A/N: Thanks for everyone who is still here. This is just a short chapter. I had planned for this to be a 5 chapter series, but I think it's going to end up being 7-8 if I keep doing short chapters like this. But we're close guys, we're close.

Special thanks to bea ( verkaiking) for being a terrific beta as always, and all my writer buddies who kept encouraging me to post.

When Regina gets out of the shower she's first hit with the scent of bacon, then with the sweet smell of what may be pancakes and syrup, savory undertones of fried oil mixing with the fresh crisp aroma of citrus. She imagines Robin must of ordered quite an assortment of breakfast foods from Granny's.

Her stomach rumbles at the thought.

Regina towel dries her hair and clips it back, decides to put on another nightgown before changing for the day, and pads downstairs in clothes that make her look very much as she had the night before — fresh faced, stripped down, warm and beautiful.

Not that she sees it herself.

She enters the dining room to see styrofoam containers everywhere. There's a large order of pancakes, a side of scrambled eggs and bacon, and she sees a sandwich she believes to be a BLT, along with two greasy burgers and a container that is just full of fries. There's also a fruit salad, and two large slices of blueberry pie. Robin is helping himself to steak and eggs, grabbing a few fries and adding them to his plate.

He motions for her to come over.

She grabs a plate and fork and fills her plate with pancakes and eggs and strips of bacon.

He's smiling at her as she picks her food, and she finds herself smiling back.

What are they doing?

"I'm still mad at you," he says while chewing his steak.

"I know," she responds, not meeting his gaze.

"I still have questions," he adds, "whether I leave or not, I think you owe me answers."

"I do," she agrees cooly, pretending to be focused on cutting her pancakes, "so ask."

"I want to know how all this started," he says simply, taking a sip of coffee as if it were the easiest question in the world.

"How I cast the curse? It was Rumple's curse, I —"

"No, not that. Before that," he urges, "I know you don't like to share, before, I never tried to push you, but now…"

"If you're looking for a way to justify any of my actions, you won't find them in my past." On this, she won't yield.

"That's not why I'm asking. I don't doubt that there's something Snow did to force you to do those things, but I still want to know. There were so many rumors in the kingdom. Did you seek to kill her because some saw her as prettier than you?"

Regina laughs, "My least favorite rumor," she waves her hand, "no, Snow's beauty did not threaten me." She sighs, "Snow told a secret of mine."

He raises his eyebrow confused. "What type of secret?"

"The type that ended up getting my true love killed. Daniel." She frowns. It's so hard to explain the offense Snow committed in words. "She told my mother about him, though I begged her not to. He proposed, he gave me…" she fiddles with her hands now, as if imagining the ring was still there.

"Daniel was the one who gave you the ring," Robin finishes. "But your mother killed him, not Snow, why did you —"

"You cannot blame the lion for being a lion." Regina's eyes go stern. "But the handler, who lets the lion out of his cage and throws raw meat in your direction…. he can be blamed."

"Your mother was a lion?" It's an honest question, and she can tell he wants to know more, wants to know her story. Still. Despite everything.

"She lost most of her humanity before I knew her," Regina says of her mother, "vindictive and cruel, incapable of love. And Snow all but painted a target on Daniel's back in one simple conversation, despite being warned against it."

"What did your mother do to you?" His voice lacks any accusation, just an innocent question layered between warm, comforting timbres and soft blue eyes.

For a second she feels her walls crumbling, threatening to come crashing down, leaving her exposed and fragile and vulnerable to attack. But those walls were built up over decades to be strong and and withstand the most gruesome of battles, and though they shake and sway, they do not fall. She won't fully open herself to the kind, beautiful man she's in love with, not now, not when part of her still believes he's too good to be true, a Trojan horse. A trap in disguise.

Regina shrugs, then her mother's voice creeps inside her head and tells her not to slouch, not to make weak gestures like shrugging, either, to stand tall and state with conviction and strong words exactly what he wishes to convey. "She made life... unpleasant," she settles on. And then she plops a French fry in her mouth, letting the crispy fried goodness surround her, her own reward for dredging up memories that were far more painful than she feared.

"She killed the man you loved," he starts, "and…?"

"And then gave the King permission to marry me. Though I never gave that same permission myself."

