A/N: This was written for OQ Smut Week. Enjoy!

She's five years older today.

She's five years older today, yet her body has not aged. The people around her have not changed. Seasons change, the budget meetings vary from day to day, but everything's all the same. People let her win every argument. She always wins.

She's lonely.

She has Graham, but he doesn't notice that time passes. He doesn't remember the secrets she tells him, and in some ways that's comforting. She can open up to him and cry, cry about her vindictive mother, her cowardly, stupid, loving, too-trusting father. She can avoid the details that are damning and just open her soul up to him, and he'll hold her and cradle her head and tell her that she's not alone, that he's with her.

And she can sometimes believe it, but within days the memory of what they shared fades, part of the curse. Erases his mind. Resets him.

And the distance grows.

She's calculated it. It's five days before the clock in Graham's head resets, five days until his memories slip away, lost to the curse forever.

There is no relationship that can be formed in this curse. Nothing can grow when the lifespan is only five days. Oh, it's a dark curse, and she paid a dark price, all for the dark sense of loneliness she is doomed to live for...all eternity? Is this her own special version of hell?

Her only consolation is that as miserable as she is, Snow White is even more miserable Miserable and alone, and pathetic.

But it's been five years. Five years of seeing Snow sad and alone.

And it really isn't all that satisfying after all.

Today she takes the afternoon off, leaves her elegant office in favor of her favorite place in the woods, where a fallen log makes the perfect bench. It's beautiful here, just the beginning of autumn; crisp, radiant leaves surround her, frame the beautiful view of the sunset in front of her. She has her travel coffee mug - a coffee mug she's filled with hot chocolate and laced with a generous pour of whiskey. Oh hell, who is she kidding. It's whiskey with a generous pour of hot chocolate. Still, it's warm, and delicious, and it dulls the pain a bit. The pain of knowing this is an anniversary not only of the curse's birth, but of her father's death.

God, she misses him. But if there's one thing she knows, she knows a man as kindly as him is in a place far better than this hell. Better than the life of a man who was married to an evil woman and fathered an even more evil, ungrateful daughter.

Five years he's been free.

"To five years," she says, toasting to the setting sun before taking a long sip and swallowing hard, fighting the tears in her eyes and willing them to settle, not to fall.

"Five years of what?" says a voice behind her, and she jumps, her mug dropping to the ground, spilling the contents.

She curses and scowls at the stealthy intruder. Locksley. God, he is insufferable. It seems every time she wanted to be alone he'd show up.

"Apologies, m'lady. I didn't expect to find anyone here."

"Yes, well, this log is occupied," she says tightly. "Be on your way."

"Well, I can't do that," he says, sitting down next to her. "You see, I am the park ranger."

"I'm aware," she says, before adding, "I hired you."

That's not… exactly true. She did cast The Dark Curse and she had a say over the lives of many over whom it was cast but… the curse itself filled in where she had not set up a specific plan. She did not know this man from the Land of Magic. Didn't know his past, who he was before...this. But the curse had made him a park ranger, so he must have had some connection to the woods.

So technically, the dark curse hired him. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Indeed you did," Locksley agrees, taking out a flask and helping himself to a generous sip. "And I believe I am to enforce rules. And one very important one" —he points to her coffee mug, a devilish smile on his face— "is no alcoholic beverages on park grounds."

Why that little—!

She could just—

But it's a joke, he's made that clear, especially with the flask he's holding now. He's playing with her. Trying to engage her. And for what purpose?

He's so… He makes her so mad, has this way of pressing her buttons and bothering her. That's not supposed to happen in the curse, she's always supposed to win, and yet...

She should just get up from this log and leave, make a comment about drinking on the job being a fireable offense, and let that be that.

But the sunset is beautiful, and it's unseasonably warm, and he's holding out a flask to her, and he's sitting right next to her, their legs are touching, and the physical contact is just… oddly soothing.

Perhaps it's because she's deprived of physical contact. People don't touch her. Or they do – one person does. But it's Graham when he's taking her to bed, when he's in bed with her, or when they are leaving bed.

