Sorry for the wait on this guys. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

And a warning: this is not good, clean fun, if ya know what I mean.

Thanks, numerous and exultant, to Addicted1 as always for consult, you marvellous beta and encourager, you!

Robin is bored out of his mind.

So, naturally, he is thinking about the Queen.

He is in the middle of taking an inventory of all the castle's weaponry. He figured it needed to be done; with the various skirmishes they'd had on the way to the castle and in the weeks they'd been there, nobody was certain how many of anything they still had, and the armouries in the castle itself hadn't been touched in years. It's a thankless but necessary job, time consuming and tedious, and alone in these quiet, isolated little rooms, his mind is definitely wandering.

Since the incident with the siren, Robin has fallen into his desire for the Queen like it was a lifelong habit. He is actually surprised it took him so long to realise what he felt for her. Quite apart from unsettling him, it actually explains a lot of things. Like why, despite his annoyance at her rudeness, he found himself affected in the basest of ways at the tone of her voice when she insulted him. Or why, when he was alone at night with his imagination, all he could see was her beautiful face scrunched in unbearable pleasure, crying his name as she writhed above him.

It has made life in the castle rather more distracting, though by no means less enjoyable. He takes a different kind of pleasure in riling her now: eagerly anticipating the fire in her eyes when she glares at him, the way she always, always rises to the bait.

With her never far from his mind, he simply can't bring himself to concentrate very hard on counting yet another dozen shields. Of course, the armouries he set out to catalogue are in a shambles, and it has taken him all day to get to this one, the final of three. So, yes, his mind is wandering, and yes, the way Regina looks when he's fought her for the last word, again, is hovering tantalisingly somewhere between memory and fantasy. The fantasy coming into play when he wonders how those arguments would go if they were alone when they had them…

"Thief."

Uh oh. That was definitely not in his imagination.

He glances up. There she stands, eyeing him with a disdainful look on her face. She is once again wearing the sinfully tight leather trousers that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, except how he would go about removing them. They are topped with a looser-than-usual black silk blouse with elaborate flared sleeves and strings at the neckline that have been left loose. The blouse is cinched in at the waist by an embroidered red and black half-corset.

Robin presses his lips together and tongues the roof of his mouth.

Regina is smirking now; clearly his ogling hadn't been subtle. He returns the smirk. After all, what does he have to lose?

"M'lady," he greets, going back to the list of weapons and tallying the last of the shields before looking back at her.

"It's Your Majesty," she corrects him.

"Of course. What brings Your Majesty here? Nothing to be found at this end of the castle but a lowly thief and some severely disorganised weaponry."

He's perfectly aware she must have come here specifically to find him. She was the one to – very reluctantly, and with a lot of sarcasm – give him this room's location when he posited the idea of taking inventory. Only a select few of the castle's inhabitants know where all the armouries are: an insurance against both invaders and traitors. As it turned out, even Snow had been surprised to learn of this one.

"I know that," she says dismissively. "It is my armoury."

She surveys him then, that strange, appraising glint in her eye again. He keeps his expression politely interested. She doesn't offer any explanations for her presence, though. Instead, she stalks towards him, watching him carefully, her lips curled in a half-smile that somehow still manages to show her teeth.

She comes to stand next to him, ostensibly looking at his scroll, but he can feel her scrutiny. She's watching him for some sort of reaction; that much is clear. What reaction it is she's waiting for, he's not sure.

"A thief, taking inventory," she says eventually, her voice low and conspiratorial. "How very against the grain."

He meets her gaze, shrugs in that nonchalant way he knows aggravates her. Something sparks in her eyes and she leans closer, says, like she's telling him a secret, "Not who I'd pick for the job," scrunching her nose and brows in that absurdly attractive way she does.

"Is that why you're here, Your Majesty? To supervise me?"

"Do you need supervising?" she challenges.

"Well," he shrugs again, turning back to his scroll and starting to mark down the number of swords on the wall, "I can give you whatever answer I like, but if you trusted me enough to take me at my word, we wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we?"

This, he thinks, would be the point where she usually walks away. She is fairly predictable in the things she refuses to talk about, especially (he thinks) with him. And she does walk away, but only as far as the pile of arrows in the corner, picking up the edge of the blanket covering them between two fingers and looking under it. She straightens, looking around the room at the clutter.

