worth leaving him at the tavern that day? She had cursed herself into a life where nothing felt real, nothing makes her feel alive.
Nothing, but him, of course. And of course, she can never have him. Can only watch him break her heart over and over every day.
But perhaps it's better than being burned alive by the town. Perhaps it's better than death. Perhaps it will get easier as time goes by. Perhaps she will move on.
Perhaps.
"Do you want me to come over tonight?" Graham asks as his tongue darts out quickly to wet his lips, "Or are you...previously engaged?"
It's not yet been five days since he's seen Robin with her, she realizes, but he must not think of it as serious, not with how he's acting. She brushes his leg slightly under the table.
"My calendar is free," she says, drawing her uninjured hand up his arm (oh it feels wrong, so wrong, but she's never going to feel right, not with Robin hating her, detesting the very thought of her, so this will have to do for now).
She's knocked out of her thoughts when someone grabs her injured hand.
"How is it?"
She recognizes his voice immediately, even if she's never heard it sound so cold, so detached, before.
"Excuse me, Ranger, I believe that is none of your business," she says cooly, giving him a pointed stare.
He stares back menacingly, and snarls, "I need to speak with you. Alone."
"What's this all about?" Graham asks, "Regina, is this man bothering you?"
"He is," she says in that deep, confident tone, "but I can handle it myself. Excuse me."
She follows Robin to the back hallways of the diner, and she can feel the anger radiating off of him.
"I haven't seen you in days, where have you been?"
"Taking a much needed vacation," she answers at once.
He rolls his eyes, then his eyes wander over her, as if inspecting her.
"Your wounds, are they — are you feeling—- Regina, you look so pale." His hand flies to her cheek and brushes it delicately, and his expression is soft and he almost looks worried...but the moment passes, he draws his hand away sharply, as if remembering something.
"I have fair skin," she reminds him.
"Don't talk to me about your skin like I don't bloody well know what every inch of it looks like," he seethes. "You're not well."
"Thank you for your assessment, doctor, but I feel just fine."
"And so my life now, if you call it that, is to include you showing up and disappearing at random?"
"What do you want me to do? Keep notice of my potential whereabouts so you know where not to go to see me? Should I deliver you my future daily plans via carrier pigeon? Or maybe you'd like me to carry around a tracking device so you know how to avoid me. Or maybe I should wear a bell so if you hear me approaching, you know to go running in the other direction…"
"Enough!"
It's an angry whisper, one where he's clenching his teeth together so as not to scream. "I guess I'll just live my life, and you live yours, then," he spits the words out through clenched teeth and retreats.
Regina takes a moment to watch him walk back to his seat, takes a moment to mourn the loss of the only person she could ever dream of loving again, takes a moment to mourn that her life will once again be sad, and dull, and repetitive.
But she only takes a moment.
And then she returns to her seat with Graham, poised as ever, with a comment about how Locksley is upset about the budget cuts to the park department.
When he tells her what time he'll be over tonight she acts engaged and interested, but inside she feels cold and dark. It's all wrong.
Graham doesn't ask about her hand.
Does he even notice? Does he even care?
It doesn't matter. This is life now.
.::.
Regina falls back into her routine. Skips those mornings at Granny's, but everything else she keeps. And she doesn't see him. It's a small town, but not so small that they can't easily avoid one another.
And so for the next few days, they do just that.
Until one night, when the heavy pounding of her front door jolts her awake from her sleep, has her panicking and breathing heavy. She knows it's him on the other side of that door, continuing to slam away as she puts on her robe over her thin nightgown, slinks into slippers and makes her way down the stairs.
"Regina!" she hears his raspy roars from the other side of the door, between the steady pounding, and god, is he trying to kick the door in?
She unlocks the door and opens it just enough to peer outside.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, her eyes squinting into the moonlight, still adjusting from sleep.
She's opened the door less than halfway, and her body is blocking the entrance. It's anything but an invitation to step inside, but it doesn't matter to him, clearly.
"I slept with Ruby," he mumbles, and his arm raises above her head to grasp the door and pull it all the way open, as he pushes past her into her foirer.
Well then.
"Oh," she responds, as nonchalant as possible as she closes the door tightly behind her. She expected as much, she did. Still, it's a bit of a stab in the chest to hear, him telling her like this in the middle of the night. Yes, he's twisting the knife a little, but he's earned the right to intentionally hurt her, hasn't he?
"Well if you're bragging, I hate to inform you that's not all that impressive of a feat. Nearly everyone has slept with Ruby. Including myself, almost," she tries to keep her voice amused, steady, casual. But he's not really listening to her.