And it's surprisingly lacking in intimacy despite the rather, er, intimate things they do to one another (five years, five years is plenty of time to try new and exciting things that Graham will only remember for few moments in time).

So perhaps the lack of touching is why her skin is buzzing right now, or perhaps it's just the chilly breeze causing shivers down her spine and goosebumps to flare underneath her clothes.

Whatever the reason for it, it feels nice.

She takes the flask from his hands and takes a sip herself, her eyes focusing on the sunset, but she sees his smile, sees him watching her out of the corner of her eye.

"I was unaware I hired a ranger with a drinking problem," she sighs, pretending to be concerned. "I shall have to make arrangements for you to be replaced immediately."

"You wound me, m'lady," he answers, hand going to his heart in mock anguish. "And I'm not a drunk. Just a man who knows when a woman could use a drink. Especially after I snuck up on you and caused you to spill your own."

She bites her lip to keep from smiling, and then asks, "How did you know I had liquor in my mug?"

"Not many people make toasts with coffee," he reminds her, and he's staring at her in that playful way, and god, his eyes are… they're… rather nice.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks in that warm, inviting tone that soothes her, lulls her into a false sense of security, makes her forget for a moment that she is the Evil Queen and this man is a villager who probably spent a good portion of his days either plotting her death or dreaming of it.

"I do not," she says, coming to her senses. "And you should be on your way."

"I think… you do want to talk about it." He scoots closer to her then, and she rolls her eyes.

"What makes you think that?"

"The fact that if you didn't, you'd have probably put me behind bars by now," he answers smoothly, and she laughs. God, to laugh. When's the last time she's truly laughed?

"Good point," she concedes.

She clears her throat. "I – I lost someone, and I was just paying tribute to him."

Robin nods in acknowledgement. He's reaching inside his jacket, shuffling to get something, and then there's another flask in there, and she cannot help but snort. He takes his flask and holds it up to the sun. "To the loved ones we've lost." And then he tilts it to her, and she knocks the flask in her hand against his with a smile.

She takes a big gulp out of the flask. For a while, they are silent.

"You don't like me," she says pointedly, because it's true, he hates her.

Robin laughs at the change in the conversation.

"That's not true, not true at all."

"You always go out of your way to mock me," she grunts, leaning elbows against her knees. "Every time I need to speak with you about something, you're more interested in playing games than giving me a direct answer. You stare at me. All the time, as if you are fixing to come over and give me a piece of your mind." She states her case clearly, her eyes focused on him, and repeats the phrase: "You don't like me."

He winces a bit, takes a sip of his flask and sighs, "Quite the opposite, I'm afraid."

She tilts her head in question, and Robin laughs, and he looks down, running hands through his hair.

"I— You know you're a beautiful woman, do you not?"

He's embarrassed, his face is red and flushed, and it's not just the ever-chilling air that's causing the color.

But Regina is not used to strangers admiring her beauty anymore, it was not something she thought she ever wanted. She was done with men looking at her and seeing someone beautiful – that was dangerous. The king saw her as beautiful, and where had that gotten her? It had brought her unspeakable terrors and nightmares she still had to live with. So no, she did not want men to see her as beautiful, but as powerful and terrifying.

Even as the mayor, it seems most men still saw her that way. But he has always looked at her differently. It has just been so long since anyone has looked at her with a lust in their eyes that she hadn't recognized it. No one would look at her like that, unless she approached them first, solicited them first, gave them a reason to lust for her.

"Are you flirting with me?" she asks, and her voice draws a bit, sounds a bit cutesy for her liking. But despite sounding more vulnerable than she'd like, the question appears to have embarrassed Locks— Robin more.

"Terribly, it seems," Robin says, turning away from her, watching the sun fade behind the horizon. "But I can assure you, when I'm staring at you, the last thing I'm thinking about is giving you a piece of my mind."

She snorts at that, downright laughs, head moving backwards in a light cackle, and he snickers along with her. She lets a hand settle on his thigh as she settles, and it feels nice. Sturdy. Warm.