"The Good King," Robin says, using that fitful title, "The Good King took you as his wife, and —"

"Ah, yes, such a good King. I knew him as the Good King all my life, you know. He was older than my father. He was older than most fathers of an eighteen year old girl. Nearly the age of some grandfathers, in fact. But yes, he was very good, the King. He instructed me to be Snow's mother, but in his eyes that meant I was to be her plaything, her nanny, her cheerleader, her warrior, her escort... her maid... and I was to fit into a little box and be packaged up anytime she had no use for any of those roles."

"You were also his wife," he questions gently, "and the queen, surely you had some —-"

"Every day I served the needs and wants of the child who ended my happiness forever," she interrupts, "And what is a queen but a servant to the king? I never felt like much else."

"You did not want to marry him." It's hit him, and he's a bit shocked. It's understandable. He's grown in a world where they are told it's every child's dream to be a queen, rich and powerful. And who desired power and wealth more than the Evil Queen herself?

"No, I did not."

He won't ask what was done to her in that marriage. He won't ask because he is from the Enchanted Forest. He knows what is expected of a queen, and he knows what happened. The wince in his eyes gives it away, he's thinking of it, she can tell, picturing the her teenage body underneath suffocatingly thick sheets while she catered to the needs of the Good King. Nights where he'd stroke her cheek and ask her to be a good girl, where he'd be so soft and gentle, and yet, the time she refused he would just as sweetly and gently remind her that she did not have a choice, and all she had to do was strip for him. All she had to do was let him gawk and poke and stroke whatever part of her flesh he fancied most that day. All she had to do was open her legs and close her eyes.

It would all be over faster, he'd say, if she wouldn't look so upset, if she remembered how happy he made her, that she was the queen, that she wanted for nothing. All she had to do was stop crying, all she had to do was kiss and suck where he wanted, all she had to do was take him inside any part of her body he requested with a smile and a Thank you. That was all.

"Stop that," she instructs, her eyes narrowed, angry, "that's the least of what I went through. It's the way of our world. My situation was hardly unique. The worst of it did not hold a candle to losing Daniel, or hearing the rumors and gossip of the peasants, or the…" her voice wavers a bit, "or knowing I mattered to no one."

"Was there no one?" Robin asked, his eyes pleading, "they said you made your father your servant, did you —"

"He was my valet, but it wasn't what you think. The only way I could get him inside the palace was to hire him. And, yes," she pauses and thinks of her father's eyes the moment she crushed his heart. The image is fresh, will forever be fresh, as the scene haunts her dreams nearly every night. "He did love me. I was a fool and did not recognize it. It's complicated."

"What—"

She is shaking her head before he can get out the question. She's promised to tell him everything, and has no right to refuse to answer whatever he has asked, and yet she can't. She's not ready.

"Please," she nearly croaks, "please can we not talk about my father right now? Just for now, if we do, I just— you won't speak to me after I tell that story, and you deserve to know more about the curse, so we can help your son, and—"

She can feel the salty residue trickle to the apples of her cheeks. It feels like warm, liquid betrayal, feels like losing the battle she had fought so hard, and she tries to will them back inside her eyes even though she knows magic does not exist in this world. She can't erase what he's seeing.

"Alright. No more talk of your father for now." he gives. He's inched closer to her, must have dragged his chair closer to her when she was willing tears to stop, and now he's there, holding a hand inches to her face before he stops himself from touching her. "Something lighter, yeah? So there's a land outside this town that isn't cursed?"

"Yes, past the town line. I wrote into the curse that no one would ever desire to leave town, so you see, no one has ever ventured out there. Except me, of course. But there is no barrier. When you step out of town, though, the clock starts to run. Actions have consequences."

"Will you show me the town line?"

She nods, taking a shaky breath in, "Yes, I — I can't guarantee crossing will have no ill effects, though nothing has been written into the curse and nothing has happened to me when I cross. But while there is no physical barrier, there's a magical barrier you must cross. And all magic is unpredictable."

He is so hard to read right now, his face so expressive, so clear he is feeling so much, yet she can't pinpoint the emotion radiating off of him. It doesn't appear to be anger. Disappointment? Resentment? Confusion?

He speaks after a moment's pause. "Anything else I should know about the curse? Will it—has it harmed someone?"

She shakes her head, "No ill effects besides memory loss. And of course I had David in the coma, but that wasn't a negative effect of the curse. I wrote that into his fate."