"Is this all you've managed to achieve?" she says, deliberately scornful. She's stalling, he realises, and is intrigued to find out why.

"There are three armouries," he reminds. And, because he can't resist baiting her just a little, adds, "And the other two were in a similar state to this one."

"Well, I didn't leave them like this," she says immediately, not missing the dig. "My knights spent more time worrying about weapons than I did. I had no use for such trinkets."

"Indeed. You can be quite deadly all on your own, Your Majesty."

Her eyes snap to his, and there's that searching look again. He smiles at her, raising his eyebrows innocently.

"Yes," she says slowly. "I can be… quite deadly."

Her voice has gone all low and husky and he feels his cock stirring in response. Suddenly he's not sure this is a wise game to be playing with her, not in these close quarters, not when her effect on him can become quite apparent, quite quickly.

"Unless, of course, your opponent happens to be a flying monkey," he says, attempting to steer the banter back into lighter territory. She bristles, and he fights a smile.

She strides back towards him, all fierce indignation, and God, sometimes he just wants to grab this woman and kiss her senseless. Well, most of the time, actually.

"I did not need you to rescue me," she hisses, once she's close enough to throw the words in his face like a curse. He is losing the battle against the smile, his palms raised in surrender.

"I did not consider it a rescue. Merely… timely assistance."

"I didn't ask for your assistance."

"You never do. But I'm afraid I shall likely continue to give it."

She draws back slightly, that look on her face again like he's a puzzle she can't figure out.

"Why? What do you hope to gain?"

"Must I have an agenda? Perhaps I simply like to be useful. Perhaps I simply like you, and would prefer you remain whole and unharmed."

Something darkens in her eyes then, and she smiles, like this was what she'd been expecting to find when she came looking for him all the way in this hidden little room. There's something dark in the smile, too, a twisted sort of satisfaction from getting something she didn't actually want.

She steps closer, reducing the space between them to a hand's breadth or two. He doesn't want to back away from her (quite the opposite), but that smile tells him he should.

"Oh, I bet you do like me," she says, gravel and honey in her voice. She very obviously looks him up and down, and he can't help but swallow. He can only hope she doesn't see the very physical effect she's having on him. They are in dangerous territory now, in more ways than one. But the storm in her eyes is the one he's actually concerned about.

"You're a thief," she says, "and a man. You always have an agenda."

She takes another small step forward. There is almost no space between them now, and despite knowing this isn't a good idea, despite knowing she deserves better than what she thinks he wants, he is helpless to the desire rising hot and potent in his belly and chest and groin. He is half-hard already, and if she gets any closer, she will feel it and then he's not sure he will have it in him to convince her that he doesn't just want her for a quick fuck against the wall.

He steps away, large steps, crouches down and opens the small wooden cabinet full of quivers even though he'd only just started on the swords.

"My only agenda today, m'lady, is to complete this inventory in time to have dinner with my son."

He glances at her over the cabinet door when she doesn't respond, sees her wide-eyed, surprised expression. He turns back and pulls out an armful of quivers, depositing them on top of the cabinet for counting. He's quite happy to give her a moment to recover from the discovery that someone is unwilling to take advantage of her.

When she speaks again, her voice makes it clear that this is her trump card – this is what she believes will back him into a corner.

"You never did mention what injured you on your scout for the sentinel root."

He turns swiftly, abandoning all pretence of counting the quivers.

"Why don't you ask the question you really want to know, m'lady?"

She looks startled again, but quickly masks it.

"Snow let a little something slip about what happened on that expedition. She's always been terrible at keeping things to herself."

Robin is not surprised at Snow and David's lack of discretion. He raises his eyebrows in an expression of mild interest. Regina is trying to play games with him, and he's not going to let her.

"Did she now? Should I be honoured that you're coming to me for corroboration?"

Her brow furrows in annoyance. He is not making this easy for her.

"I know something attacked you."

He nods.

"Yes, something did."

She huffs in frustration.

"As Queen, it is important that I know every – "

He cuts her off, impatient with all this pussyfooting around.

