Author's Note: A little Halloween-inspired ditty for OQ FIx-It Week Day 1: Robin Never Died. Set in the Oblivion-verse

Regina, as a rule, doesn't like Halloween parties.

All Hallows Eve is a holiday to be observed, not revelled in. But that had gone entirely out the window once she'd had a child old enough to be dressed up and trotted around the neighborhood for candy.

Depriving him of it had seemed cruel – had reminded her too much of her mother, and the insistence that Regina not eat too many sweets, or her insistence that she not get to play games with the servants' children in the side garden even though she'd been so painfully lonely.

She hadn't wanted to be cruel, hadn't wanted to be like Mother, so once a year, she'd dressed Henry up as a ghost, or a dragon, or Spider-Man, and she'd walked him from door to door and enjoyed the hint of fear on every face as the tenants realized they were giving candy to the Mayor's son.

And then, Emma Swan had come to town. Henry had been grounded that Halloween, having just returned from his little jaunt down to Boston and back. There had been no trick or treating, only an I knew you were Evil! I knew it!

The time since then seemed to have been one chaos after another, again and again, until Zelena had appeared not a moment too soon and stolen that crystal from Hades with a flourish of green smoke, sunk it deep into his back for the cruel betrayal of pretending to love her. Stealing her heart for his own purposes without even the courtesy of ripping the fool thing from her chest.

And since then, things have been… Well… There have been struggles, but not much in the way of crises.

The first year had been difficult, figuring out how all of this worked. Regina, and Zelena, and Robin, and baby Imogen. They'd spent a lot of time with Archie, before managing a situation that works for everyone. Namely, Imogen living with Regina and Robin, part of a stable home and family, with Zelena getting visitation. The degree of required supervision has grown less and less over the years as Zelena's work with Archie dug deeper and deeper, and she was deemed less of a flight risk.

So now, things are… normal. Too normal, if you ask Regina.

Because it's Halloween, and her fifteen-year-old son is holding up a Wonder Woman costume and practically begging her to wear it.

"Come on, Mom," he insists. "Everyone else is doing it. Robin is Green Lantern, Ro is Superman, I'm the Flash, Emma is Batman – well, female Batman. Batgirl. And Killian even agreed to go as Aquaman. We just need a Wonder Woman." He waggles the costume at her again and says, "And that should be you. Because, you know, you're so great. And strong. And you always know when I'm lying even without the Lasso of Truth."

Regina raises one eyebrow, arms still firmly crossed over her chest as she points out, "Isn't being able to spot a liar your other mother's thing?"

"Yeah, but I still get things by her all the time," he shrugs. "But you always catch me; it sucks."

"Mm." She gives him a smug look at that, reaching out to snatch the costume from his hand and hold it up for inspection. "Why is it that everyone else gets to be fully clothed, and I get the miniskirt?"

Henry shrugs, and says, "Because that's what she wears. You get to wear high boots."

That's true, she supposes, letting out a sigh. It's not like it's showing much more skin than her usual pencil skirts, just… higher on the leg rather than lower. And it could be worse – at least it's not the bustier and hotpants version of Wonder Woman Ruby had worn once during the curse.

Resigning herself to the fate of not only attending a costume party, but attending one as part of a group costume, no less, Regina tells her son, "Alright, I'm in."

.::.

Last year, Robin had quite enjoyed Hallowe'en.

It had been the first year they'd taken Imogen trick-or-treating, dolling her up in a round, plush pumpkin suit that had looked quite fetching with those ginger curls she'd been growing in. Roland had been a knight, again. Henry, much to Regina's chagrin, had been a pirate – and had spent the evening with one, too. She'd been a touch put-out that their son would rather Emma and Hook supervise the trick-or-treating, and Robin had smirked as Henry had regaled them with tale after tale of the ways Regina had intimidated the neighbors on Hallowe'en night when he was a young boy.