She stares Robin down and waits for him to admonish her, but he does not.

"Is there any way to prevent a memory from being erased?" His voice is a bit hopeful, and she knows why. Roland. God what a mess.

She takes in a deep breath. "There's... there's some tricks to it. Your memories, those leave after 5 days. But if you talk about something that happened four days ago, tomorrow you will still remember the conversation you had about the incident. It's... I learned that the hard way, unfortunately."

Robin looks at her inquisitively, then swallows hard. He remembers, she thinks.

"You and Graham, you uh… had a night in public."

Regina fights the urge to crawl under the table and focuses on keeping her voice steady.

"You have to understand, I was just trying to feel something— anything! Some sort of thrill, some sort of pain or pleasure, or…" she shakes her head. "So there was, maybe the thrill of getting caught in public. And, yes, one dark night against the clock tower, I decided to see if exhibitionism would help me feel things. And an unusual, unfortunately timed party at Granny's let out at the wrong time, and several people may have seen us... in a compromising position."

"I was one of those people," Robin says, shifting a bit in his seat. He chews his food a little tenser, jaw clenching tightly. "You know, even then, I was pulled to you. I didn't much like that you were with Graham, but seeing you….half-clothed and disheveled was never something I'd regret seeing, I guess."

Regina rolls her eyes. "I thought, it'd all be fine, in five days no one would remember. But the rumors persisted. Until I finally spoke out and asked if anyone recalled actually seeing this happen, that it was an unsubstantiated rumor unless someone could tell me they saw it with their own eyes…"

"And no one remembered actually seeing it." Robin finishes for her, Regina nodding.

"Yes, I remember that now," Robin muses. He's silent for a minute and then asks, "How many people have you slept with in this town?"

Sh chuckles darkly, reaches for a glass of orange juice but doesn't answer.

"Regina?"

"You don't seriously care about that of all things, do you?"

"I gave you a pass on the father stuff. This, I want to know."

"Fine." she runs a hand through her hair in some fidgety attempt to soothe her itching nerves, "Slept with during Enchanted Forest time, or post-Curse?"

"Let's start with Post-Curse," Robin says, with an agitated sigh. In other circumstances, his jealousy might be cute, but now it's just... puzzling. Why does he care so much about her past lovers, when he should be fretting over her past murders, her past victims?

"Two," Regina answers dryly. "I've slept with two people post-curse."

He looks shocked at that, his jaw nearly unhinged and falls to the floor. "I don't understand, why—"

"When I cast the curse for the Dark One, I was promised things. One, that I would always win. I always win, people don't argue with me. They don't pick fights. They back down and yield to my every desire." She gives him a pointed frown and a raised eyebrow, "do you see how I may find that… difficult when it comes to proposing sex?"

He seems a touch confused, his face screwed into those worry lines, his brows knitted in some sort of pensive pose, and then he speaks, "I didn't always let you win, though."

"No," Regina gives, "that was... perplexing. We never really fought, not much, but you never conceded anything. You are the only one. Except for maybe Gold. And that made... that made what happened with us easier. That and the fact you approached me."

"That, I did." He smirks at the memory, and his face is changed into something light and innocent, as if in that moment they are transformed into the couple they once were, before they were forced to accept truth about the life they were living. "You said you almost did, with Ruby? Was that just talk or...?"

Reginna does not talk about sex, did not expect to talk about this of all things today, and she feels heat blooming in her cheeks, feels her eyes glue themselves downward. "I asked if she wanted to join Graham and I in the bedroom. I was desperate to try something satisfying, and Ruby… well. She is... pleasing to me. And her cursed self is very sexually… free. So I asked, and she agreed too easily," she says softly, "and then I realized: it was the curse."

"Maybe not," Robin mutters, "she likes you. I told her I slept with you, and she freely admitted she uh, as she put it, would love to get you to spread your legs for her."

Regina lets out something that might be considered a giggle, if she were the type to giggle. But the light airy sound leaves her quickly, and her face goes serious again. "But you see, the curse could make her want that. And even if she wants that… she could change her mind on any given day. Except the

curse would have her agree to anything I asked. It wouldn't be her choice."

"It was Graham's choice?"

"Graham and I were together before. I have no doubt this is something he wanted. But if I was wrong— if I wasn't what he wanted, I could live with it, knowing I had taken him without full consent. But not a woman. Not Ruby."