He turns to her for a second, moves towards her as she's backed against the door and mutters, "I felt nothing."
He smells as if he's practically soaked himself in a barrel of whiskey, and his breath stings her eyes, the vapors of alcohol he breathes out so strong, so powerful. God, she hopes he didn't drive here. He really should not be doing much of anything besides resting.
She knows what he means, though, by feeling nothing. Or at least, she thinks she does. Still, she won't acknowledge it.
"Perhaps it was your form of protection?" she offers cooly, "They offer a lot in this world, ribbed, extra lubrication…"
"Fuck off! You bloody well know what I mean, you — you —"
He points a finger at her, and she braces herself for the name calling, but it never comes. Instead, he just stalks off into her house uninvited and unafraid.
He steps foot in the dining room, then turns around, goes into the living room...then the family room, as if he's searching for something.
She lets him wander around, making her way into the living room with a halfhearted bored sigh. He rushes towards her, and comes close, closer than he would ordinarily.
"Did you sleep with him?" His voice is harsh and accusing, and she could get drunk off the whiskey vapors drifting from his mouth.
"Who?" she asks, trying to keep her voice unalarmed and detached.
Robin storms away, continues pacing around the house, entering rooms and leaving them. It's making her nervous. What in gods name is he looking for?
"Oh, don't give me that who, you know damn well who. The Huntsman."
Hearing him refer to him as the Huntsman shocks her a bit, but it makes sense. The Huntsman was well known to those who lived near and in forests. They probably clashed on more than one occasion.
"Is he here?" he asks, revealing the purpose for his half-hearted drunken search party.
"No," Regina says firmly. "He is not here tonight."
"Did you sleep with him?" he repeats, this time coming closer to her. His brow furrowed, mouth wrenched in a grimace, and his hand clenched in a fist. It crosses her mind she should be scared of him, based on his behavior. His muscles are tight and flexed, he's invading her personal space, and he's angry, so angry.
But she's not scared of him. She has no concern or even a bit of fear that he would harm her.
"Many times," she says, "you know I slept with him many times…"
"Since we were….together. Did you...did you sleep with him? After you were rubbing his god damned leg under the table at the diner, rubbing up his arms, did you go back to your mansion and fuck him, Regina? DID YOU?" He's panting heavily.
"What are you doing here?" she deflects, "You told me to stay away from you, to never speak to you again, what happened to that?"
"Answer the question," he snarls back, his face beet red, eyes now more wild.
He doesn't need to know. Shouldn't. She should refuse to answer the question.
But for some reason she can't deny him an answer.
He's angry, so angry, and if she isn't scared, she should be repulsed that he's forced his way into her home, ranted at her and made demands of her (after all, she's the queen) but she isn't repulsed either.
He's close to her, so close, and he's backed her against a wall. She feels her hips jut forward against him... and what the hell was that?
"Yes," she says firmly, looking into his eyes, "I had every right to, you told me to stay away, and it's none of your—"
But before she can finish her lecture on how he's not her concern anymore, his lips are on her, kissing her hard, and fiercely, and she gives back. He tastes mostly of whiskey, and then of smoke, salt, and a hint of citrus, a smattering of tequila and Robin.
His hands are greedy on her, one threads through her hair until it cups the back of her head and presses against it, pushing her hard into the kiss, the other slides down her back until he can grope her ass.
"Did you feel that?" He breathes the words into her tongue, and his hot breath tickles and warms her, sends a shock of electricity down her body.
Yes, yes she feels that. She doesn't answer, but he knows. He knows from the way her breath quickens, from the way her body just melts into that kiss.
"Does it feel that way with him, too?" he asks again, before he plants a sucking kiss against her neck, and she moans involuntarily. "Do you get to feel like this with everyone?"
He keeps kissing down her neck, one of his hands reaches underneath her robe to fondle at her breast, his thumb turns to stroke the nipple just a bit, and she lets out some sort of sound between a whine and a moan, she feels warm and aching all at once and it's….that's quite enough playing around.
She straddles one of his legs and rocks against it, as her hands fall behind his head to guide his mouth to hers. They kiss and he swallows her moans and whimpers as she moves against him, generating friction where she's achy and needy for it.
He gives her all he has, and they make out and it's needy and desperate and rough, but then he extracts himself, moves away from her, right when separating is practically painful.
"I asked you a question," he manages between pants. "Tell me, why does it feel different with you? Why has it always felt different with you?"
"I don't know," she answers, and it's almost honest, she doesn't know how the soulmate connection works, doesn't know why things have always felt different. "But I feel it too, only with you."
