Discover Top Posts Tagged with #whiv

All That Was Good, All That Was Fair (Rated M)

Vegas-verse. Every Friday night, Robin and Regina veg out on the couch and binge-watch a TV show. A month into their marriage, onscreen chemistry ignites a passion they can't help but indulge.

Click here to read/review on Ao3.

Friday rush hour traffic is one of Regina’s least favorite things, extending the drive from Santa Monica to Pasadena into something truly intolerable. So she avoids it, most weeks. She stays late at her office, or she treats herself to a post-work dinner or a little shopping spree at Santa Monica Place. She arrives in time for Roland’s bedtime, but not much earlier.

Even so, she’s grown pretty fond of Friday nights over the last month.

If she hasn’t eaten, Robin has dinner waiting for her when she arrives, and if she has, he usually has a bottle of red breathing on the countertop. She tosses her purse in her room, shrugs out of her heels and peels off her work clothes, then washes her face, swaps her contacts for the purple-framed glasses she’s taken to leaving at his place lately, and changes into something more comfortable. Not pajamas, not yet, but leggings and a long t-shirt, or soft cotton lounge pants and a tank.

She’s still a novelty to Roland, so he usually insists on at least one story from her, snuggled up together in his little bed. She’d been worried about this, at first—about getting a little boy to lie for them consistently (especially once they’d settled on their current living arrangement), but also about whether they’d connect. Whether her maternal urges would translate into actual maternal affection and action.

She needn’t have worried. Having that little boy cuddled up against her, giggling at the story she’s reading about a barn cat and her wily kittens, Regina feels her heart expand and swell until it feels like it might just crack.

Usually, she passes him off to his father after story number one, or at the very least story number two, and then she takes the rest of bedtime to relax. Sometimes she showers, sometimes she just liberates a glass of that wine and savors it slowly while she waits for him on the sofa.

And then they veg out.

They’ve been watching their way through Outlander, something that absolutely cannot be on the TV while Roland is awake. Too much violence—even Regina had had a hard time stomaching the last episode, her heart starting to race with telltale panic when the male lead had begun to be subjected to a gory, violent whipping from an English military captain. She’d had Robin mute it and had rolled from her side to her back, tipping her glasses up toward her hairline to take momentary advantage of her terrible eyesight. She’d intended to keep her blurry gaze trained on the ceiling and take slow breaths until both the scene and her anxiety had passed. Instead, she’d mostly ended up squinting at Robin to make out the way he grimaced his way through it, his hand resting on her ankle, thumb rubbing absently back and forth.

As he’d punched the mute button back into life, he’d muttered, “That was fucked up; you had the right idea,” and given her a half smile. “Sometimes being blind as a bat has its advantages.”

Regina had given him a little shove with her toes as she tipped her glasses back down and turned her attention back toward the screen.

She’d been grateful that he hadn’t made a big deal about her reaction, but then, he never does. Even later, when the same sadistic bastard had winded their heroine with a sudden brutal gut punch, catching both Claire and Regina entirely off guard. She’d let out an embarrassing yelp, slamming her eyes shut against the memories of steely hands on her arms, of her back colliding with the edge of a door jamb, of nursing a swollen lip as she “worked from home.”

As she’d cursed Leo for interrupting what should have been a perfectly enjoyable Friday night, she’d felt Robin shift swiftly and then the sound cut out again.

“It’s off,” he’d assured her. “Completely off.”

Heart hammering, she’d opened her eyes again to find he’d turned the TV off entirely.

She’d blown out a breath and murmured an apology that he refused to accept, and then he’d asked if maybe she wanted to turn on something more lighthearted.

They’d switched to comedy news, with a promise from him to watch the rest of their episode and tell her what happened this weekend.

She’s determined to power through, determined to watch this show that she enjoys and all of her ghosts can go to hell where they belong.

So here she is on his sofa, wine in hand, waiting for him. It had been a single-story night for her, and as she’d left the room, Robin had told her he’d cued up the end of last week’s episode for her so she could catch the “important bits at the end.”

She trusts that it won’t be anything upsetting, especially since he’s left her to watch it by herself, but she still takes a deep swig of wine before she hits play, nerves dancing in her belly until she sees that Claire has clearly been rescued from her ordeal and is riding across the Scottish countryside with one of the men from their party.