She'd relented then, admitting that, perhaps, just maybe, she wasn't the most inviting chaperone after all. Regina had also insisted that there was no need for her and Robin to dress up themselves just to escort Ginny and Roland around this block and the next. And so, Hallowe'en had been a festive, if a bit muted, affair for them all, and Robin had quite liked the ease and infectious delight of it.

This year, not so much.

It's not the costume that he minds so much, nor the party.

It's her.

Zelena.

She'd asked this year if little Ginny could attend Granny's Hallowe'en Bash with her rather than him and Regina, and it just felt bloody wrong. Even more so with all of them in costume together as a family. She ought to be with him, with them, a petite Black Canary or something.

Not spending the afternoon with that woman and showing up as God knows what, but certainly nothing that matched the lot of them.

It has him irritated, on edge.

Has him wanting something to take his mind off of everything, he just doesn't know what. It's not as though he can avoid the thing that's causing him such grief, not when he's going to be orbiting her at a party all evening long.

He doesn't figure out a suitable distraction until they're headed out and Regina stops him just inside their front door, leaving the boys to run ahead outside and get the car started (Henry's just gotten his learner's permit, gods help them all).

"Hey," she says gently, letting the door swing part of the way shut to block them from view. "Are you okay?"

Robin takes a deep breath, and tells her, "Everything's fine. Let's go."

But Regina, to his absolute lack of surprise, is having none of that tonight.

She purses her lips slightly, her chin jutting just a bit, eyes narrowing. And then she reaches for the length of rope coiled at her hip and wraps it around one of his wrists, before asking again, "Is everything really fine, Robin?"

His answer is immediate and easy as breathing: "No."

Well… that's not… what he'd meant to say.

"What's bothering you? Is it Zelena?"

"Yes," he says, though he'd rather not. "Imogen should be with us tonight, not her. I hate it. I wish we'd never agreed to it."

She scowls a little, asks, "You wish I'd never agreed to it, you mean?" and he offers an immediate Yes.

And then he's the one demanding answers, asking her, "Alright, what's going on? Why can't I—"

He cuts himself off, but needn't bother, because she finishes the sentence for him: "Lie?" A little flick of her wrist and the rope uncoils from around his wrist. She holds it up between them, and asks, "What good is a Lasso of Truth if it doesn't actually work? I enchanted it to fulfill its intended purpose. If we're going to this thing, and I have to wear this costume, I'm going to have some fun with it."

She smirks at him, but he doesn't find it particularly funny.

"Perhaps I could have been more honest, milady," he tells her, watching her face fall as she realizes he's genuinely upset, "but you could have asked more than once before forcing the truth out of me, don't you think? Might have tried the classic 'I can tell from your face that's not true' or something of the like?"

She flounders for a moment, and then offers up a penitent, "I'm sorry. I didn't think of it that way; I should have. I was worried about you; you've been off all day. That's the fourth time you've told me you were 'fine,' but maybe this wasn't… the best or kindest way to get the truth from you."

"It wasn't very kind, no," he tells her, and then she delivers his solution on a silver platter.

She holds her wrists out to him, palms up, the rope dangling now from one hand, and offers, "Ask me anything. Force a truth from me, anything you want."

He scowls a little, still, as he takes the rope from her, but when he wraps the length of it once around her wrist and then again, something clicks.

He knows exactly what kind of distraction he needs tonight. Exactly what will help him put the things he cannot control from the forefront of his mind.

He coils the rope over her other wrist, then continues to bind them together in lazy figure eights as he asks her, "Regina… would you like to play tonight?"

He gives the ropes a little tug, and her breath catches, her gaze flicking up to his as she answers, "Yes, Sir."

Robin smirks, tells her, "Good girl. Do you want to start right now?"

"No, Sir."

It's not the answer he was expecting. Robin tilts his head slightly, and asks, "Why not?"

"The boys are in the car – and there's the party, Sir."

He can only make so many figure eights before he has to resort to simply wrapping the rope around and around her bound wrists, but if the way her breathing has deepened is any indication, she doesn't mind in the slightest.