"I think you know what attacked me, Your Majesty. And because I believe you know the answer to your purported question, I can see two reasons why you would seek me out especially to ask it," he says. "One, you believe what Snow told you is true, and you hope to humiliate me by forcing me to admit to it. Though, if that was indeed your aim, you might have chosen a more public venue, involve more witnesses in my humiliation."

She opens her mouth, completely taken aback but her anger rising in automatic response to his forcefulness. He barrels on before she can find the words to strike with.

"Two, you don't believe what Snow told you and are expecting me to deny it, in which case I really must question your powers of observation."

She is silent for a moment. She has a stunned look on her face that he doesn't think he has ever seen before. He feels a bizarre sense of pride at being able to surprise her. Then,

"You were seduced by a siren wearing my face."

He grins at her. Caught. Can't find it in him to be upset about it.

"So you do believe it. I do hope you weren't counting on the humiliation."

His casual demeanour seems to baffle her even more, and she frowns at him.

"You aren't ashamed of wanting the Evil Queen?"

Her voice has lost that dark, seductive growl, and without it, she sounds… young.

Robin softens, feeling a yearning for her that has nothing to do with his libido. He takes a step towards her, just one. Her eyes are wide and uncertain.

"No. No, I am unashamed of desiring a beautiful, fascinating woman, Regina."

Her mouth opens on a silent gasp, and he can't help it, his eyes are drawn straight to her perfect lips. It's out in the open now, he desires her and she knows it. He figures the next move is hers.

They remain in something of a stalemate, just staring at each other. The storm in her eyes has retreated, and he is having trouble reading her.

Finally, she makes a little movement with her arms, flaps them out slightly from her sides, says,

"Well, we're alone, thief. This is your chance. Take it."

But her eyes drop down, just briefly, just for a moment, and he knows that whatever the next move is – if there is one – it needs to be hers. Even if she doesn't know it.

He shakes his head, gently.

"I will take nothing you are not willing to give," he tells her. "Though I hope you won't mind if I continue to admire you from afar. You are quite the stunning creature; I confess I'm rather taken with you."

He smiles at her, and seemingly without her permission, a smile of her own blooms in response. A powerful flood of warmth goes through him; his grin widens and he's sure he looks like a fool but he can't bring himself to mind all that much.

"And if I'm willing to give more than that?" she asks, her courage apparently back, as the question is accompanied with a flirty raise of one eyebrow.

He feels it again, that pull, like with the siren but more, better, it draws him to her and he has no intention of fighting it. They are toe-to-toe when he whispers,

"Then give it."

And she does.

She kisses him, most decidedly, a firm press of her lips against his, grasping his tunic in her fists. The momentum of her body stumbles him back into the cabinet. The edge of it hits the small of his back and he lets out a grunt. She seems to mistake it for a noise of protest and pulls back, looking terrified, as though convinced that in the last seven seconds he's changed his mind and become disgusted by her.

He smiles softly, strokes her hair away from her face and kisses her again, slow and sensual. It takes a moment, but she relaxes against him, sighs into his mouth. It's a tiny sound, barely audible, but it sends a shock of desire through him. He grips her hips tightly and kisses her harder, runs his tongue along her bottom lip. She opens her mouth eagerly, meeting his tongue with hers, sliding it into his mouth forcefully, heatedly. He groans at the feeling. As it turns out, her lips feel completely different to the siren's after all. Regina's are softer, more insistent, more fervent. Somehow, even harder to resist. His head is spinning, he's forgetting where he is, losing awareness of everything except the woman pressed against him. Her kiss is heady and addictive, but instead of dulling him, it brings a certain clarity, an almost unbearable sharpness, everything about her and them and their kiss overwhelming his senses. He has never felt this kind of passion, this joy, this fierce feeling before. He has never wanted anyone more than he wants Regina right now.

He wraps his arm around her waist, splays the fingers of his other hand between her shoulder blades, pulling her flush against him. She smiles against his lips and presses her body in a little harder, her breasts soft against his chest. She trails a teasing finger up the outside of his thigh, his side, his chest, seizing a handful of his collar and once again changing the pressure and pace of their kiss. Her tongue is in his mouth again, her lips and teeth hard against his, her other hand clenching and scratching in his hair, and she is – God help him – making these whining noises in the back of her throat. He can feel every one. Both in his mouth and other, more southward places. She is going to be the death of him.