"And what do you want to give me?" She asks, her eyes a bit wild. God, what is she doing? She should stop this already and go home. But the hurt of losing her father is less now, and this distraction is a good one.

Robin leans his head against her, his lips a centimeter from her ear and whispers, "I want to give you… something you can enjoy." He nips her ear, and she shivers on instinct, cursing herself for letting him know how he's affected her. His breath is warm against her neck as he dips down. "I want to give you pleasure," he says, his lips barely touching her sensitive skin, and he moves his head up, hand cupping her jaw, mouth near her cheek as he says, "I just want you. That's why I can't stop staring."

She squirms on the log. And… this is uncomfortable. She should be disgusted, appalled, but she's… well… what's the harm? In five days, he will forget this ever happened.

"Mm, but too afraid to do anything about this wanting," she flirts, "Such a pity. I like the men I hire to show more initiative…"

And it's all she has to say before his lips are on her. And wow... One hand on his cheek, the touching is electric, she feels… alive for the first time in years. God, this was a good idea.

A very good idea. His tongue meets hers, and it's as if they've been doing this dance for ages. His kiss is firm, with the right amount of tongue swirling, massaging against her, making her think of what other ways he might be able to use his tongue.

That hand on her waist dips to her ass, and he's cupping and pulling her towards him, and she realizes he's urging her up and over, wants her on him, to straddle him here, on this log, now, and she shouldn't, she really shouldn't, but the angle they are at now is a bit awkward, and she just wants more.

So she straddles him, sits on his lap, her core instantly coming in contact with the sign of his arousal, and it pleases her, has her smiling before she kisses him more, his hand undoing her very sharp, very clean, very expensive suit jacket, and god, it should really not touch the forest ground, it should not, but he's taking it off and she doesn't care, she'll get a new one, god damn it.

His hands run up and down her sides. The fabric of her silk blouse is so thin, and her bra is just flimsy fabric, thin enough that the cold air, and yes, what this man is doing with his tongue on her neck right now, and his hands at her sides, and the bulge in his pants between her thighs, it has her nipples hard, nearly poking through fabric, begging to be touched.

She moans as he rocks into her, everything has gone hyper-sensitive and her body is buzzing with desire, an ache between her thighs makes itself known, and she can feel the liquid heat gathering, growing, at every firm touch of his arms, at every stroke of his tongue.

"I can't believe this is happening," he murmurs against her neck, hot breath against the damp skin where he's kissed and sucked and licked, and she shivers again. What exactly is happening? She doesn't want to think about what will come, not right now, so she presses her lips to his, grinds down against him hard, revels when he throws his head back and groans.

"Regina…"

She takes his hands in hers, and moves them to her breasts. It's...bold. But she's impatient, and her nipples are aching. The forwardness of the move surprises him, it seems; his face is something that almost resembles panic, and she just about moves up and off him, but then as she watches the way he looks at her, and her breasts, there's almost a reverence there, and it's not fear, he's not afraid of her, he's just nervous.

He's nervous because he's wanted this, and this is finally happening.

She would have never imagined there'd be anyone in town, aside from Graham, that would ever want her this way. The thought that he's existed all along and wanted her all along thrills her, has her even more aroused, has her throwing her lips against his into a hungry, heated kiss.

"I've wanted this for so long," he pants, as if he can read her mind, and at that she rips her mouth away, confused and intrigued with the statement.

"For… how long?" she asks, her eyes searching for his, holding her breath, wondering if he can remember in days or years or months, if passage of time hasn't escaped him like it has everyone else.

"For…" He looks off, confused, and amends, "For as bloody long as I can remember. Ages, it feels like."

Of course. She shouldn't be disappointed that the curse has affected him as everyone else. In fact, it'd be a disaster if he noticed that time had stopped still.

He draws her into a kiss, and she takes it, drinks him in, but the sun is setting and the air is chilly.

"We can't..." she says as his hands move underneath her shirt, cold, calloused fingers inching up towards her breasts.

He freezes at her words, his hands leaving her body, confusing her.

"Are you alright?" he rasps, swallowing hard. "I didn't – did I hurt you?"

