Prompt: rough, biting, scratching (posted October 31, 2014)

She isn't doing this.

She isn't doing this. She doesn't do this. She will not do this.

She has told herself this since the day she first laid eyes on him. Okay, not the day she first laid eyes on him, because that was decades ago and they were both different people then - or at least she was, she imagines - but then again, she'd shut the door on him then, and run, so maybe she'd been thinking the same thing then…

Her back collides with a tree trunk, his torso pinning hers a second later, knocking the air out of her with an oof!, and she decides she probably shouldn't be thinking at all.

Not when his mouth is on her collar, then over her pulse point, sucking, grazing her with his teeth.

"Is that all you've got, thief?" she challenges, meant for it to sound regal and critical, but it's too breathy for that. She's too far gone in this.

She knew this was a bad idea from the very moment Snow suggested - no, decreed - it. She and Robin Hood, alone, on a scouting mission. He, because he was the best tracker in the bunch. She, because she had the sense for magic that could lead them to the Wicked Witch's whereabouts.

They'd been entirely unsuccessful in their mission, but have somehow managed to end up here, like this, panting and groping under the light of a full moon, in the middle of the forest. Far from the castle. Far from prying eyes. From anyone's judgement but their own.

And so their usual banter and bicker had mutated into something else, something hotter, and then he'd kissed her, or she'd kissed him, she's not entirely sure anymore. And now here they are, her back against a tree, one knee hiked up against his hip, her riding coat loose and open as he digs his teeth into her collarbone and growls his frustration, giving the ties of her corset a rough yank.

"Why can't I get this bloody thing off," he grumbles into her skin, and Regina laughs at him.

"Lack of experience?" she taunts, and he looks up at her with those blue, blue eyes, dark now with lust and anger.

"Hardly," he mutters, tugging her, turning her until she's face-to-face with the bark of the tree, thick and ridged, dotted with moss. Robin yanks the coat from her arms, lets it drop to the dirt, and she wants to scowl and bite and complain that red velvet doesn't belong on the forest floor, and quite frankly neither does she if this is what he has in mind, and this rough treatment is no way to behave with a Queen. But she keeps her mouth shut, bites down on her lip to ensure it, because she doesn't want to be the Queen right now, never did in the first place, and she likes that this man, this thief, this outlaw, is about to fuck her senseless in the great wide open.

For the first time since they returned to this godforsaken forest, she feels free, unfettered, unbothered. So she lets him, lets him toss her coat to the dirt, lets him worry free the double knot keeping her corset bound (this one has seen better days, but it's comfortable enough for a long ride, so she'd made do). When the corset his free, he turns her again, palms her breasts through the thin material of her blouse, seeks out the nipples hard from the cool night air and squeezes them, twists until her jaw drop and her lashes flutter.

It's his smirking chuckle that wakes her from her submission, that has her eyes blinking back open, darker, more predatory. Queen or not, she's still Regina, and she will not just let him… do this, while she stands there docile.

"Kiss me," she orders (it's an order, not a plea, it's not a plea, no matter how much it may have sounded that way to her ears), and he is all too happy to oblige. Mouths meet, tongues tangling, and she licks at his lower lip, then nips it gently, thinks better of it and bites again, harder. Robin just groans, his hands on her hips now, squeezing as he kisses her more fiercely.

He gives back as good as he gets, and their mouths go messy, fighting each other, teeth clacking into each other gracelessly. Biting, sucking, scraping until mouth their mouths are pink and tingling from the hard sensation. HIs vest and shirt are gone now, puddled in with her coat, his leathers untied and pushed down to his knees, his cock hard and hot in her hand as she trails her nails lightly up and down, up and down, her palm pressed to the head and slick already with precum. Her own pants are rucked down, caught on her tall riding boots, and as he scrapes his teeth over her jaw, his fingers slide down, down, into her. One, two, rough but she's wet, so wet, so very, very wet.

He has good hands, nimble archer fingers, and it doesn't take him long to have her head falling back, smacking dully into the tree as she lets out a throaty moan. "Robin…"

He grins against her neck.

"Yes, my queen?"

Her stomach rolls, pitches, she hears Sidney in her head, years and years of Yes, my Queen in that simpering, obsessive voice. One of her hands rises up, into Robin's hair, yanking his head back roughly, looking him in his startled eyes.

"Don't call me that," she nearly growls. and he nods, once, the barest flicked of a wince on his face as the action pulls at his hair.

"Then what shall I call you, milady?"

"You could try not speaking," she jeers, actually manages to keep her voice mocking and steady this time.

"I could, but I won't." HIs thumb flicks across her clit, once, and she bites her lip, sucks in a breath.

She breathes it out on her own name, "Regina."

"Regina?" he asks, and she nods.

"Just Regina."

Something in his expression shifts, warms, his lips curving. Regina gives his hair another tug.