But what a way to go.

His hands wander, never fully grasping at places he thinks he needs permission to grasp, but teasing, caressing the back of her thigh, squeezing when she rotates her hips firmly into his, grazing the side of her breast and making her shiver (he makes a note of that in his brain, wants to memorise every part of her body and every way he can touch it that makes her shiver, arch her back, whimper and scream). He claims her delicious mouth again and again until they are both panting and so very, very aroused.

He is hard for her and knows she knows it, can feel him when she does that insistent twist of her hips into him, he is hard and aching and God, he wants her. Her fears have been assuaged by the effect she is clearly having on him. Her confidence growing, making her bold.

He jerks violently when her hand suddenly squeezes his erection, tearing his mouth from hers with a wet smack. He means to say something about how they should stop, that his interest goes further than a quick romp in a dark corner of the castle, that she deserves more and so does he. He had imagined (idealistic and naïve, she'd call him) spending hours in a bed with her, mapping out each other's bodies, worshipping every inch of her, bringing her up and up over and over again until she was shaking and pleading and grasping the sheets. But she is smirking at him, this temptress, her fingers dancing around the outline of his cock, and he is powerless – completely, utterly – to resist.

He groans her name and her smirk widens.

"Is there a problem, thief?"

Her voice is nonchalant but she looks like the cat that ate the canary. He exhales in a rush, threads his fingers through her hair, runs them down her neck and over her shoulders, pushing the neck of her blouse aside to get at the smooth skin underneath.

"Yes," he growls, pressing his lips to her pulse point. She tilts her head with a soft sigh, giving him room.

"And what might that be?"

"I," he kisses the side of her neck, "am trying to be a gentleman." A gentle suck where her neck meets her shoulder. "And you," he pushes her blouse further out of the way, exposing one shoulder and giving her collar bone a little nip. She sucks in a breath. He makes another mental note. "Are making it very difficult, m'lady."

"Passing blame now?" she says haughtily, if a little breathlessly. "Typical outlaw."

"Well deserved, I should say, in this case," he murmurs between kisses.

"Oh?"

He detaches his lips from her neck long enough to raise his eyebrows at her.

"You are perfectly aware of how irresistible you are," he says. "False modesty doesn't suit you."

She shakes her head, frowning and looking oddly chastised.

"Most people would say the Evil Queen is more than resistible."

"You are far more than just a Queen, evil or otherwise," he counters.

She appears surprised, genuinely, guilelessly so. He can't help but smile softly at her.

"Evil is not a word that springs to mind when I look at you," he murmurs, hands in her hair once more.

"And what is?"

"Stunning." He leans in closer, letting his lips brush her ear. "Sexy. Stubbornly hostile. Powerful, protective, magnificent. Audacious. Brave. Reckless. Frustrating. And of course, I stand by irresistible."

"Enough," she says, kisses him to shut him up, and he's pretty sure she's blushing.

"There is more to you than an outdated label, Regina," he tells her when they break apart again. She, for once, doesn't meet his eyes, instead focusing on the hands that are currently occupied in tugging at his belt. She seems oddly uncomfortable, anxious to get off the subject, and her very best distraction efforts are not unaffecting. He attempts to still her questing hands. That gets her to look at him.

"Such a gentleman," she mocks. "You're not really going to pretend you don't want me?"

"I think," he inhales sharply as she squeezes him again, "it's fairly obvious that I do."

He blows out a sigh, aware that what he's about to admit could very well be an invitation for more mockery and derision.

"But I wanted to do this right. I wanted to treat you as you deserve. I wanted to… woo you."

He refuses to be embarrassed for it, so he keeps his eyes fixed on hers, though he can't deny the nervousness in his stomach. A rejection from her at this point would disappoint him more than he'd care to admit.

She stares at him for a beat or two, eyebrow raised, seeming to be waiting for the punchline. When he gives her a mildly self-deprecating smile and shrug, her sceptical expression relaxes and she looks almost… touched. But she still shakes her head.

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not going to be wooed. I'm not going to be romanced. I'm not… I'm just too… I can't."