It dawns on her just then that she has, in so many words, told him to stop, and he has done so.

She didn't have to make an order as the Evil Queen. Didn't have to threaten or demand. She merely had to express slight discomfort, and he stopped. Not because he was afraid of her. He didn't stop for his own selfish reasons, or for fear of what she would do if he didn't stop. He stopped for her.

She could just about cry, wondering why fate never brought her a man who offered her this decency in the past. Perhaps Daniel would have been that man, if they had ever gone that far… Yes, she knew he would have been. Life would be so different if she had just had this.

"I'm fine," she assures, and the smile that spreads on his face is addictive, has her smiling back at him, and she feels how sappy and silly she must look. But it's okay. Five days and he won't remember her stupid, sappy smile.

"Just… It's cold and dirty here, and I want to be somewhere warm" —she kisses his brow— "and clean" —kisses his temple— "and soft" —her lips meet his for another heated kiss, and she feels his hands thread through her hair.

"Wherever I go with you," Robin says, his voice raspy and low, "I can promise there are a few things that will never be soft."

She rolls her eyes at that, biting her lip to hide her amusement, but she can't help the smile that peaks out.

And his words have affected her so much tonight that she can't help but give as good as she's gotten, and leans to whisper in his ear, "I want you." She licks his earlobe, hears his whimpered sigh, and it's music to her ears. And then she adds, "If I take you on this log, I fear you'll have splinters in very unfortunately places."

His eyes are shut tight in a grimace, and he swallows hard. "Would be worth it," he groans, and then shakes himself to reality, tapping her thighs gently, motioning her to stand up. He pulls himself off the log, and he's in quite a state, visibly, ridiculously hard, grunting as he stands.

"Come," he says, grasping her hand as he makes a beeline for the nearest trail.

"Where are we going?"

"We're taking shelter," Robin says frankly as he leads her down the trail, trying not to drag her along, resisting the urge to run with her, but his impatience with the pace she has set is written all over his face.

She's enjoying torturing him, though, and so she walks even slower.

He stares back at her, that hungry look (god, how did she ever think that stare was hateful?) and groans, his eyes wandering over her body shamelessly. "Once I get you inside, I'm ripping those bloody clothes off your body," he growls.

She smirks back at him, one eyebrow raised. "You will not. This is delicate fabric, and you will be gentle."

"If you don't want me to rip that bloody delicate fabric apart, you should move a little faster," he snarls, and she tries to look offended, but honestly, the thought of him ripping her clothes (as much as she loves them) has her feeling warm, has the ache inside her pulsing a bit more, her needs becoming more known.

She walks just a bit faster, and his hand squeezes hers in encouragement or thanks, she knows not what.

"God, you're gorgeous," he mutters. "You always wear these god damn outfits, so demure, so professional, but they're fucking sexy as hell. I hate them. Hate the things they do to me, those tight skirts and tailored pants that make your ass look bloody irresistible."

"My ass makes my ass look irresistible," she cannot help but say, and he laughs at that.

"I have no doubt," he says sincerely, and god, he looks like he's about to devour her, and they need to get to… wherever he's going soon, because he doesn't look like he can keep his hands off her, and, to be quite honest she doesn't really think she can resist him either.

Still, as they walk, she takes the hand that's holding his and moves their joined hands behind her back, pressing them against the swell of her ass. His hand flies out of hers, he trades grabbing onto her hand for grabbing onto her ass.

"Fuck," he breathes, hands greedily kneading her as they walk. "Need you. Now."

She'd been too distracted by the words and looks he'd been given her to notice they are now in front of a small cabin. He's ushering her in the small door.

It's one small room, no electricity, if the electric lanterns are any indication. Probably no running water, either. . Still, there's a couch, a clean looking couch at that, a few blankets, a makeshift kitchen, and it's… it'll do.

No sooner has she entered the cabin than he's shutting the door behind her and pushing her against the wall.

He's still hard, she feels him against her hip. The walk obviously did nothing to cool him off, and there's something unbelievably hot about that, about knowing that his desire for her burned all the way through a brisk hike in the woods.