"What if I wanted to play at the party," he asks, watching her gaze flick toward the nearly-closed door. The car lights are shining up the walk, but the door is angled just so that they can't be seen. "Would you like that?"

"No."

Well, this just isn't going according to plan, is it?

"And why not?"

"It's private, Sir. I wouldn't want anyone there to see us like this. They wouldn't understand, and I'd be… mortified." The look she gives him is imploring, anxious. She's not property to be paraded around, never again – and she must know he'd never. But then, he hadn't been very specific, had he?

"What if nobody knew?" he asks. "What if it was all… private. Subtle. Just you following directions all night, getting nice and wet, anticipating… What if that's how I wanted to play at the party?"

Regina bites her lip, glances again toward the boys who are being kept waiting. "I can't answer that; I have more questions," she says, and he nods to encourage them. She starts with: "Nothing anyone would notice?"

"Nothing at all, I promise."

"No bondage?"

"Just words," he promises her. "Just instructions, and I'll be very quiet about any that could be seen as remotely indecent. You'll only have to worry about Ruby and Granny, and I'm fairly certain they're already well aware of our… tendencies."

More than once, he's murmured something to her in a quiet booth and caught Ruby smirking, or Granny politely avoiding all conversation for the rest of the evening.

Regina scoffs a laugh, and mutters, "Don't remind me. I like to live in denial about that."

Robin smirks, winding the last of the lasso around her wrists as Regina asks him, "What would I have to call you? I'm not calling you Sir in front of Snow White."

"You'd call me Robin, or nothing at all if you'd like," he assures, as he urges her a step closer, closing the distance between them and drawing her bound wrists to rest gently against his chest. "Unless you're certain no one can hear you; then you may call me Sir, if you're comfortable with it."

Regina gives a little nod and chews that lip again, debating.

"It's foreplay, love," he assures, his hands finding purchase on her hip and squeezing. "Just foreplay. Just something fun, to take our minds off everything we hate about tonight's festivities."

It seems to dawn on her then, he sees her whole expression shift and warm, and it makes a tiny flicker of shame burn in his gut that she's sorted out why he wants this. That he needs it, too.

"Yes, I want to," she tells him. "As long as it doesn't embarrass me, I want to play. All night."

She's gone so quickly from unsure to completely willing that he'd wonder if she was mollifying were it not for the truth serum wrapped around her. She can't lie to him, so he trusts that he's allayed enough of her concerns, or that at the very least she's fully willing to throw his frustration a bone despite them.

So Robin smiles, shakes off his momentary unease and gives her hips another press. "Would you like to start right now, then?"

Her answer is automatic: "Yes, Sir."

"Good. Stay right here, and swap those red shorts you're wearing for the red lacy underthings I like. I trust you can be modest enough to make sure nobody sees up your skirt all night; you don't need the shorts. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Sir," she says, and the little flutter of purple smoke around her hips make his belly twist with arousal. He's going to have to tamp that down all evening.

"Wonderful," he praises, and then they both jerk as the car horn blares loudly.

"Right," she breathes. "We need to go."

"Two more questions," he insists, and Regina waits, nods. Robin lifts her bound wrists from his chest and asks her, "Do you like being bound like this? Does it turn you on?"

"Yes, but it's a little tight, Sir."

He frowns, sets about unwinding her – it'll take a minute anyway, and there are anxious boys awaiting them.

The thought seems terribly inappropriate adjacent to what he says next: "Second question—" Her brow lifts, and Robin can tell she's biting down the urge to point out it's technically his third. But she knows better to sass when they're in play, so he ignores it and asks, "Can I tie you up with this lasso when we get home? Properly, like we've talked about."