She's going for emotionless, he can tell, that hard, royal mask firmly in place, but she can't shutter those expressive eyes, and there is something vaguely desperate in them now. Like she needs this. And she needs to not talk about it or even think too hard about it. Being wooed clearly falls under those categories. His heart sinks a little. This isn't about him at all.

"But I do want you. Now."

He purses his lips slightly and bobs his eyebrows, as though she's just given him a vaguely interesting fun fact. She makes the same face back. Not fooled.

She leans in and kisses him again, languidly running her tongue over his lips, his teeth, the roof of his mouth, rolling her hips into his. He groans and buries his hands back in her beautiful hair. Little minx. She knows exactly what she's doing.

"Now," she hisses.

"Well," he half-groans, her pelvis never stopping in her attempt to get him even more unbearably hard, "at least let us go somewhere a little more comfortable."

"No. Here."

He chokes.

She smirks.

"Here or nowhere."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Her eyes are glittering. Her gaze nothing short of a challenge. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reaches out a hand, presses it firmly against the very hard bulge in his pants. He grits his teeth and doesn't move. Somewhere along the line this has become a battle of wills; one they both know he'll lose, but he can't let her win quite that easily. She thinks it's a secret, that she enjoys him challenging her, but it's not, not to him. He stares her down. There is laughter in her eyes as she begins to massage him with squeezing fingers, rotating the heel of her palm hard against him, unfurling an intense roll of pleasure low in his gut. His eyes fall closed at the sensation, just for a second, but it's long enough. Her victory grin is wide, and he was right, she does enjoy this. He has his suspicions as to why she has shied away from a bed, why she wants this hard and fast and meaningless, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to savour her. She wants an escape, a diversion, well, he's going to give her the best diversion of her life. His qualms are gone, and so is his hesitance. As it please Her Majesty, after all.

And he intends to.

He lets out a growl and seizes her by the arms, spins her around and into the cabinet, the force tipping it back against the wall so all the quivers inside rattle around. She makes a little noise of surprise right before he devours her mouth.

The kiss is fiery, messy and more urgent than any of the others. He digs his fingers into her waist, hikes one of her thighs up to his hip, using the other arm around her waist to hoist her up onto the cabinet, righting it on all four legs again with a thud. The quivers piled on top of it scatter to the floor. She laughs breathlessly, taking his face in both her hands and pulling his mouth back to hers.

He runs his hands up and down her leather-clad thighs as she locks her ankles under his ass. He continues his path to her hips, up her ribs to her breasts, cupping them, squeezing, his thumb brushing back and forth over a nipple through her shirt. She hums lightly into his mouth, and, encouraged, he takes one between thumb and forefinger, rolling it and squeezing with short, hard little pulses. It's that which draws the first real sound from her, a throaty moan as she tosses her head back hard enough to smack it against the wall behind her.

"Oh," he says on a smirk, exhilarated by his discovery. The Queen has sensitive nipples, and he is quite delighted to exploit this newfound knowledge. He pushes the neck of her shirt down further, off both shoulders, helping her extract her arms from the garment. No longer held up by anything above the half-corset, the silk slips down off her naked breasts. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of her, this goddess in front of him with her eyes down like she doesn't know she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

"You are breathtaking, Regina," he tells her, caressing her hair and kissing her mouth, then her neck, her collar bone, all the way down her chest, licks the underside of one breast before darting his tongue out over a nipple. She jerks involuntarily. He laves at it with his tongue until it is glistening, then sucks it into his mouth to a sharp whine from her. Her hands find their way into his hair, massaging his scalp while he pulls at her nipple with his lips and tongue and even teeth (she makes little noises of approval whenever he gives a short, sharp nip, similar to the pinching of his fingers that he started with). His cock pulses when he realises she's taken her other breast into her own hand, plucking at the neglected nipple, and he immediately wants it for himself. He switches breasts, taking it from her fingers into his mouth and eliciting another whimper from her.

She is tugging at his belt again, more insistently now, managing to get it undone and off before he registers her determination. His trousers slip down his hips and she pushes them further down with her feet, pulling him up and off her breast in order to rid him of his tunic. He steps the rest of the way out of the trousers and is left in only his linen shirt, unable to decide whether he is more amused or aroused by her impatience. Then she takes him in her hand and any notion of amusement leaves him completely.