He nods at that, places a hand on either side of her hips and pulls her back against him, mouth rough and aggressive against hers, as if he's starving for her.
"You don't like it with him," he groans against her neck, "only with me."
She moans in agreement. It's not exactly true, she and Graham didn't reach the levels she reached with Robin, but it had been enjoyable. Except the last time. That had felt cold, and unsatisfying, and she had felt a twinge of guilt that she'd buried deep inside herself, because she wasn't cheating on him, he had left her, there was no reason to feel like she was betraying anyone.
"Tell me," he urges as his hands shift underneath her robe, under her silk night gown and cup and grasp her ass firmly, "tell me, you want me, not him."
She kisses him in reply. Really, that's the only reply he deserves. She should not be doing this, what is the point? To admit she's heartbroken and lovesick so he is smug and satisfied when he is sober and returns to ignoring her? She shouldn't say a thing.
"I want you; I don't want him," she gasps into the space between them, unable to suppress the words, no matter how much they will come to bite her.
He kisses her again, fierce and needy, and then he's lifting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist tightly, so tightly. Her arms follow, crossing around the back of his neck as their kiss deepens. She didn't think she'd have this, not ever, not anymore, and she damn well isn't sure how long it will last before he decides it's over for good, so she takes it, jumps into it.
"I'm going to have you on this couch right now," he says as he tears his mouth away from her, walking her towards said couch. "And then on the rug, and then on your kitchen countertops, on your dining table…"
She grabs his shirt to pull it off, hears fabric rip as she does. But before she can inspect the tear, he flops her down on the couch roughly and removes his shirt himself.
She licks her lips in anticipation.
And then he's on her.
It's not gentle, not measured, he's passionate and turbulent when he rips off her clothes, primal and greedy when he kisses his way down her body. He's ravenous and bold when he licks between her legs, drinks in her wetness, fucks her with his tongue and eats her up with moans of how good she tastes. He's unrelenting after she comes, won't listen to the telltale signs of too much and oversensitivity, keeps up on her, fucks her, until her body lets her enjoy it again, reaches that peak again.
It's different, different to the Robin she's used to, but not bad, and when he's made her come twice on his tongue he stands her up, has her bend over the arms of the couch, legs spread, and enters her with a moan and a Christ you feel amazing and fucks her from behind in hard and fast thrusts.
She thinks for a second as to why he's doing this - why he's balls deep inside her when he hates her (he should, after all she's done), how he can stand to be around her after everything. It crosses her mind that possibly, maybe, this is for him, just for him, but he adjusts his thrusts and the angle in response to her moans, breathes into her ear Is this good, love? And Is this working? and whispered words of God I want to feel you come and Please let go for me.
Maybe it's one last hurrah, one last time together before they part, forever, but whatever it is, she's damn sure she's going to stop overthinking it and just enjoy it.
She's not been taken in this way by Robin, didn't think it was a position she particularly favored (it wasn't her thing, with Graham), but in this moment, in this passionate tryst, it feels dirty and wrong and delicious and right all at once.
"Better than with him" he breathes between thrusts, "tell me, you know it is…"
She's too far gone at this point to play coy, her pride be damned. She can tell herself later she was too close, that she did not want him to stop, that she needed the release.
"Better than anyone," she gasps, "you feel so good Robin, best I've ever had."
He groans at that, mutters something that might sound like Me, too, then thrusts hard into her, and she pushes back harder, clenching around him tightly and screaming his name, begging him to fuck her harder, promising him anything he would ever want if he would just make her come one more time.
He doesn't let up until he does, and she can tell he's holding back for her, putting forth every last effort to get her where she needs, even though he's groaning and spilling out curses about how tight and wet and perfect she is for him, how it feels like she is made for him. He manages to get one more orgasm before he spills inside her himself.
He lays down on the couch and presses her against him, and they take a moment, just a moment, to enjoy being in each other's arms.
The realization of what they did, what they confessed (even in the moment) gets to her, and she starts to over think for a bit. She has not been this vulnerable or open to anyone in a long while. She's not the young, innocent girl she was when she had Daniel, she hadn't dived into the pool of darkness yet when she had Mal in that way. It's confusing, frightening, to feel so much for a person and have him know exactly how much he means to her. She can't protect herself from him, not in this world. Truly, she could not protect her heart from being broken with all the magic in the world.
But she doesn't travel down that hole of dark thoughts too long, because he's pressing kisses against her, and god, she still has a nightgown on (her panties and robe long discarded) and he's ready for more, pulling her down to the floor. And that edge of fear, the little thrill of not knowing where this is going or what will happen next or even when she will last see her, has her wanting him again desperately.