She brings her head up and locks eyes with him, almost defiantly. She's waiting for him to tell her he's disgusted, to say something about her sexuality, something she's heard before, but the revelation that she likes women and has only slept with one man during the curse does not seem to phase him in the least.

"Why did you make Snow White a school teacher?" he asks, the shift in the conversation causes her to laugh slightly.

"Doesn't she seem like the type? Like she'd just love to make bird houses with children all day, like she was born to sit behind a desk and praise children's artwork, like she would actually be quite competent at teaching children to read and write, and explore—"

He's smiling triumphantly as he's won something. But why?

"Yes, exactly, Regina. You gave her a job she seems to enjoy. But isn't she supposed to be miserable? Wasn't that the whole point?"

Right.

Regina winces, feels the truth she kept hidden from even herself surface. She pushes it back down. "I wanted the town to run smoothly. I had plenty of other ways to make her miserable. I didn't have to give her a miserable career, too."

He frowns at that, a look of disbelief, and she knows he wants to say more. Instead he just asks, "Why did the imp want this curse cast?"

"I don't know. He would never tell me," Regina admits, biting her lip and grimacing.

He frowns again. She doesn't know if she likes this. The way he asks questions and seems to give a judging thought to the truth of each answer, the way he doesn't argue with her but doesn't seem sold on what she's saying. But still, he asks more of her.

"Tell me something, then. How do you think the curse broke for me, and when did it break?"

She's been dreading this question since the moment he told her he deserved answers. She yearns for some distraction something to delay telling him this truth if only for a few moments. But there is nothing. Just dead silence and ever She relents, "I don't know the answer to any of those questions."

Robin slants his eyes and studies her. She has to break their staring game first (his eyes are beautiful, too beautiful, too trusting, too hypnotizing. They are dangerous). He seems almost pleased when she looks away, declaring "Bullshit. You may not know, but you have a good idea."

"I don't."

'Hmmm…" Robin says, making a bit of theatre in his response. "Do you want to know what I think?"

Regina doesn't answer.

"I think it was the night we were first together. That night in the storm shelter?"

She fights the shiver that goes down her back and tries to keep her voice from shaking. "What makes you think that?"

Robin sighs, elbows on his the table, head resting in his hands as he collects himself — as if he's struggling to stay calm. "You told me that light magic had a habit of breaking your curses, did you not? Well I think you were onto something, there."

Her chair falls away. She's dangling in mid space, without an anchor, about to fall free into nothingness forever. He is close, too close to finding out something he should not. She doesn't want him to know this, yet she won't lie to him anymore. Well, maybe just one more lie. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He loses it then, and slams a fist on the table. The whole thing shakes, reverberates around her, rattles plates and containers, and a few forks slide and move precariously close the edge of the table, threatening to fall off. It's a violent action, and unexpected from Robin. It's as if he's finally had it, as if he's finally reached the end of the line with her.

She should tell him to get out of her house, to leave. If he can't accept her (half truthful, hidden, guarded) answers, then he should stop asking them. But Regina cannot utter a word. She just stares back at him, speechless.

"Oh come on Regina! You feel it, don't think I don't remember you bloody telling me you felt it last night. I wasn't that drunk. And I feel it, too. So let's call this what it is, Regina. What we both already know. It's true —"

She finds her voice then, just in time. Just in time to prevent him from saying the words he cannot. She reaches out to cover his hand with fingertips. "STOP. We barely know each other. It can't be that."

Robin lets out an exasperated groan and falls back on his chair, eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. "Then what is this, Regina?"

He's not going to stop until he knows.

She gives up. When she stands to walk over to his chair, she might as well be waving a white flag.

She was going to grant him one final peace, but he just wouldn't let her.

Regina reaches for his arm, and he gives it to her willingly.

She touches it delicately, turning his palm over and stroking up his wrist, caressing the tattoo with a reverence she knows takes him by surprise.

"When I was a young queen, I was told it was possible I could lo— that there could be happiness for me, again. With my soulmate. A fairy... she... her name was Tinkerbell. She tried to show me who that man was. I never saw his face." She traces the tattoo with delicate fingers then, "but I did see his tattoo."

"It was me?" he asks, incredulous and shocked, but not all together as mad as she'd think he'd be, finding out his soul was tied to that of the Evil Queen.