Her hand is small and cool and he is hard and hot and her touch has him throbbing, aching to be inside her. She twists her hand over him, down and up, running her thumb over his tip and spreading the moisture she finds there. He groans, long and low.

"Regina…"

She hums, pupils blown wide, licks her lips unconsciously. Up and down with her hand. Tightens her fist, releases, tightens.

She parts her thighs wider, tugging him hard enough to make him step into the gap. Her other hand begins to loosen the laces of her leather trousers. The message is clear.

She isn't messing around. Robin, however, has other ideas.

He pulls on the laces at her waist, peels the leather down her legs, kneels to pull the boots from her feet until she is left in nothing but the red and black half-corset with the shirt hanging off it. He wants to remove that, too, wants to see every inch of her beautiful body, but the laces of even a half-corset seem too time-consuming right now. And she is watching him with dark, vulnerable eyes, as though she is still waiting to see what will scare him away, and he thinks maybe leaving her that last bit of armour wouldn't hurt.

He places a kiss on her leg just above her knee, looks at her face, then places another on her inner thigh. She draws in a sharp breath.

"What are you doing?"

He looks up at her again, this beautiful, fierce, intoxicating woman who doesn't seem to know how to deal with a man voluntarily on his knees before her.

"I'm going to make you come on my tongue, Regina, if you'll allow me. I want to touch you and lick you and taste you until you come for me."

She lets out a tiny gasp, her eyes flicking over his face. She nods mutely.

He smiles, dips his head and drops kisses all over her thighs, deliberately teasing, seeing if he can't draw a smile or even a laugh out of her before he starts working on the screams.

She squirms under the caress of his lips, huffing through her nose when he dodges her attempts to trap him between her thighs.

"What are you doing?" she demands again, this time a lot less confused and a lot more impatient.

"Tasting you, m'lady," he answers innocently. "Why, did you have something else in mind?"

She makes a thoroughly satisfying noise of frustration that has him grinning against her skin. He darts his tongue out, lightly licking the crease where her thigh meets her hip, and she squeaks, her knee jerking reflexively and colliding with the side of his head. He groans in exaggerated pain, clapping a hand to the area dramatically and peering up at her with narrowed eyes. She is panting and looking thoroughly uncomposed, but she is fighting a smile and it delights him.

"If you – " she begins, but cuts herself off with a strangled moan as he finally touches his lips to her clit. It is only a kiss, a closed-lipped press against her flesh, but her body is clearly humming for the contact. She tosses her head back again and clamps her palms down onto the edge of the cabinet, bucking her hips towards him. He had thought to tease her a little bit more, a falsely innocent question on the tip of his tongue, but he finds he can't bring himself to prolong the anticipation any longer, not when she's reacting to him this way.

He flicks his tongue against her and her whole body shudders with pleasure. He licks her again, longer, slower, wetter, up and around, sucks her clit between his lips. She moans, guttural and eager. He is rock hard, his hips pumping back and forth of their own accord. He grips her thighs tighter, pulls her closer, buries his face between them.

He sets a rhythm, long, luxurious licks up and down her entrance, swirls and flicks of his tongue on her clit, up and down and back around. She is wet, oh, she is soaked and ready for him and he is half-mad with desire, wants her so badly, so badly. She is vocalising her pleasure almost continuously now, whimpering and moaning and sighing above him, hisses of yeessss and even his name, his given name, Robin. She is heavenly, her taste and her smell and the sound of her voice, it all surrounds him and he is dying for her.

He circles her entrance with a finger, moaning softly at the feel of her. His finger slips right in, she is wet and hot and lets out a blissful mmmm when he curls his finger inside her, stroking at that rough inner wall. Her hips are thrusting steadily into his hand, her eyes are closed, pleasured whines coming from the back of her throat, a sheen of sweat on her neck and chest. She is a vision.

He withdraws his finger and adds another, thrusting both up inside her firmly and returning his tongue to her clit. Regina cries out and clutches at his hair. He laps at her steadily, pumping his fingers in and out of her and she is gasping his name urgently now, over and over, her fingers scratching at the wood of the cabinet. He manages an encouraging groan against her, and then she stiffens, clenches, an ecstatic cry bursting from her lips as she comes hard. He eases her through it, stroking her gently through her high, murmuring to her how stunning she is, that's it, come for me, you are amazing, Regina.