He kisses her with an intensity she hadn't known before, peeling her jacket off yet again, and then his hands are on her ass, grabbing and cupping shamelessly, and fucking hell it feels amazing, he is decidedly not gentle, yet he's not overly aggressive either. He's just… passionate. Knows what he wants, and reads her well enough to know what she wants.

"I want to feel you," he growls between kisses as a hand raises to the waistband of her pants. His fingers still there in a silent question, an unspoken request. She finds herself nodding immediately, granting him the permission he seeks, her hips jutting out as he unbuttons and unzips. The pants pool at her feet, and she quickly grabs the garment and throws it towards the couch. Better than on the floor, at least.

She's standing there in trouser socks and heels, black panties and a thin silk top. He steps back and takes a moment to admire her, and she almost blushes. God, he's sexy when he looks at her like that, when his hands run up and down either side of her body, tracing the curves of her breasts, her waist, her hips. He's slowed things down suddenly, and in this moment, the knowledge of what's to come makes everything feel sharper, more acute.

His hands find the hem of her top and she nods as he lifts it over her head. His eyes immediately go to her breasts, and good, she's worn a decent bra today, they look nice at least.

"Turn around," he rasps, and for a second she's confused, but the request thrills her, so she turns her back to him, places palms on either side of her against the wall.

She doesn't turn her head to look back at him, at first, feels his hands moving in firm, deliberate strokes down her back, murmuring how bloody gorgeous she is, how her ass is a godsend...

His hands move from her shoulders to that dip in the small of her back, up and down the swell of her ass as he groans loudly and unashamedly, his hands even coast down her thighs.

She's surprised the relatively tame touch has driven her right to the edge; her hips rock reflexively, seeking friction, and a sound comes out of her mouth she barely recognizes. He draws his hands back up her thighs and over her ass, grabbing at her again with a soft little moan. And again, his fingers play with the waistband of her panties.

"Please, I beg of you, tell me these can come off," and his voice sounds as desperate and needy as she feels.

"Mm, if they come off it better be for a good reason," she's trying to flirt, but she's a bit far gone for that. Still, as she turns she finds him biting his lip in a smile.

"They need to come off or I'll damn well lose my mind," he mutters, stripping her of the small scrap of fabric slowly but deliberately. He does the same with her bra, and she sighs in relief as her breasts are free, exposed to the cool air.

"Well… we hardly have room for another body in the psych ward," Regina manages to quip back.

He's done with this game, though, lost his ability to be witty, his eyes fixed on her naked back, and he kneels behind her, hands coasting between her legs now, up, up...

She feels his mouth on her ass cheek, an open, wet kiss and then a gentle, but firm bite, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through her, causes her hips to thrust again.

He moves on hand from her thighs to her hip, holding her in place as his other hand travels between her thighs, finally - finally touching where she needs him.

"Ohh," she breathes out, his groan overpowering her moan of relief, and then, "Finally" under her breath.

"God, Regina" —his voice sounds like a plea, like a prayer, his fingers slipping through her folds, making gentle strokes through her wetness, "You're soaked."

She can only nod, because at that moment he slides a finger inside her, and she didn't know just how bad she needed that until she had it. God she'd been so keyed up for so long, she needed him, deep inside her.

She's rocking against his hand now, moaning and panting as he works that finger in and out, slow at first, but building speed once he finds the angle that causes her to cry out in pleasure. He adds a second finger, and her palms push hard against the wall, head falling back with a cry of "Don't stop!"

He must have misunderstood, because his fingers slip out of her, and the whimper of protest she makes would be downright embarrassing if he hadn't lightly cursed himself at the same moment. But then he's using those hands to turn her around.

She stares down at him, and he's in a state. His eyes are hooded and dark, and he's biting his lip and breathing hard.

"I need to taste you," he explains, and then he stands up quickly, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her up and carrying her quickly to the couch.

He deposits her on the couch and stares up at her. She's naked, and he is fully clothed, and it seems unfair. She grabs his shirt, and tugs it up, lifting it over his head.