"Already?" she asks, and he moans in response, and dips down to suck and lick at her neck.
"I can't get enough of you."
She runs fingernails down his back as they kiss, and she feels how he shudders and flexes against her touch. It thrills her, excites her, and suddenly she very much wants to feel him hard and inside her again.
But he's not quite there yet, not entirely soft, but he isn't hard enough to fuck her right (at least not enough to fuck her hard, and that's what she needs right now, what they both need). So she pushes him down so he's lying on his back and slides between his legs.
His pants are off, but boxers still on, in his haste he hadn't quite removed all his clothes. She pulls him out through the hole in his boxers and gives him a few firm strokes. And then she tilts her head, looks up at him with a smile, and wets her lips with her tongue.
The action must embolden him, because he groans, "God, do it, please fuck me with your mouth", and the sound of him, like that, so worked up, is too much to deny him or tease him anymore. She wants to, in that second, too badly to deny either of them a moment longer.
She wraps her lips around his cock and swirls her tongue around the shaft as she takes him in deep, gives him a strong suck, then licks back up before releasing him with a wet pop. She feels him getting harder in her hand, hears his heavy breathing. She looks back up at him and meets his eyes with a coy smile, then returns to her task.
This was never her favorite thing, not before Robin, but something about him, about pleasing him, having him moan and groan, the way he seems to cherish her (not now, now he hates her, possibly wants to kill her, what the hell are they doing, anyway?)...something about doing this to him has converted her. She takes him in deep enough that he hits the back of her throat with each thrust, and he shudders and sighs with that, as her tongue licks up and down in a steady rhythm with each pass of her lips, and she creates the suction she knows drives him crazy.
He has a hand on her now, fingertips just touching through her hair, and he's caressing her cheek softly. He's fighting the urge to take her head and press her into him, she knows he is, and he's doing a good job, restraining himself admirably given the fact he's drunk out of his mind right now, and it only makes her want to make him feel more.
"Shit," he mutters regretfully the moment after his hips jut forward, pushing himself in deeper into her mouth, so he hits the back of her throat. It's not...uncomfortable, somehow, not at all. Perhaps it's less so because she can hear the regret in his voice.
She just continues to suck and lick, humming in response to his exclamation, hoping to communicate that he hasn't hurt her, hasn't taken them out of the moment. But the vibrations of the humming must drive him wild, because she hears his soft curses and feel his body go rigid, the hand stroking her cheek goes tense and freezes.
When she stops the humming he lets out a whoosh of air, and his hands go back to stroking her face and scratching her scalp. She grabs him at the base of his cock and starts taking him in her mouth in smaller, firmer sucking strokes.
"Regina— mm— love it when you do this, your mouth is so— fuck— "
She's been sucking him through the hole in his boxers, and it's suddenly too much between them. She wants him naked, stripped, and completely hers. So she moves off his cock, revelling in the groan that comes out of him when her mouth parts from it, and grabs the elastic waistband of his boxers and pulls them down, He moves his hand and lifts up to help her, taking them off.
The boxers hadn't truly hidden anything, but somehow the sight of him completely nude and so hard and ready for her excites her even more. She circles her index finger and thumb around the base as a guide, and then takes him in deep, so deep, all the way down her throat.
"Oh, god— Regina! Please don't stop, please."
There's something about this time, maybe the desperation, the feeling that this will all end that has her wanting to push the envelope this time, makes her want to experience as much as she can, and perhaps that's why she can do this, why this, of all things is turning her on. This, taking the sign of how attracted he is to her in her mouth and down her throat, hearing his moans between the babbling string of compliments and curses he's spewing, has her growing wet and needy, has her shifting a bit, searching for friction where there is none.
"Mm, Regina, love, get up here. You should— oh fucking Christ— Get...please I wanna feel you come on me again."
She wonders if possibly he's noticed her state, and perhaps his request is a bit for her as well as for him. Still, she takes him in a last time, deep down her mouth, gives him a firm suck (she feels him pulse at that, feels the vein in his cock jump just a bit, and god, he's close) and then releases him with a loud pop. He moans at that, and when she looks up, he's urging her up on him.
She nods, not needing to be asked twice, and straddles him, positioning herself right above where he wants her, and the feeling is mutual, she's ridiculously turned on, more so than someone of her stature should be over just giving a blow job, but, well, these are extenuating circumstances.
She grabs him and guides him inside, lowering herself slowly and watching his face, the way the muscles of his jaw flex, the way his eyes shut tight, the sound he makes, just how he reacts to feeling her.
She'll miss that.