When she stops shaking, when she's leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, still panting lightly, he kisses a line down her shoulder. He's so aroused he can barely think, can't stop his pelvis from rocking into her, but he doesn't know how far she wanted this to go, and he won't assume. He kisses her, light, gentle kisses over her naked skin until she pulls his head back, drags his lips to his and shoves her tongue in his mouth, passionate, needy.

"You really are waiting for my permission, aren't you?" she husks once she releases him.

He doesn't know what to say, is pretty sure he's lost the ability to speak at this point, just nods, his gaze burning into her.

"Your foolish honour," she sighs, but her expression is soft. It amazes him sometimes, her ability to make compliments sound like insults and scorn sound like admiration.

He simply raises his eyebrows at her, an honest question. Unable to stop rolling his hips against her thigh. She gives a little laugh, a half-disbelieving little laugh. She reaches between them, takes his cock in her hand, gives it a squeeze that has his eyes rolling back. Watching him, she guides the tip of him through her wetness. He groans. Every nerve ending in his body seems to have rushed to his cock, he is already afraid he's not going to last long at all.

"Yes," she whispers, and that is all the permission he needs to bury himself inside her.

They both moan at the feeling, Robin letting out an emphatic fuck and dropping his forehead to rest on her shoulder. He stays still for a moment, breathing in and out, letting her adjust to him and reigning in every inch of his control to not come on the spot. He is balls deep in the erstwhile Evil Queen and nothing has ever felt as God, good, so good as this.

He draws out slowly, then back in.

"You feel so incredible," he breathes into her neck.

"God, Robin," she answers.

He slides in and out again slowly, deep, firm thrusts, but she is shaking her head, fingernails scrabbling at his back through his shirt.

"Robin," she moans again, and he will not soon forget the way his name sounds falling from her lips in the throes of pleasure. "Robin, harder."

Minx, he thinks, temptress, goddess.

"Yes?"

"Yes, harder," she insists, digging her nails into his ass, thrusting her hips up, taking him deeper. He groans. Her eyes hold his, lustful and so very certain. "Fuck me like you mean it."

That's one order he can't refuse.

He takes her hips in his hands, squeezing the flesh under his fingers, and slams into her, hard, as requested. She shouts in pleasure, her head falling back, and he is half-gone already. He fucks her, leg muscles tight, hips pounding into her, the swords on the wall behind bouncing and rattling on their iron pegs. Her hands twist in his shirt, wrenching the fabric, tearing it down the middle so it is hanging off him by the sleeves. He gasps out a laugh in between grunts and moans, and her own cries of yes, unh, Robin, fuck!

He is so close already, doesn't think he can hold out much longer, reaches down with one hand and makes small, tight, wet circles on her clit. Her cries become delirious, wordless, her nails scratching at his arms, his shoulders, attempting to claw through the remnants of his shirt, and then she is exploding beneath him, clenching, back arched, face screwed up in ecstasy. Seconds later, he is crashing over after her, hips jerking erratically into her with a long groan.

They remain joined, Robin half-collapsed over Regina, just trying to catch their breath and let their heart rates slow down. Her legs are still loosely tucked around his waist, her head flopped back against the wall, her hands sliding from his back to rest on her own thighs. Eventually, she starts to shift, letting her legs fall from around him, straightening her posture, pulling her blouse back up to cover her breasts. He takes his cue from her, easing his softening cock out of her and stepping back. He picks up her pants from the floor and hands them to her, reaches for his own. For a moment there is only the shuffling of material as they redress themselves. It has the potential to descend into an awkward silence, and Robin can't bear the thought of that, not after this, not after finally getting to share some semblance of intimacy and openness with her.

He steps in close again, for once not waiting to see if he has her permission, kisses her lips soundly but briefly.

"Well, I suppose I should add 'capable of exhibiting extraordinary physical force' to my earlier list of adjectives," he muses, plucking at the torn edges of his shirt with a wry grin. She meets his eyes for the first time since he pulled out of her, smiling smugly.