He should never wear a shirt. The fact that he was hiding this under clothes is nearly a crime.

She should make it a crime.

Her hands trace the defined muscles of his abs, an appreciative purr of approval coming from her lips.

"Like – mm – what you see?" he asks, but her touch must be doing things to him, his eyes are closed and his breath is labored.

"It's… satisfactory," she settles on, looking up with him with a wink.

"Is that so?" he asks, and then his hands go to her shoulders, urging her to lay down; she goes willingly.

"Speaking of satisfying…"

Well, no, that's not what she'd said, and she should correct him, but he's just tugged her thighs apart and now he's lowered his mouth to right where she needs him and she loses all thought.

His tongue.

He is good with his tongue.

He is licking just around where he knows she needs him, her clit is aching, swollen, throbbing with need, and he's teasing her, swirling that delicious tongue around her sex, and this is going to be it, he's going to reduce her into a puddle of need, she's going to beg for it, it's too good, too much, she can't wait any longer—

"Ugnnhh!"

He swipes his tongue quickly and firmly against her clit, and she damn near levitates off the couch, jolting up and crying out a deep, throaty, desperate moan.

"Just there?" he asks, but he knows the answer, he gives that same spot another firm lick, and her hips jut, thighs hooking over his shoulders, trying to keep this man and his very talented tongue in place.

His hand is there now, fingers dancing around her entrance, and, God, she wants them back inside her, pumping in and out of her, but he's hesitating for some reason and, no, she's past the point of games.

"Inside," she begs, "Please, I want your fingers inside me, like, like before."

Her request affects him, and between nibbles and sucks and licks he asks, "You want my fingers inside you? Thrusting in you, fucking you? Do you want me to make you come apart around my fingers?"

She nods desperately, and he pushes inside her, two fingers, together sliding easily inside her, not a hint of resistance.

"So wet," he moans, "and warm, you're so fucking warm, and tight."

His mouth is back on her sex, sucking and licking greedily, and she's dripping with pleasure, the coil inside her pulling tighter and tighter, she's so wound up, she cannot resist, cannot hold back, cannot help how her hips rock into his hands, push into his face.

It's happening fast, too fast, but his mouth is a marvel, his tongue is unrelenting, and those fingers, those fingers are reaching places inside her Graham rarely meets, and God, this is it, it's happening.

"Robin..." and is this the first time she's used his name? God, it feels so right to say his name here and now in the throes of passion.

"I'm – I am going to…"

"Please let go for me," he begs into her sex, licking and scraping her clit gently with his bottom teeth, "I need to feel you come, need to feel you come apart around me."

And with that his lips surround her clit, and he sucks firmly, tongue licking firmly as he does, and she sees stars, feels herself pulse and quake, waves of pleasure hitting her, stemming from her sex and washing all around her, her skin is hot and tingling, the sounds coming out of her mouth are barely recognizable, but oh, it feels so good, so damn good.

He rides out her orgasm, fingers never leaving her, just thrusting slower as she settles, as loud moans turn into little whimpered cries.

When the last pulses of pleasure finally leave her, he removes his fingers, lifts his head to meet hers in a kiss. He tastes of her, and until now, she didn't think she liked that, didn't want to be kissed after someone had gone down on her, but this, for some reason, the taste of her on his lips feels right.

She realizes she wants more. Not out of obligation, not out of some need to give him as good as he gave her, but she wants to feel him this way.

Her hands fall to the waist of his jeans and she tugs at them, the meaning clear.

"I need these off," she whispers into the space between them.

"If they come off, it better be for a good reason," he says, mimicking her earlier statement.

"Take them off and fuck me," she orders, her breathing labored, her eyes dark. She feels… almost feral. But it's worth it, seeing the effect she has on him, the way he swallows hard, moaning despite the fact she hasn't even touched him.

"As you wish, Madame Mayor," he responds, and his pants are off in a matter of minutes, pulling his boxers down with them, flinging the clothes near where he had left his shoes earlier.