She takes him all the way in, sits for a moment on top of him, her legs tightly tucked on either side of his torso, and she's still very wet from their first time (her own wetness mixing with his come) and from the moments she had her lips around his cock, but the feeling of him inside her, the feeling of him stretching deep inside her, that excites her like nothing else. It stretches and fills her, and she adjusts until he is hitting against that place, the place that throbs and aches and sends shivers down her spine when she feels him against her.
He bites his lip and opens his eyes, and mutters an Oh fuck why do you have to look so bloody gorgeous riding me like that? And it thrills her that she has that effect on him, still, after everything, and she smiles in return.
His hands go to her hips, and slide up her side, swiping towards her front to cup at her breasts, muttering a fuck, I love your tits into the space between them. Robin is all gentle caressing of palms and soft strokes of fingers that drive her wild, and she lets out an involuntary moan that almost sounds embarrassing. But he encourages, breathes out a Fuck, you love having your tits played with and then an I love it followed by So bloody gorgeous.
A particularly strong thrust in just that spot overwhelms her, and her body flings forward, crashing down on him, and she drops her hand from his chest to the floor, hovering above him for a moment of pure, delicious sensation before her face falls into his.
He pulls her in close and kisses her deeply as she continues to rock against him, picking up the pace as they swallow each other's moans. Her legs ache a bit now, but she feels herself getting closer and closer, muscles clenching around him, and he's hard, so hard, so desperate for her, she can feel it, feel it in the way he gropes and grabs at her, how he kisses her (deep and passionate and a bit sloppy).
He breaks their kiss to tell her that she feels bloody amazing and she can barely answer "You too," before she feels herself reaching that peak and toppling over, her muscles clenching and releasing against him as she feels the warm, tingly sensation of her orgasm overtake her.
"God I love watching you come," he groans, and then, manages between gasps, "You look so sinful, so sexy, god, what you do to me…"
His words always seem to intensify what she's feelings, give an added kick. She never knew how much she'd enjoy this type of talking during sex, how much it thrills her and drives her over the edge, but well, it's one in a long list of things she never knew about herself until she met Robin.
Robin flips them, just then, which is good, because she came hard enough to make her limbs feel loose and useless, and she hasn't exactly been giving him the movements he needs to finish. It's a quick, harsh flip, but a confident one, and god, he has that hungry look in his eyes as he enters her swiftly and fucks her hard.
"God you're beautiful….so fucking hot...god, Regina, I'm going to…"
She scratches up his back like he likes, feels his body tremble and shiver, and then she feels him pulsing, the familiar feeling she knows is Robin spilling inside her. They might not have been together long in days, but she'd known him better than any of her past lovers, enjoyed him more than anyone, and yes, she loved him, loves him, and god, let this not be the last time.
He collapses next to her, and wraps his arm around her, kisses her sweetly on the neck and whispers "Mine" into her ear.
She hums in agreement, though she's not quite sure what he means. And she finds herself snuggling into him, as if they were any ordinary couple in an ordinary relationship. As if Robin didn't hate her, as if this may not be the last time she ever sees him. She shuts her eyes and pretends that things are different.
When she wakes she is on the couch, unsure of how she got there. Her neck is a bit stiff, her skin a bit irritated from the romp on the rug, but she feels the sweet ache of their activities and it almost makes up for the discomfort.
Except, Robin isn't next to her.
For a second she lets dread wash over her, assuming he got up, dumped her on the couch, and left her life for good. That part may be coming, but she's not ready for it quite yet.
And then she hears him curse softly. His voice is carrying over from the kitchen, she thinks.
She resists the urge to run into the kitchen and check to see if he's still there. She doesn't get to be excited that he hasn't left yet, especially when that part could be coming at any moment. So instead, she grabs her robe off the floor and wanders into the powder room to wash herself just a bit. She's still dripping from him, a bit sticky between her thighs, but it doesn't quite bother her in this moment. It reminds her of those moments they just had, moments she will be sure to replay in her mind to carry her through the next however many years of misery she has left.
He's in the kitchen chopping up vegetables wearing nothing but boxer briefs (not exactly a safe for working around a hot stove, but Robin has never shied away from dangerous things). A frying pan is out on the stove, and there's a carton of eggs out. There are bits of different vegetables on the chopping board, and at this moment he is attacking a pepper with a large knife, but the cuts are all wrong, pieces all different sizes. Apparently the curse had not quite made him a chef.
She raises herself onto the counter next to him and steals a particularly fat sliver of red pepper and brings it to her lips. She doesn't miss the way Robin's eyes follow it and focus on her while she chews.