A few minutes later, she realizes why Robin had wanted her to watch it, her jaw dropping slightly as English (and secretly married) Claire agrees to marry hunky Scottish Jamie to become a Scot herself and be protected from the British Army.

She pauses it on the end credits with a shake of her head, and finishes her wine, pouring another glass and carrying it, an empty glass for Robin, and the rest of the bottle into the living room.

She’s feeling pleasantly relaxed when Robin finally joins her, apologizing for the delay—Roland had insisted on three more stories after she’d left.

“Pushover,” she smirks.

“I seem to recall you reading him three stories before bed just last week,” Robin taunts back, settling onto the sofa with a satisfied sigh and reaching for the wine.

“That’s different; I still have to win him over,” she excuses, earning a doubtful look in response.

“I think we both know that little boy adores you,” he says, holding the bottle up in an invitation to top her off. She probably shouldn’t, she’s already had a glass and a half. She should pace herself. But she’ll also likely end up scooting down to lay across the expanse of sofa sometime in the first fifteen minutes, and then she won’t drink anymore. So, why not?

She holds her glass steady as he refills what she’s sipped away and asks, “All caught up?”

“I am,” she nods. “I hope her marriage-for-necessity goes as well as mine.”

He pauses to smile at her, bottle halfway back to the table, something warm and appreciative in his gaze as he says, “I’m flattered, milady.”

Regina shrugs, sips her wine, and dismisses, “Don’t let it go to your head. You had a pretty easy act to follow.”

“You’ve been a challenge to win over,” he points out, settling back into the cushions and reaching for the remote to start the next episode. “At least when it comes to the benefits of the institution.”

“I do like these little Friday night dates,” she admits. “Even when Leo and I got along, even before things got really bad… It was never like this. We’d stay in and watch a movie, have popcorn and wine, but… I don’t know, it feels different with you.” Regina takes another swallow of wine, and a deep breath, before admitting, “I don’t think I ever really felt safe with him, truly, after the honeymoon.”

“But you feel safe with me?”

“I do. You’ve never broken my trust.” It’s a deep topic for what should be a casual movie night, but she’s trying to be open with him. Trying to be a spouse, trying to share with him the way he so easily does with her. “With Leo, it was always in the back of my mind. Even before the abuse started, I’d wonder… would tonight be the night he wanted something I didn’t want to give? Was I selfish for not wanting to give it? Would I ever stop resenting that he changed the rules on me in the first place?”

Robin doesn’t seem to mind the turn of topic; he’s set the remote down again, paused it less than a minute in to give her his full attention. And now he tells her, “You weren't selfish. He was. And I don’t think you should ever have to stop resenting a person who waits until you’re in bloody Italy, alone for three weeks, to tell you he wants your body after all.”

She stares into the dark surface of her wine and whispers, “I should have refused. Gone home and asked for a divorce, or…” Regina sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses for a moment and muttering, “It would have humiliated everyone—him, me, our families. But I should’ve done it.”

“It’s not your fault,” he assures, the warmth of his palm settling on her knee and squeezing there. Regina looks up and gives him a smile, nodding more in appreciation than agreement. And then he wonders, “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Do you think he’d have let you refuse? If you’d been adamant, do you think he’d have gone along with you?”

He sounds genuinely curious—doubtful, but curious—and while she’s loathe to give Leo the benefit of the doubt about anything in their relationship, she thinks she knows the answer to this one.

“Yes,” she tells him. “I think I could have stopped it. It would have ruined the rest of the trip, and probably ruined our marriage. In retrospect, that probably would have been a good thing, but at the time… it didn’t seem that way.” Another sip, and she gripes, “And now it’s ten years later, and I am still so angry at him. I hate him.”

“Me too,” he tells her, not quite solemnly, but with gravity, his fingers squeezing gently against her.

“Well, at least we have that in common,” she teases, trying to lighten the mood and get them away from such a heavy topic. She doesn’t want to think about all this anymore, she’s thought it to death for the last decade, so she nods toward the remote, urging, “Start the show,” and glugging down another swallow of wine.

“You sure?” he asks. “We can keep talking if you want.”

But she tells him, “No,” and, “This is our night to relax, it’s our thing. I don’t want him here. He’s taken up enough of my time.”