He situates himself between her thighs, one hand on his cock, guiding himself inside her, the other bracing himself against the couch so as not to crush her.

He bites that lower lip of his while he stares down at where they are about to be joined, and lets out a soft moan and a whispered bloody gorgeous before he pushes inside her, filling and stretching her deliciously.

"Fucking Christ, Regina" he moans as he pushes all the way inside, his eyes shut tight, face in a distorted grimace. "You feel… fuck. Nothing has ever, no one has ever – it's never been this bloody wonderful."

She should tease him for the incoherent sentences – should, but won't, because he feels amazing inside her, and she wants more, needs more.

She places her hands on his ass, and urges him to move against her, but he shakes his head.

"Give me a moment," he mutters, "Just let me have – I just want a moment."

She chuckles and nods in response, and he's still inside her, the hand bracing his weight shifts so he's on a bended elbow, and his free hand cups one of her breasts, kneading shamelessly, then pinching and stroking the nipple.

She feels desire build inside her once more, and hisses at his fingers, eyes rolling in the back of her head as she purrs, Feels good.

"They certainly do," he agrees, as his hand cups her other breast and she could laugh if it didn't feel so good. Her hips rock into him; If he won't move, she's going to.

The movement causes him to grimace and groan, his body tenses a bit, and he shakes his head, willing her to stop tempting him.

"Fuck me," she begs again, her voice needy and desperate, and the sigh of defeat that falls from his lips sounds like sweet music to her ears.

He moves inside her torturously slow at first, but she wraps her legs tightly around his waist, her hands encouraging him to move like he wants to, and he picks up speed after a few thrusts, his eyes searching her face, responding to her moans, shifting to find an angle that suits her best.

It's so… intense. Passionate. Completely and utterly satisfying her every need and at the same time making her want more.

She shouldn't be able to – she doesn't orgasm easily, once is rare, twice is unheard of, for all the time with Graham, all the different things they've tried...

"What do you see in me?" she asks quietly, "We barely talk, what do you see that makes you…"

It's an awkward time to have a tender moment. He's hard inside her, her legs wrapped around him and hands on his back, and he should be annoyed she's ruined the moment, let things turn from raw, needy emotions into… whatever this is.

"You already know how beautiful I think you are," he starts, before adding, "but you're strong, dedicated. Your job is important to you and you're passionate about this town, about how things should work. It intimidates people, how direct you can be, but many are intimidated by a strong woman. And you use that to your advantage, let people be afraid, but I've seen you with children, and with animals. You're kind, kind when you don't think people will see you. You're kind to my son when you don't think I can see you. And there's just…" —he sighs, smiling— "This isn't how I planned telling you, but I always planned to tell you. There's just something about you; I'm drawn to you, since as long as I can remember."

It should be terrifying, should be, but isn't, because she can enjoy this, enjoy the closeness of this for now, and await the moment when this resets, when his words erase, and he goes back to the man who stares at her, the man who thinks to approach her but does not.

Her hands wrap around his neck, draw him into a kiss, and she bends a knee, shifts the angle, and he gets the point, leans back and hooks her knee over his shoulder, leaning forward once more to kiss her again, thrusting inside her and she lets out a long, deep moan.

"There we go," he urges, "There, that sounds right."

She shakes her head, this is where he needs to be, just this angle, just this time, just this moment. God, he feels amazing, he's thrusting in deeply, the angle hitting her clit just right, and the pleasure building inside her is unprecedented, that she can reach such heights again, so soon, right after their last time.

She starts to flutter around him, and he sinks his teeth into her shoulder, just hard enough to earn a squeak from her, and then he stops, soothes over the bite with his tongue.

"I'm not – I'm not—" he starts, his breathing labored, eyes dark and needy, "I won't finish until you do."

She shifts a bit, hands find his back and she pushes him against her, making the thrusts a bit more powerful, and he gets it, keeps the angle, but adds pressure to each thrust, going harder into her, causing her to moan and writhe.