"What are you doing?" She asks, not hiding the amusement in her voice.
"I'm starving and I want some eggs," he points to the carton of eggs "and I was going to make an egg scramble, but it appears my coordination is a bit off…"
Shit, that's right. He's still drunk. How the hell did he drive in this state?
"Here, let me take that," she offers putting a hand on the knife to take it.
He doesn't give it to her, holds tight to it instead. Their eyes meet, and suddenly she realizes he may not want her to have a sharp weapon in her hands. So she releases her hands.
But he takes the hand his knife is in and moves it towards her. She does not flinch, does not resist. He holds the blade to her throat for a second, and she closes her eyes, not in fear, but in a sort of peace.
It's odd, but not even for a second does she believe he's going to kill her. She should, god she should, he's drunk and impulsive and has a temper, but no, she doesn't think he will kill her, or even harm her. Not anymore.
She opens her eyes and looks at him. He wets his lip with his tongue before sinking his teeth into his bottom lip hard. She bites hers in response. There's desire in his eyes, she recognizes it, and maybe a glimmer of something she doesn't want to place.
He drags the knife down her neck, following the deep V of her robe, sloping down her neck to her chest. The blade is caressing her skin, not cutting, and there's something erotic about the movement, the cool, heavy feeling of the sharp object in his hand, his hungry eyes, the tickling of the slow movements against her skin giving her goosebumps.
When the blade reaches the end of the V in her robe he takes the knife away in a quick movement and brings it back to the chopping board. His eyes focus on hers and don't leave her.
She reaches again for the knife. But this time, he lets her take it easily.
She holds the knife to his cheek, and draws it down to his neck. He offers it to her, stretching and tilting his head to make it easier for her. She smiles at that, and draws the knife carefully until she reaches the nape of his neck.
She grabs the knife and stabs it hard into the wooden cutting board.
They stare at each other a bit, a new realization for both of them at the level of trust they both have for one another.
He puts his hands on her knee. Then he smoothes up her leg and palms her thigh, tugging at it with a bit of force.
She bites her lip and looks at him for an explanation.
"Open your legs." HIs voice is heated, and it's so damn hot she has no sassy comeback or witty retort on her lips, just a quick nod before she's complying, opening her legs for him and sighing softly as he moves between them and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into a kiss.
It's not the last time. Hardly. It seems barely possible, the amount of times they come together in every sense of the word, over and over in their desperation, in their pain, in the conflicting, intense, overpowering emotions they have for one another.
.::.
They lie in bed, sweaty and exhausted after a night (and early morning) of debauchery. There was no talking, no discussions on what this meant, just carnal lust pinning them against each other over and over, feeding them until the first hints of dawn.
They'd collapsed into one another, passing out for a few hours before the warm morning light seeps in through half-opened drapes, prying Regina away from sleep.
She's tangled up in him, her legs caught between his, an arm caught underneath his neck (his hand is under her side, her face pressed against him). Under different circumstances it might appear they were holding each other in their sleep, but that intimacy, that sort of affection they had for one another is gone.
She feels a sharp sting on her arm and looks down to find that she it had bled last night just barely, just pinpricks of red dotting inside the deep red streak. She remembers the way her hands dug and clawed into his back when he pounded into her deeply on the counter, her sex swollen and still sensitive from the overstimulation of far too many orgasms. It had all felt so good, and yet there had been that slight edge of pain, of too much, that had made her maybe want to stop for a moment. But then he had pushed her over the edge, her sore muscles contracting deliciously around him, and the pleasure had had her scraping and clawing at him, that hint of discomfort be damned.
He had reacted...oddly to that. Let out an excited, sexy moan and thrust into her deeper, harder, groaning and spilling out curse words, and words of praise, of love even at that moment, and god, she felt herself coming again just from the way he reacted, fireworks exploding behind her eyes as he chased his release and spilled into her.
But that was last night, and this is the morning. And they will have to deal with their wounds, with the destruction she's caused.
She tries to move so as not to disturb him, but they are too caught up in one another for that to work, he grunts when her legs try to free themselves from his, and then he's pulling her in closer, kissing her forehead, and god, how can he just kiss her forehead?
"Where do you think you're going?" He rasps, and then, "Fuck, my head kills."
She frowns at that, breathing him in and noting the smell of stale liquor that must be seeping out of his pores.
"You should have let me finish making those eggs," she muses. Probably shouldn't have slept with him. He was drunk, angry and confused. She all but took advantage.
He extricates his arm from under her, shakes it a bit (it must have fallen asleep) and wipes his hand over his face.
Then he chuckles, and shakes his head.