"Oh, I'm full of surprises."

"You certainly are," he says lowly, not quite managing to keep the (temporarily sated, but always present) desire from his voice. He doesn't want to hide it, particularly, aside from the fact that she seems more comfortable with this playful banter than she did a moment ago when they were both still mostly naked, their enjoyment of each other quite evident on his cock and between her thighs.

"It's quite deceptive of you, hiding such brute strength in these little hands." He takes said hands in his, making a show of measuring them against his own. She snatches them back indignantly.

"My hands are not little."

He barks out a laugh.

"Compared to some things, m'lady, they most definitely are."

She snorts. Actually snorts.

"You think very highly of yourself."

"I was talking about my hands. Though I do appreciate this insight into the path of your thoughts."

He grins at her, grabbing at her hand again to plant a kiss on it before releasing it.

"Besides, I'd say any high opinion I may have would be one that is now shared, unless I am grossly misinterpreting your previous, rather loud communications."

He raises his eyebrows suggestively. She rolls her eyes.

"Exactly what I wanted, to further inflate your ego. Not that it needed it, you've always had a remarkably big head for a thief."

"Can I help it when the woman I am hopelessly attracted to has just finished informing me that she does, in fact, know and rather enjoy using my first name?"

He smirks; she glares.

"After all, my desire for you did almost get me killed. I think it's fair to say I'm pleased that it is reciprocated."

She opens her mouth (lovely, luscious thing that it is), and for a moment he wonders if she's going to deny it, say she doesn't want him, that she only sought him out because she had an itch she knew he'd be more than willing to scratch. She surprises him, though.

"And how did I compare?" she asks, dark eyes intent, the smirk on her lips downright playful. He delights in it, though it takes him a moment to catch her meaning. When he does, he chuckles.

"Even if the creature hadn't shredded my shoulders and almost drowned me, nothing could compare to the Queen herself."

He means to flatter, clumsily perhaps, but then he's still navigating the depth of his feelings for her, surprised sometimes at how off-kilter they make him. But something closes in her expression, hardens, and there is danger in her tone when she replies,

"Yes, I imagine it's quite the conquest for you."

Not danger for him, he doesn't fear her, but she gets this look sometimes like she is standing on the edge of a precipice, chased there by self-loathing and with only bottomless despair to fall into. It's a look he's starting to recognise. For her, there are two options: either he is ashamed of wanting her, or sees bedding her as some sort of laudable victory that has earned him bragging rights. He burns at the thought of whoever treated her like that in the past to have her so convinced.

"Regina," he says. "I will mention this to no one if that is what you want. If you wish it, we can go back to insulting each other tomorrow, and I will keep my hidden knowledge that Your Majesty secretly appreciates my charm as a balm to my wounded soul."

He smiles to let her know he is teasing, and she smiles back, almost laughs. It warms him.

"You never insult me," she says, which is true. He shrugs, tugs her to him, wanting her closer. She resists, extracting herself, slipping off the cabinet. She reaches for her boots, making moves as if to leave, and he watches her for a moment before giving in to his increasing urge to stop her. He trails his fingers up her arm and down her side. She jerks reflexively at the touch and he wonders fleetingly if she's ticklish.

"Don't go," he says.

She turns her head to look at him, a myriad of emotions playing across her face. Confusion is forefront. He aches to think that she finds his desire to be around her so hard to understand. Presses a light kiss to her shoulder through the silk blouse.

"You want me to stay?" she questions, her voice small, soft, and so very young.

"Very much."

He wraps his arms around her waist, gently, encouragingly, and she lets herself be pulled back into him. He tries not to nuzzle her neck and breathe in the scent of her hair too obviously.

"You can oversee the inventory-taking," he suggests lightly. "I've given it some thought, and I do think it would be best if I had some supervision."

She turns in his arms, stepping away, clearly not comfortable with being held that way.

"Can't trust a thief," she smiles.

She's back to insulting him the next day, studiously scornful in her every word, but sometimes he catches a glint of that same look in her eyes, the one she wore when she sat on the floor in the hidden armoury and smiled at him as he tallied arrows, and it makes him smile in spite of her words, in spite of who might see. And sometimes her lips twitch up in return.

And he thinks it's a start. A very good start.