Her eyes go shut for a moment, and when she opens them, she sees him staring down at her, looks at his bare torso, sweat-sheened now, and beautiful, his body tense, the arm by her side flexes and unflexes, and she feels it, feels herself reaching her peak, pressure building inside her, so much she can't control the way her body moves and shakes, she feels herself falling apart, coming undone from the inside out.

"C-close," she cries, and he grunts in relief, murmuring Thank god into her ear, and in a matter of moments she cries out, her muscles spasming, contracting around him, pulsing hard, her orgasm is fierce this time, and pulls him in with her, into the waves of pleasure.

He must have been waiting for some time, because her orgasm has barely started when he cries out "God" and "Fuck" and "Oh Regina, what you do to me – I'm—"

She feels it, feels him coming as she rides out the orgasm. And nothing feels sweeter.

When it's over, they trade lazy kisses, and he moves to spoon her on the couch. And she takes it, takes in the comfort, the unexpected intimacy of the night.

It's late and well past dinner when they finally move off the couch, gathering clothes that have been strewn about the cabin. He's muttering something about this place coming in handy, glad his ranger suggested a storm shelter, and that's one thing she can agree with, so she nods, and tries not to think about the fact that she's leaving, and this night is over, and she will leave Robin with nothing, not even the memories of them.

When she fixes to leave, he clears his throat, and she looks back at him. He looks shy, uncertain.

"What?" she asks, a warm smile on her face.

"Er… When can I see you again?" he asks, "And take you on a proper date?"

A proper date. He must know about Graham, doesn't he? She thinks back five days. Has she seen Graham in those five days? Perhaps he doesn't know, after all. Or perhaps he does know and doesn't care. Perhaps he's picked up on the lack of… affection between them.

But there is no proper date, for soon he won't remember this evening, soon he'll go back to being the man who lusts after her in private, completely unaware he had her in so many different ways, once upon a time.

This night has been too wonderful to sully, to watch the memory of it fade from this man she feels so much for so fast. So when he asks, she knows what her answer must be.

"Can you… Can you do Saturday?" she asks.

He grimaces, his head dropping to her chest. "I have to wait five nights before I see you again? Please don't make a habit of this; I'm already quite addicted to you."

She feels a sting behind her eyes she has no business feeling, and clears her throat. "I won't make it a habit. I just ask – just this week, give me space. Let's talk Saturday. But until then, perhaps we can…"

"...have a bit of a breather?" Robin asks.

She nods. "Give us both some time to see whether we want this. And I feel quite confident that in five days time, you won't much feel like going on a date with me."

He clearly doesn't agree with her, but he sees no harm in playing along and agrees. He'll pick her up on Saturday night, come right to the mansion and take her out for a proper drink and a proper dinner and then they'll have a proper shag after that.

She says it sounds like a fabulous date, and she finds herself wishing they could have it.

But in five days, he won't remember this night ever happened.

She curses herself, curses the blackness in her soul that made her think this curse was a good idea. Curses the fact that she's met a man who seems perfect, who she could have had, if only they had met before she had enacted such a curse.

She curses herself each day until Saturday comes, and then she curses her every move. She curses herself for thinking her plan to destroy everyone's happiness would ever give her any happiness of her own. She curses herself for her loneliness, curses herself for the cold, dark life she's doomed herself to live, curses herself as she hears the doorbell, curses herself as she opens the door, expecting to see Sidney or Graham on the opposite side of it, curses herself for having to relive another boring, mundane conversation she's had dozens of times before.

And then she curses for another reason.

Because it's Robin on the other side of the door, flowers in hand.

And oh, as that hand holds the flowers out to her, she sees the lion tattoo she somehow hadn't noticed that night. And perhaps that is how time no longer stands still, how he can see the curse the same way she can, how he can now keep his memories and not… reset, like the rest of the town. Magic should not exist here, and yet, perhaps finding her soulmate, uniting with him, was a magic that could not be suppressed, even in this world.

She wonders what this means, what disaster this will inevitably bring now that Robin will see the curse for what it is, but right now she can't help but smile back him, can't help but let herself feel the giddy anticipation of something new, something real, can hope for at least a few moments of happiness – happiness she thought was lost to her all those years ago.