"No, I wasn't hungry for eggs last night," he retorts, and then, as if he's reading her mind, "I have no regrets over my decision to forego our midnight snack. Or any other decision I made last night."
Still, he's wincing when he says the words, and then lifts a hand to rub at his forehead.
He's in pain.
"Let me get you an aspirin," she offers, pulling herself up and off the bed. Her muscles are aching and sore from collapsing into sleep in an improper position, and from the exuberance of the night's activities. Plus, she hadn't had a sip of alcohol last night but she feels just a tiny bit hungover and dizzy. She didn't properly hydrate during that sex marathon, but who has time for water when she was fucking like it was her last day on earth?
She puts on her robe, (it had oddly made it up here, though her nightgown and underwear are a different story).When she returns with the aspirin and a glass of tepid water, he's sitting up in sorts, propped up on pillows and rubbing his temples.
"Who has Roland?" she asks timidly, handing him the water and pills.
"John," he answers bitterly, "he's been taking him a lot these past few days. I've been….well, not a great parent." He swallows the pills and takes a big sip of water before slamming the glass on the nightstand. "Not that Roland will remember me being a shit parent. Not in a few days, anyway. Right?"
"I"m sorry," she concedes, unable to meet his gaze for a moment.
"You are, aren't you?" he asks skeptically, "When did you start to regret...all of this?"
"Somewhere in the second cycle of the curse," she answers without a moment's hesitation, sitting at the foot of the bed. She draws her legs under her, feeling quite exposed in front of him, odd considering she had been naked spread eagle in front of him a few hours ago, without a hint of embarrassment. She hesitates, and then clears her throat. "Your son..., there's no amount of apologies, nothing I can say...but my promise I regret it, and if I could undo it, no matter the cost—"
"He has no memories of the time we share," Robin reminds her, "he loses everything we had every five days, almost everything else, I can take, but that, I just…"
"I know," she concedes, "It was never intended for any child, certainly not for yours."
He doesn't answer, and the silence grows.
"I deserve to suffer for this," she gives, wearing a face so colored with regret he finds it hard not to scoop her in his arms, "If you want revenge…"
He shakes his head, "I thought I did. When I think of him...I do, I want revenge. But then I see you, and I know you. You aren't the person that would cast this curse."
She smiles bitterly, "But you see, I did."
"A version of you may have, but that is certainly not the person that is here now. I could never even wish harm on you. I care about you, more than you know.."
"You shouldn't."
He frowns, looks at if he's about to argue, and then changes the subject.
"Are you going to tell me now how you managed to break me out of that loop? How did you make it so my mind can see time pass?"
"That part wasn't me," she responds, "as I said before."
He stares off into the distance, his expression pensive.
"Why did you give me my memories back, Regina?"
She takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. She focuses on the fabric of her bedding, playing with the downy softness beneath her.
"I didn't want to lie to you anymore. I wanted you...I wanted you free."
It's the truth. And he knows it is, has clearly known it for so long.
When she raises her eyes to look at her he's smiling at her, and no, he should not be doing that.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he teases, "Answering that question honestly, I mean."
"Do you actually believe me?"
"You keep forgetting I have all my memories. I have them all. I've seen the men you've killed, and the children you've rushed to save from even the most insignificant injuries, I've seen you burn a village to the ground and I've seen you work quite hard to ensure this town thrives, I've seen…" he takes a moment to study her face, look her over, "So many contradictions. I don't understand you, not completely, but….somehow I trust you, and I can't do this alone, Regina, I can't — being the only one who can remember anything? I don't know how you did it without going mad, honestly…."
She can't quite figure out what she might have done to give him the slightest cause to trust her, but she knows, she'd watched him lean into her as she held a knife to his neck last night. He trusts her. Against all odds.
And then she remembers he is her soulmate and realizes that perhaps this isn't real afterall. Perhaps the reason he trusts her and loves her is not of his choice. Just another curse, tying him to her unfairly. But that magic she cannot take away from him. He's stuck.
Unless she gets him away from her.
"You don't have to be alone," she says just above a whisper. "But I know, it might not be any better to share your time with the monster who started this mess, so— "
"It doesn't matter who started this anymore," he concludes, "I can't blame you, not anymore. I don't look at you and see the evil queen. I only see Regina. And I know, I know you are both, but now, I'm tired of fighting myself for how I feel. I'm angry at you, I am, but it doesn't change what I feel for you."
"So," she chews her lip, finishing her earlier thought and pushing aside his words, "I have a solution for you. You shouldn't have to live in this loop, and neither should your son. Perhaps - if you cross the town line, leave the town? Perhaps you could escape the curse. And if you cross, well...you'll escape this hell."