"Fate is cruel," she responds.

"What?"

"Your soul is tied to me. And I'm — I'm only going to bring you down. It's what I've done until now."

"We're soulmates." His mouth is upturned in a half-smile, his eyes have just the right amount of sparkle, but she still can't believe he'd be anything but grief-stricken by this news. "Fate isn't cruel. It's just... mysterious. There's a reason we're tied together, Regina. And we found one another. How unlikely is that?"

"You're tied to a monster," she reminds him. He has to know he is. "You need to know— I didn't know this of it when we slept together. I just knew you were different and did not think of any reason why. All these years, Robin, and I never saw that tattoo. If I had, I would have stayed away, I would never have…"

"Don't say that," he interrupts. It's so forceful and honest and sincere she just can't take it. Regina stares at the watermelon in front of her instead. Such a curious fruit, the texture should be displeasing, but somehow...

He cuts through her thoughts. "Hey, look at me, never say you would have stayed away from me again, alright?"

Why is it suddenly so hard to meet his eyes? Why does she feel licks of shame dancing up her face, thoughts of You don't deserve this and This is not real playing on repeat, telling her to hide herself from this, because this is not for her.

Regina wills herself to look at him anyway, because to not do so is weak.

"Alright," she gives. "What else do you want to know?"

"I think that's enough for today." Robin stands and stacks some empty styrofoam takeout containers, and makes quick work consolidating leftovers into a few open containers.

"Oh," Regina says, "when you have more questions, you can —"

"I'm not leaving, Regina. John has my son for the day. I just think we've had a long night and a long morning and we deserve sometime to rest."

"We just woke up," she reminds, not because she's not thoroughly exhausted, but because she's no right to.

"Did we sleep? It seemed more like we blacked out." He sees her try to argue and adds, "Knocked unconscious from too much pleasure for you, of course. For me it was the drinking."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "You weren't that good."

He raises his eyebrows, "Oh, sure I was."

She arches an eyebrow, does her best not to immediately concede this point. He was, though.

"We both were." He amends. "Anyway, it's been an emotionally draining day and I had quite the workout yesterday. And, I'd just like to hold you for a bit, so can we lay on that couch together and see what sort of entertainment is on that television device?"

His words aren't sweet, aren't soft or meant to be touching, but they are anyway, because he's the first in so long to ever want to just hold her. After knowing what she is, what she's done, she figured no one would ever want that again.

She gives a shy smile and looks at the clock. Time in this world is almost meaningless, but it has some meaning. And she has time.

"Did I mention I am fond of this land's magic?" He asks, flipping the tv on with the remote.

"Not magic," Regina corrects, but he waves her off.

"Details, details. I enjoy the technology of the modern era. Better? Now, come on." He pats the couch beside him, begging her to sit next to him.

She does, sitting stiffly on the opposite end of the couch. She wants to give him space, lest he reconsider his decision to let them vegetate together.

But it turns out he truly wants the Evil Queen wrapped around him, for he reaches out and grabs her, easing her against his chest as he leans against the couch.

"We fit together," her murmurs into her ear, "have you noticed how it just... feels right?"

Regina thinks of his tattoo and wants to cry, or laugh, or run.

Instead, she stays in his arms and says nothing.

They don't speak. She thinks she dozes off for a while, but cannot be sure. She knows Robin falls asleep, hears his light snoring and the steady resting heartbeat against her ear.

All the while his arms never release their hold on her. They wrap around her possessively, but instead of feeling trapped she feels wanted and whole and yes, though it's impossible and unfair, loved.

He wakes underneath her ever so gently, and she does not even notice his soft snores have stopped until she feels the way one of his hands issliding up and down her belly. With each sweeping motion, he ventures a little higher, a little lower, until one sweep has him reaching up to and cupping her breast. He gives it a small squeeze, then releases, running his hand along her side, down past her hip bone.

His touch feels wonderful, and she cannot help but arch into it. She bites back the little breathy sounds of pleasure that fight to come out. He doesn't need to know how much she needs him already.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers in her ear.

They are delaying the inevitable, but she spins in his arms to face him and kisses him hard.

He's stone cold sober now. When they pull away, his eyes are focused, and wide, and she can't hide from them. It's harder to convince herself that this means nothing to him now.