Robin watches as her jaw falls open slightly, interest flaring on her face. They've had a conversation – one conversation – about the possibility of rope play, and she'd been hesitant, but curious. She's most often bound with magic or cuffs – something light, something easily in her control. The ropes are decidedly different, and she'd been concerned about feeling trapped, about being legitimately uncomfortable in a way that wasn't at all enjoyable for her. Concerned, but open to the idea – she'd left it up to him, had told him she trusted him to know if it was something that could be done in a way she'd enjoy. He knows her limits well enough now.

But that had been nearly a month ago, and it hasn't come up since.

Thankfully, it seems her curiosity hasn't waned.

"Yes, Sir," she answers him, her voice thick. The breathy little, "Shit," she lets loose immediately after makes him chuckle.

"What is it?" he asks, still working as quickly as possible to free her wrists.

Her confession is a low, aroused, "I'm already wet, Sir."

Robin grins, and tells her, "Good. This party just got a lot more interesting, don't you think?"

.::.

Regina's never been the obedient type – outside of the bedroom, that is.

She's not a servant girl, she doesn't take orders. Not since she was young, anyway. And frankly, she'd never liked it then, being bossed around by her mother, or the King. She'd hated it.

So she cannot, for the life of her, figure out why Robin asking her to do things, simple things, anything, is making her so aroused.

It must be that she knows what's coming later, it has to be that, because there is nothing at all sexy about being asked to hold his whiskey for a moment while he goes to talk to David, or being asked to go put on song number 23 on the jukebox, whatever it may be.

He's kept to his word – nothing he's asked of her all night has been obvious or embarrassing. But he's made quite a few requests: "Can you read me the menu for the night, milady? I can't quite see the board from here," and "Could you go order me a whiskey from the bar, my love?" and even "Would you mind lassoing Leroy and asking if he is, in fact, the one who nicked that stop sign he's been caught running at least four times this past year alone?"

That last one, while not entirely ethical, had been amusing enough, with the added bonus of solving a petty mystery for the Sheriff's department.

Five minutes ago, he asked her to pass the salt for his fries, and she very nearly had to clench her thighs at the way everything below the belt throbbed in response; it's ridiculous.

It's the way he's asking, she thinks. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing anyone would notice, but there's this look on his face, this… something. A certain boredom he's perfected when they're playing like this, like he's entirely unaffected by how affected she is, and it's as if she's conditioned to it now. To that subtle shift in tone, that little air of authority, of surety.

She wishes her panties were not lace, because she's soaked and worried the soft cotton gusset can only handle so much before it becomes entirely useless.

She tells herself to focus on her plate of Halloween-themed hors d'oeuvres, to focus on Roland's excitement, and how pleased Henry is with how shocked everyone else is that he managed to get the Mayor to join the Justice League with them.

It's almost a relief when Robin leans over, his voice low and decidedly not in control when he grumbles, "Can you go get my daughter from that… witch?"

Regina glances up at him and finds him glaring daggers across the room to where Zelena is parked right in their sightline, talking to Jefferson of all people.

God.

That would be a match made in absolute Hell.

Regina assures Robin, "I'll be right back," and slips out of the booth to make her way toward her sister and her niece.

Zelena's face falls when Regina is still a good six feet away, a resigned sort of glower settling over her that seems somewhat at odds with her Wilma Flintsone costume. Regina tries to be cordial, tries to smile, tries to ignore the way Ginny (now Pebbles for the night, it seems) twists in Zelena's arms and reaches for Regina.

She pretends not to notice, ignores the way Zelena's hand slides protectively up her daughter's back to hold her closer.

"Hello, sis," Zelena greets, as Jefferson suddenly makes himself scarce. Zelena bounces the toddler at her hip slightly, and asks, "How on earth did you get stuck with that get-up?"

"The things we do for our children," Regina muses, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest, and adding, "Speaking of… I like her costume. It's cute."

Clearly not prepared for a compliment, Zelena's falters for a moment, and then grins, hoisting Ginny up a little higher, so their heads are closer together and saying, "Thanks; I think we make quite a pair."