He reaches up and grabs her hands, rubs them together in his, staring at the way they fit together, like every part of them seems to.
"Why didn't you leave, all those years ago, if you know life exists outside of this?"
She shakes her head, "I can't leave. I created this. This is— it's my world. I need to be here. In case anything ever threatens it."
"You would care if it burned to the ground?" he asks softly. Her ears burn in shame, for she knows he is referring to the villages she burned before.
"I guess...I guess I would care," she acknowledges with a little sigh, "I created this. This is mine. It's….there's a certain sense of pride, and of responsibility, I…."
He purses his lips and blows out a puff of air. "It's like your kingdom, not a small village on the outskirts of town. You were always proud of your kingdom, weren't you? Made sure there were jobs and food and orphanages and the like, yeah?"
She shoots him a puzzled look and so he adds, "It's one of the things that always confused us, your hunted outlaws, your fearful subjects, how you could be so ungodly cruel and yet care so much about your subject's prosperity."
She gives a slight nod. "Yes, well...this is the way I wanted to run things, or would have run things, if the people would have let me. I can't leave them. I'm the only thing that keeps things running, and who knows what would happen with weeks without me." She scrapes her fingernails along his palm then turns his hand over and gives it a pat. "But you can leave. You and Roland."
He stares at her a little, his expression soft and sympathetic. They stare at each other, and they know, know that this is what he must do. Despite how they feel about each other, he must leave. Must take Roland and go, and start to live a real life.
The rumbling of his stomach interrupts their moment. It's enough to make them both laugh, his cheeks redden as her face changes to a lighter expression than she's worn in quite awhile.
"Do our bodies still reset every five days?" he wonders out loud.
"Yes" she says, cocking her head slightly, "we don't age. Every five days things reset." She holds up her previously injured hand as proof. There's not a single scratch left. "Why?"
"Can we gain weight?"
She laughs at that, giggles, full on laughs, and gives him a wild, excited look that says she's considered this before.
"We cannot," she says, "our bodies reset to their previous shape after five days. Why?"
"I'm about to run to Granny's and order two of everything on the menu, and we're going to eat it here, and ...you've done this before, haven't you?"
"I've had five years to make the most of this town and exploit any aspects of the curse that I can. Do you notice I have pancakes for breakfast quite a bit often for someone with my figure?"
He smirks at that, and then he's asking her questions of her favorite meals, and she shares how unbelievable she found the food in this world when she first crossed over - so much more flavorful and bold than the meals of their world. Even royal feasts did not have the decadence of ice cream, the creamy, richness of risotto, the complicated nuanced flavor of a well-seasoned marinara sauce.
She tells him, quite casually, that of course she was never permitted to eat the better tasting foods in their past life, for her mother had been fearful she'd grow plump and fall out of favor with prominent suitors, and staying thin to stay in people's good graces became somewhat of an obsession. Being able to ditch her diet was one of the most pleasing aspects of the curse.
He soaks in the story, shares some of his favorite foods of his own (admits with his memories back, he much prefers Granny's cooking to John's, and a hamburger will be better than touch deer jerky any day). And then it seems they are for the first time, sharing a part of their true past. It's...nice. Open and honest, at least. And then he kisses her on the lips and gets out of bed. He's stark naked, looking a bit befuddled and scratching the back of his head.
"Ahh…" he mutters, looking around the room for something. His clothes perhaps.
She knows, though, can remember that his clothes are all in various rooms throughout the mansion, but to be honest, she's not sure of the condition of those clothes. Images of ripping and tearing fabric flood her memory.
She lets out a chuckle and goes to her closet, fetching a set of men's sweats and a tee shirt. "Not your style, but it will do," she smiles, tossing him the clothes.
He grimaces, "I don't want to wear his clothes," he says, pouting earnestly, but so adorably.
"I bought them for him, it's true," she answers, but then points to the tag, "but he never wore them. So they are yours, not his."
He frowns, considers, and then nods.
"Let me shower so I smell a bit less like a distillery and then go pick us up breakfast. Alright?" He presses a kiss to her brow, and waits for her to make a sound of agreement.
"We'll have breakfast, and you'll tell me every last detail of this curse. How it works, what you've learned… everything. I need to know." His stern tone, that serious glare he gives her, it shifts the mood into something dark and solemn, and she realizes that all the pancakes and breakfast foods in the world won't lighten or sweeten the conversation they are about to have.
"Understood," she says, and she doesn't dare break his gaze.
And with that he makes his way into the shower to get ready for what will prove to be a very long day.