He urges her back and readjusts them so he's sitting on the couch, with her on his lap, facing him.

His thumb traces slowly over her lips. It's a light touch, but her skin tingles and fizzles under it. Her tongue darts out to lick him, and she revels in the muffled groan he makes at the contact, the way his eyes shut tight and his head tosses back. She loves the way he reacts to her.

He claims her mouth, tilting his head to exchange heady kisses with her, hands roaming all over his body like he owns it.

"So beautiful," he groans into her neck. "Every inch of you is so beautiful."

He's probably caught up in the moment. Probably woke up from a sex dream and wants to use her like a warm body….

But no, not when he's looking at her that way.

She knows this is different.

It's not hurried or rough, the way it had been yesterday. It's slow, and gentle, and delicate. As if he worships her.

He kisses down her neck, little open-mouthed pecks. On an odd kiss his tongue swirls against sensitive skin, and she almost burns from the amount desire he has for her.

"Love, can I…" he trails off as he hooks a finger under the strap of her nightgown. It seems absurd to ask permission after the sexual olympics they just had last night, but she nods anyway.

His hand is pressed against her back, supporting her, as his mouth traces her curves, dampening each inch of exposed flesh with loving, gentle kisses. He teases her, works her up, has her rocking and thrusting her hips on his lap, searching for some sort of friction as his tongue circles around one nipple, and then the other. They are stiff, hardened peaks now, sensitive and dying to be touched, and god, he knows how to touch them.

He draws his lips over her nipple, plants a wet kiss over it, and then moves to the next plants the same soft lick over it. And then he's blowing over them, and the feeling of his husky breath over tingling, wet breasts is almost too much.

"Robin, please…" she asks.

"Shh, I got you," he assures. He's kissing between her breasts now, taking little breaks to kiss the undersides of each swell. He adjusts himself, slides back against the couch and juts his hips forward, then urges her a bit forward, so her sex is lined up with the bulge in his sweats.

She grinds against him aggressively, kissing him deeply, little moans and sighs spilling out freely. She deepens the kiss, and her hands search for the hem of his shirt, tugging it and pulling it off.

His pace doesn't seem to match hers, his movements aren't as hurried, his touches not as forceful, kisses not as deep and bruising.

He loops an arm under her ass and breaks from a kiss.

"I want you in bed," he says, before lifting her with him (god, he's strong, and quick, and she loves when he takes charge). She doesn't see the need for the venue change, but he feels nice, his movements are confident, and it's sexy, so she wraps arms and legs around him and lets him carry her up the stairs and into her bedroom.

She imagines from the way he kisses her that she'll be thrown down and fucked on the spot, but instead he lowers her slowly onto the bed, softly as if he were handling something gentle, something precious…

Robin is on top, elbows bracing his weight so as not to crush her. He kisses her slowly, tenderly, dots her jawline with kisses, and draws languidly down her body, caressing up and down with such intimacy it knocks the breath out of her.

Something feels... off.

"What are you doing?" she asks, it's near a whisper his head is between her thighs now, and he's kissing and licking up her inner thigh.

"I think it's quite obvious," he breathes into her flesh, as he shoots her a teasing glance.

She wants to argue that he knows what she means, that she's referring to this odd pace, to the soft touches and burning gazes he's giving her, to this new level of… something she can't place.

"Just feel," he begs as he swipes his tongue across her folds, "shut off your mind for a moment and just let me take care of you."

Those words should bother her, should make her cackle and laugh and throw him across the room. The queen needs no one to care for her. And certainly no one should order her to do anything.

But he's talented with his tongue, and he's reaching spots that make her weak, and she can put off this argument for later, she can.

Now she can do as he says and just enjoy the way those slow, purposeful licks stoke the fire of her arousal, how she is climbing with purpose towards that edge. When he dips two fingers inside her, she's already not thinking, just arches into his palm as he fucks her in steady, tempered movements.

And he's whispering things like Beautiful and Lovely and telling her how good she tastes, how warm she is, how he loves it, how he loves all of this so very much. He's moaning into her sex, sounding just as riled as she has become, and all she can say in response is Yes, fuck, like that, and Oh god, love when you do that.

He takes his time. Her efforts to rock into him faster, to move his tongue and mouth against where she needs him, they all fail. Yet he still gets her there, has her dangling precariously over that precipice, before she finally -finally- falls, shouting his name as her thighs tremble and clench around around his cheeks.