"You definitely do," Regina agrees, marvelling not for the first time at how much Ginny looks like her. She sees Robin in the little girl most days, when he's holding her, playing with her, sleeping sprawled on the sofa with her out cold on his chest. But side by side like this, she can see Zelena in the shape of her forehead, her nose. All those ginger curls.

"So did you just come to say hello, or has her father changed his mind about tonight after all?" Zelena asks, feigning bored annoyance, but Regina knows better. She can see the edge of anxiety underneath it all, and she feels a little bubble of resentment at always having to be the go-between.

At feeling so constantly pulled in both directions.

But she sighs and does as asked anyway: "Robin wants to see her for a little while, that's all."

"'For a little while,'" Zelena huffs. "He sees her every day."

"Zelena—"

"No, it's not fair," she protests. "I asked for her for the evening, and he agreed, and now he just wants to—"

"See his daughter in her Halloween costume," Regina insists. "He just wants to see her – ten minutes tops, I promise."

It takes a little more cajoling, and assurances that she will talk to Robin about cutting into her time (Regina has to resist reminding her sister just why this is such a contentious parenting dynamic; this is not the venue for another argument about that), but Regina ends up with little Pebbles gripping one of her fingers as they toddle back toward their table.

She scampers up onto the bench beside her Papa, and Regina smiles as Robin's grin blooms wide and easy, the tension he's been carrying around all day popping like a soap bubble as soon as Ginny is back in his arms.

He's complimenting her ponytail as Regina slides into the booth, but he stops, and frowns slightly, shifting Imogen to his other side. He leans in closer to Regina, until he's right against her ear, his voice barely a whisper as he murmurs something that makes her pulse pick back up, double-time: "Not so fast, love. I don't want you to sit yet; I want you to go to the bathroom and rub your clit until you're just about to come, and then you can return and sit beside me."

Her eyes widen slightly and she pulls back, glancing from him to the baby on his other side and Roland munching his fries across the table.

There's no way they heard that, he was quiet enough, but she thanks whatever higher power might be up there that Henry is on the other side of the room right now, because she can feel the heat in her cheeks, and the way Robin is holding eye contact with her is not subtle.

"What are you waiting for, love?" he murmurs lowly, and she swallows, thinks Right, they're in play right now. She can obey, or she can use her safe word, or she can be obstinate about it and take the punishment later.

If they didn't already have something new on the docket for the evening, she might have pushed him, might have earned herself a good spanking by parking her seat right where she had intended. But she's anxious enough about their plans for the night; she's not sure she should be antagonizing him into a punishment on top of it.

So she scoots back, slips from the booth, and tries not to look like she's about to go rub one out as she heads for the restroom.

It's empty (thank God), and she locks herself into the corner stall, her pulse pounding as she lifts her skirt and slips her fingers into those lace panties.

She's slick and slippery, so wet, fuck, and her clit is already sensitive. She presses her middle finger against it and rubs in quick circles, wanting to get this over with as fast as possible in the hope that she can get it done before someone has to pee and disturbs her privacy.

It feels good, so good, finally being able to touch herself after all this subtle teasing. Regina clamps her bottom lip in her teeth and lets her eyes fall shut, her head dropping back to rest against the side of the stall as she leans there and lets herself enjoy the pleasure starting to coil in her belly. It takes far less time than it probably ought to for her thighs to start up that telltale tremor, for it to become hard to keep her breath silent and even, but something about doing this here, under everyone's noses is as arousing as it is embarrassing.

She's edging closer, closer, not quite yet to the point where she knows Robin likes her to stop, when the door swings open. It's Snow, because of course it is, she's calling something back to someone in the hallway, and Regina does her level best to stay still and silent, that finger paused over her aching clit. Paused, but still pressed – she'd frozen exactly as she was, and underneath the pressure of her fingertip she can feel the beat of her heart throbbing in her capillaries.

She looks down as Snow steps into the stall next to her, and realizes a moment too late that her boots are very distinctive and normal people sit in a bathroom, rather than just stand and lean.