"Don't go soft on me, Robin," she orders. "This is just scratching an itch. Nothing more."

"Of course," he agrees, in that infuriating way that makes it perfectly clear he thinks she's fooling herself here.

Regina glares, shifts her hand from his hair to his shoulder and pushes down. "On your knees, outlaw."

He smirks, goes willingly - has to slip his fingers from her to do so, but soon they're back inside her, one, two, and a third this time, making her inhale deeply. She shuts her eyes, then decides no, she wants to watch, and looks down to find him looking back up at her. When their eyes lock he begins to move his fingers again, quick and deep and she grits her teeth and presses her palms to the bark behind her.

God, it's good.

So good. Quick, pulsing bursts of pleasure radiating out from each thrust. She hasn't been touched like this in years, not since Graham, not by anyone other than herself, and his fingers are thicker than hers, have an angle she can't quite get, pushing and pushing against the front of her from the inside. It makes her knees tremble, makes her belly tense, her brow scrunch as her mouth drops open.

"You know," he muses casually, like he's not fingerbanging her roughly, like she's not panting and pressing her lips together to stifle her moan. "I've imagined a time or two what would happen if I ever found myself on my knees in front of the Queen. I have to admit, this isn't how I imagined it would go."

He's smirking at her, and she's quaking now, fighting to glare at him, fingers clutching at his shoulders as his own curl and pull inside her and oh, oh God, the words spill from her, loud, unbidden, unstoppable.

Her voice is shaky and strangled when she manages, "And when I ordered you to them, this isn't how I imagined it. Put that ever-wagging mouth to some use, would you?"

Robin grins, smug as her head snaps back on a sharp cry, and then she feels his tongue on her, pressed to her clit, then flicking against it, quick and firm and oh fuck, fuck, oh, oh no, oh God, that's more like it, but oh, she's about to, she's going to–

She comes with a desperate shout, her hips lurching into his face, her nails scoring angry red trails into his shoulders, words spilling from her lips, things like more and don't stop and harder and fuck me.

It's that last one that finally draws him away from her, spurs him into standing, and then the world is spinning, and she's facing the tree again. He shuffles them back a step or two, and bends her forward with a hand on her spine. Regina braces her forearms on the tree bark for balance, for leverage, then bites down on her lip as he pushes into her from behind. He's thick, stretching her slightly, but he goes slow - for that first thrust anyway. Slides into her to the hilt, cursing softly, then grips her in those strong hands, fingers damp against her hip and begins to move.

Quick, sharp thrusts. Deep and hard. He fucks her, just as she'd asked, and for a moment she has this image of them, of her, with him, still partially dressed, bent over in the forest, getting fucked form behind like a commoner. Mother would be so ashamed, she thinks darkly, and then she braces herself more firmly against the tree and pushes her hips back harder against his. Revels in being so thoroughly debauched, so entirely unregal.

One of Robin's hands shifts to the base of her spine, presses down, changes the angle of her hips just enough, and suddenly there's goosebumps flaring on her skin, her jaw stretched open, mouth a surpised, ecstatic O as sensation swamps her, pulls her under. Robin fucks her harder, her name on his lips, over and over like a chant, nothing much coherent falling from her own mouth as she races for the finish.

Orgasm slams into her like a punch to the gut, has Robin shifting his grip on her bucking hips and grunting as he tugs her back against him again and again, hips slapping into her rear as she cries out loudly enough to have the horses whinnying on the other side of their little encampment. She's scrabbling at the tree trunk, scraping up her arms, her hands, and not feeling a thing but the steady poundpoundpound of his cock into her and the resultant gripping bursts of pleasure.

When he pushes deep one last time and finishes with a soft cry of his own, she sags forward, rests more of her weight against the tree and tries to catch her breath.

Slowly, the haze of orgasm lifts, and she becomes aware of her stinging palms, her abraded arms, of the soreness she can already tell will echo between her thighs come morning.

Robin's gone gentle on her now, one hand rubbing her spine, up and down, soothing, petting. It makes her want to purr, want to curls up on his palette for the night instead of her own. Makes her feel a little less lonely for once.

Tears prick her eyes suddenly, and she shuts them, sucks in a slow breath, lets it out again.

He says her name, once, softly, and she shakes her head. She pulls away first, straightening and shuffling forward, his softening cock slipping out of her, a wet dribble coating her thighs in his wake.

Regina yanks her trousers up with fingers that still shake, frowns down at the red marks on her arms as she does so.

He says her name again, and she thinks she hears regret there, and it pains her. She doesn't give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye.

"Goodnight, Robin," she mutters, redressing herself in a swirl of purple. She strides away, over to where her bedroll is still tied up in a bundle, leaves him standing there covered in sweat, confusion, and a fair number of bruising hickeys.