“Alright,” Robin agrees, reaching for the remote again with an affable, “As milady wishes.” Just before he pushes the button though, he hesitates and admits, “I watched ahead.”

“Robin!” she scolds. “We said we were going to watch together. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“I wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything triggering,” he tells her, and she scowls because she can’t really fault him for that one. “Or at least that it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

She lifts one brow, trying not to be too annoyed (if she thinks about it, it’s really very sweet) as she questions, “And?”

“For this one, just lots of sex,” he assures her. “And while she doesn’t really have a say in the whole thing, he doesn’t push her. He waits for her to be ready.”

“Okay,” she nods. “Sex won’t be an issue. I’m fine with sex.” And then her brain catches up and she narrows her eyes, asking, “Wait—‘this one’? How far ahead did you watch?”

“Three episodes,” he admits, and she scoffs. “We usually get through two or three! I won’t spoil anything, I promise.”

Regina rolls her eyes and grumbles something into her wine glass about how they’re supposed to be experiencing it together. “But thank you,” she grumps, because he’s not wrong. It is better to know when it’s coming.

Still, Robins frowns and offers, “Get comfortable, and give me your feet. I’ll make it up to you.”

It’s worthy penance for his little crime (she shouldn’t be so hard on him, really), so she downs the rest of her wine in one go and then does as offered.

.::.

Halfway through the episode, she wants to eat her earlier words about being fine with sex.

It’s not that the sex is triggering, not at all—Robin was right; for a forced consummation, it was handled in a way she could stomach. She’d even say their clumsy first round was almost cute in its hesitant, fumbling, only-one-orgasm-between-the-two-of-them way.

It’s round two that’s giving her the issue, coupled with the way Robin has spent the first half of the episode kneading his thumbs in her arches; tugging her toes until a few of them give soft, satisfying pops; massaging the sensitive spot behind her ankles. He’s watching the episode with interest, but he’s already seen this, so he’s not skimping on the foot rubs in the slightest, his touch very… intentional. Affectionate, and… sensual? Not intentionally arousing, she doesn’t think, but having someone (not just anyone someone, but someone with whom she’s had incredible sex) stroke and caress and relax her while watching someone else get, uh… stroked, and caressed, and relaxed is making her feel a little, well… horny, for lack of a better word.

There’s nudity and groping and thrusting and moaning, and she’s very aware of Robin’s presence right beside her. Very aware that she’s done those very same things with him in their not-so-distant past. Very aware that there’s a part of her—certain parts of her—that would very much like to do them again.

She licks her lips as she watches a post-orgasmic Claire bite her way down Jamie’s torso, and imagines her bare skin sliding along Robin’s, imagines the way he had kissed his way down her torso in Santa Barbara. His thumb presses into her arch again, and she feels her cheeks flush; she shouldn’t be thinking about fucking him with him right there beside her. She certainly shouldn’t be letting her mind wander from Claire giving Jamie a blowjob to Robin going down on her, to the way he grasped her thighs, the way he traced his tongue over her clit again and again and—

“I miss sex,” she murmurs right around the time Jamie hits his climax.

She doesn’t even realize she’s said it out loud until she hears Robin chuckle from the other end of the couch, his fingertips teasing over the edge of her foot as he murmurs, “You and me both, darling.”

Her cheeks flush, and she bites her lip. She shouldn’t have said that, and she tells him so: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that to you if we’re not having it.”

“It’s alright,” he dismisses easily, while Jamie drifts off to a post-coital nap. “I agreed to the terms—and while I don’t want to push, I will remind you that the terms are an assumption of no sex, but sex isn’t off the table entirely.” She shifts, rolls onto her back so she can look at him as he says, “We’ve had sex before, and I am more than happy to do it again—when you want it and only when you want it. Sex is entirely on your terms, that was the deal.”

“I suppose,” Regina concedes. “But it’s not really fair to jerk you around, is it? It’s using you. You’re not a convenient bed to hop into whenever I feel an urge.”

“No, I’m your husband,” he tells her softly, and with so much warmth. Like their marriage is something special and sacred. “And sex may not be a requirement for this marriage, but it’s something we can both enjoy with mutual consent. It’s not using me if I want it, too, Regina.”

“And… you want it?” she asks, biting her lip.

Robin smiles at her and says, “Always.”