Maybe Snow hasn't noticed yet?

Just to be on the safe side, Regina does a quick glamour, her Woman Woman boots melting into spiky stilettos and fishnets. Trashy, but definitely not her, and that's all that matters.

She listens, uncomfortably, while Snow voids her bladder, and washes her hands, and leaves – and then Regina finally lets out the breath she was holding, releases the glamour and starts to rub it out again.

Nothing like having your step-daughter two feet away to yank you back from the edge, that's for certain.

It takes her a minute to settle again, to force herself to push the thought of any more potential interruptions from her mind and let herself work up to the brink again.

Had he done this on purpose, she wonders? Sent her in here where he knew she'd be interrupted, where she'd have to start and stop, start and stop. Where she was at risk of having to explain herself?

No, she thinks. He must not have; he'd promised he wouldn't embarrass her, and Robin doesn't break his promises when they play. Trust is paramount.

So she pushes the thought away, tries to push everything away, tries to find that place that she goes to when they do this at home, alone, the way it should be. (Maybe public isn't so arousing after all.)

She imagines his face, that expression that had had her so riled earlier, his voice, his hands. Imagines what's to come later – that lasso wound around her, holding her in place for him, imagines him pressing a toy to her clit while she's bound, telling her quietly that she's not allowed to come yet, not yet, not quite yet, and—

"Mm!"

The little moan pops out before she can stop it, and she realizes she's on the cusp of an orgasm, her clit hard and throbbing under her fingertip, the pleasure acute, her thighs tense as her toes curl in her boots.

Shit.

She draws her hand away and fists it at her side, cursing herself for getting caught up and letting herself get quite that close to the edge. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, can feel the teasing ripple of pleasure that pulses through her when she presses her thighs together.

Right. She can't go out there like this. She'd rather die.

He can't hold it against her if she gives herself thirty seconds to calm down, so she does just that, counting back, thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight… all while focusing on evening her breathing and ridding the flush from her cheeks.

When she leaves the stall, she checks herself in the mirror and thinks she looks passable. Decent.

She dampens a paper towel with cold water and dabs it on the pinkness left in her cheeks, swipes it down her neck, and gives her costume a little tug to ensure it's straight before she heads back into the fray.

Thirty seconds wasn't enough. She can feel every step she takes, the slip-slide of it where she's even more drenched than she was ten minutes ago. She feels… full. Swollen, aroused. Feels like everyone can see it, too, even though she knows better. Still, she doesn't stop to chat with anyone.

She makes a beeline for Robin, and slides back into her place beside him, hissing, "I almost got caught," as quietly as she can manage. "By Snow White."

Robin smirks, leans in to blow a raspberry in his daughter's neck like Regina hasn't just told him her former step-daughter nearly happened upon her with her hand down her pants, and Regina decides she doesn't want to do this here after all. It's too much dissonance, it's too public, and she doesn't want to be this aroused in front of her children.

Roland has busied himself making what appears to be a french fry sailboat in the ketchup lake he's made of his plate, so Regina feels comfortable enough to mutter, "Apple," without having to explain it.

That gives Robin pause, has him turning from Ginny and frowning at her. She can count on one hand the number of times she's used her safeword since they've started doing this, so the concern in his eyes is not unexpected.

He glances toward Roland for a split second, keeping his voice low as he murmurs, "You alright?"

"Yes, but not here," she mutters. "I changed my mind, I don't like this."

Robin gives her a little nod, no further explanation needed, apparently.

His easy acceptance of their change in plans has that little thread of anxiety unraveling in her middle, but he still looks worried.

He tells her softly, "I'm sorry," and Regina shakes her head.

"I'm alright," she assures him, "It's just too public. I'm uncomfortable." She drops her voice even further, bites her lip coyly, and adds a teasing, "And not only in the good way."

That seems to break the spell, has Robin smirking again and slipping his arm around her shoulders, his other hand bracing Ginny as she turns and half-climbs across the table to get at Roland's fries.