He lets her ride out her orgasm, muttering words of encouragement into sensitive flesh, fingers slowing with each thrust, until she shivers when he swipes his tongue against a now too-sensitive clit.

He draws back and shifts to lay next to her, kissing her deeply.

She loves the way he tastes after going down on her. Perhaps that's... egotistical. Perhaps it's a bith uncouth to admit, but he tastes delicious, and he taste like her, like he's a part of her, and there's nothing sweeter, nothing she loves more, than these gentle reminders that they belong to one another.

She reaches between them, then, wanting to feel even more connected. She gives him a soft stroke and he groans at the contact. He moves on top of her, and that's not her favorite position but in this case, right now, there's something freeing about being pinned beneath him, that shouldn't make sense, it shouldn't, but…

"So perfect," he groans as he enters her. He strokes her hair and smiles down at her, giving her that look, that look she does not deserve, that look that says second chances are possible, that he understands and cares, that maybe he even more than cares.

"God I love this with you," he mutters, kissing her deeply. "So hot and wet, practically dripping, love you like this, love everything with you so much..."

"Love —mmm!— when you talk like that! Don't stop, I…"

It's not like her to confess she likes his dirty mouth, even less like her to admit she likes the way he showers her with words of love, but it's the truth and she's tired of hiding it.

He fucks her in those deliberate, gradual thrusts that she thought she wouldn't like, but now, in this moment, absolutely loves. He touches her with a soulful reverence, kisses her with an almost... innocent passion, and this isn't fucking, it's not, it's something far different. It's gentle and tender and slow and compassionate and no... it's loving, he's loving her, how could she not notice this before? He's been saying the word over and over in every way she will let him.

This is dangerous.

But he continues to shower compliments as pleasure blooms in her belly, grows and spreads, until she overflows with it, screaming his name so loud she worries the neighbors hear.

"Love it when you say my name," Robin moans, and then he fucks her faster, chases his orgasm with grunts and moans and soft words of Oh, love, what you do to me and Can't —oh god! — wait to come inside you.

He does, and it's her name on his lips when he reaches his own peak. Yet another connection they share.

He collapses next to her and draws his arms around her.

She's sticky between her legs, should be off to shower, yet she doesn't want to leave this, the cocooned warmth of Robin's body wrapped around her between the sheets.

So she stays.

"I'm not mad at you anymore," he breathes into her hair.

Her chest tightens and she thinks she must misunderstand. He cannot be telling her she is forgiven. "You... aren't? But I—"

"You don't see yourself for who you are, your majesty. But I see you. Your crimes are great. You suffered much because of them, but you were suffering long before you ever committed them. You say you don't blame a lion for being a lion. I do not blame the abused caged dog who bites."

"I am not a defenseless animal," she argues, "that's not fair, it's... patronizing, it's..."

"It's understanding." His eyes pierce through her own. "And I see the good in you. I see what's there inside you, even though you don't recognize it in yourself. And I've been there. I wasn't always so awfully good Regina. Before Roland. Before Marian. I was not a good man. But Marian saw the good in me, and she saw the reasons why I… was like I was. She gave me the gift of a clean slate."

"Your deeds pale in comparison to mine."

"Maybe so, but my struggles and suffering do as well."

She blinks back tears she is grateful he cannot see, and snuggles into him closer, at a loss for what to say.

"How would you feel about spending the day with me and Roland?" he asks.

"I don't think that's a good idea…" she starts.

"I know you think I need to leave," he breathes, "but I'm not quite as ready to give up all hope as you are. Let us search for a solution that doesn't require separation."

"There is none," she mutters. "Trust me, I know,"

"Humor me," Robin begs, "what do we lose if I'm wrong? We've got all the time in the world. Let's take it."

He's right, after all.

She ducks into his chest, and nods her agreement. He holds her tighter and presses a kiss into her hair in return.

"Thank you," he breathes.

She doesn't know how she got to here, what cosmic force has sent her to a place where a beautiful man treats her tenderly and lovingly, where someone she's hurt, someone she's victimized, is thanking her with a disarming sincerity. And it can and probably will all crumble away in hours, or days, or weeks, but she figures, she may as well take the time to enjoy this while she has it.