He keeps his eyes on his daughter, the corner of his mouth still tipped up as he asks Regina, "Are we still on for later?"

"Yes, absolutely," she insists, giving his thigh a squeeze and turning further toward him (things shift; she aches pleasantly and bites her lip). "I can't wait."

He tears his eyes from Ginny long enough to smile over at Regina, his thumb grazing slowly up and down her bicep in a way that raises goosebumps almost as much as his quiet promise: "Oh, I'd prepare yourself for some waiting, love."

.::.

She seems fine after their little hiccup, but Robin's mind isn't set at ease until they've returned home.

They'd left their boys with Emma and Killian, and Imogen (quite begrudgingly on his part) with her mother for her first overnight stay. It's a small consolation that Regina had found a way to set a protective charm on her as a wee babe – if she goes within fifty yards of the town line, or if Zelena does magic much more powerful than boiling a kettle without a flame, Regina will know it – something she'd reminded him of when she'd talked him into the impromptu sleepover earlier tonight.

It would be easier, more freeing, to do what they had planned with an entirely empty house, she'd argued, and he supposes she's not wrong.

Still, he's worried about her, about earlier. Small though the protest may have been, he'd still pushed her into using her safe word, and no matter how much he knows that it's a hard stop and not a way to say he'd hurt her, there's still a guilt he can't shake. It had nagged at him the whole rest of the evening, like a popcorn kernel stuck between two teeth, vexing and uncomfortable.

He'd intended to ask her about it the minute they walk in the door, and he would have, too, had she not turned immediately and planted her mouth on his, her body pinning his to the inside of their front door.

She's all heat and passion, her arms winding up around his, and Robin lets his hands roam down, stealing beneath that short skirt of hers, hiking it up until he can feel the texture of lace beneath his fingertips. Regina lets out a quiet moan, her tongue licking against his as her head tilts to deepen the kiss; Robin takes it as encouragement to reach further. He lets his hand slide deeper between her legs, until he can feel the damp warmth at the crotch of her knickers.

His first instinct is to grin, but then he remembers – "Are you—" he gasps between kisses "—alright, love?"

Regina tips her head back, brows rising. "Do I not seem alright?"

"After earlier," he urges, lifting a hand to trace lovingly through her hair.

"Oh… that," she says, looking a little sheepish all of a sudden. "I just…needed to stop, that's all. It was nice to begin with – doing every little thing you asked of me, and nobody knowing what we were doing. It was sexy – surprisingly sexy, considering how mundane most of your requests were. But it was less sexy when Snow was in a bathroom stall right next to me while I masturbated, and then very, very uncomfortable when I had to return to you and our kids on the verge of an orgasm. I didn't like that part, I didn't want to continue that. I hope that's alright."

She grimaces, like she doesn't want to admit to not liking something he's asked of her, but he should have thought of that. He should have known better – should have realized that something that may have sounded fun in theory, for him especially, would be different in practice. After all, he wouldn't want to sit next to Ginny and the boys with a full-mast erection, would he?

"It's completely fine," he assures her. "I didn't think about the kids. I should have."

"I'm not upset," she assures him. And then for good measure, she reaches down for the lasso at her hip and winds it around her wrist a few times, looking him in the eye before she says it again: "I promise, I'm not upset about it anymore. I wanted it to end, so I ended it, and you respected that. That's all I needed."

Robin reaches for the rope, loops his finger through it, and tells her, "Good." And then, "Are you ready to start again?"

The little breath she sucks in at the question does not go unnoticed, nor does the way she licks her lips before she tells him, "Yes, Sir."

"Wonderful," he says, and then he's leaning in to steal one gentle kiss before he orders her, "Give me the lasso, and head upstairs." He gives her skirt a little tug, and says, "Take off everything but the panties, and wait for me."

She's grinning as she tells him, "Yes, Sir," and moves to obey.

.:TO BE CONTINUED:.