She snorts, shaking her head at him, but Robin just argues amusedly, “Can you blame me? You’re gorgeous. Sexy and smart and fun and passionate, and I don’t think I need to remind you—or maybe I do—that we got ourselves into this situation because of our mutual drunken desire to fuck each other immediately and repeatedly.”

She laughs at that—and can’t deny it. They certainly don’t suffer from a lack of mutual attraction. And he’s not wrong, she supposes—he’d made it very clear from the beginning that he was open to sex if she was. She may have insisted on nothing after the honeymoon, but that had been her choice. And she’s free to… choose differently. If she wants.

It’s not changing the rules on him like Leo had with her, and it’s not pushing him into anything he doesn't want. And it’s not going to mean that next week, if he wants sex and she doesn’t, she’ll be expected to have it. Mutual consent, he’d reminded her, never anything they don’t both want.

And with Jamie and Claire going at it once again onscreen—this time with more tenderness and passion, and with Jamie dropping kisses on Claire’s breasts that make Regina’s own nipples tighten in envy—she definitely wants. Her thighs clench and she licks her lips, sitting up finally and shifting closer to Robin.

Her hand runs along the back of his neck, over his shoulder, their faces drawing closer until they’re only a breath apart. Just before she kisses him, she whispers, “Pause the TV,” and Robin grins.

She can feel him fumble blindly for the remote, the sound cutting out just as the episode is ending, and then there are no distractions for them but each other.

For the first few minutes, they just make out passionately, enjoying the taste and feel of each other after weeks of keeping things platonic. She’s missed the way he kisses, the way he moans in appreciation and tilts his head just so to deepen the kiss, even if his nose bumps against her glasses in the process.

Regina chuckles warmly and pulls back just enough to lift her frames off and toss them on the coffee table next to her wine. As much as she loves the look of him, she won’t need 20/20 vision for the next little while.

When she turns back, Robin reaches for her, murmurs, “Come here, darling,” and urges her to move even closer. She shifts until she’s straddling his lap, enjoying the way his palms slide up over the soft material of her leggings, up her thighs, her hips, around and down to give her ass a squeeze as she leans in and kisses him again.

It's only a pit stop, though. Moments later, his hands are rising again, stealing beneath the loose-fitted t-shirt she's wearing and coasting up her back, around her ribs, sneaking in between their bodies to cup her breasts. Regina presses into the touch, eager for it—if they're doing this, she wants to do it.

He gives her a squeeze, nipping at her lower lip as his thumbs rub over her nipples. She lets out a little moan at the shiver of pleasure that chases through her, whispering, “Please.”

She doesn’t need to elaborate—no sooner have the words left her lips than Robin is honing his grasp, giving her nipples gentle tugs and squeezes. Pleasure sparks and burns through her middle, another soft moan sounding in the back of her throat.

It never takes much with her, and he knows that by now. Her nipples are so sensitive that even these light touches are enough to have her growing wetter, her hips starting to pitch and rock against his. He’d changed before coming out here, too, so there’s only her leggings and his thin cotton pants between them. She can feel him growing harder against her, the slow, grinding friction between them serving counterpoint to the way he teases her nipples.

It takes an almost embarrassingly short amount of time before she’s gasping into their increasingly sloppy kisses, every exhale trembling out, or falling free on a soft cry. If they keep this up, she’ll come before they’ve even removed a stitch of clothing.

As if the thought leaves her head and goes straight to his, he gives her nipples one more light, twisting roll through his fingers and then skims them down her belly and grasps the bottom hem of her shirt. It’s up and off in no time, and then his mouth is on her, lips dropping kisses from her collar down to one pebbled peak, giving it a maddeningly gentle suck before he kisses over to the other, does the same, then completes the circuit back up to her lips.

He only gives her a quick smooch, their noses bumping as he asks, “Do you want your nipples sucked, darling, or your clit?”

Regina swallows hard against the flicker of anticipatory pleasure that skitters through her at the offer, her nails raking through his hair as she asks, “Can I choose both?”

Robin grins, nodding, and gives her a little hoist up to get better access to her breasts, jostling a laugh out of her before it melts into a moan at the feel of his tongue against sensitive skin. He licks first, lazy spirals around each nipple in turn, until her breath has gone thick, and then he chooses one to lavish attention on, sucking and flicking his tongue against the tip and teasing it with kisses.

One of his hands has found her ass again, kneading while he riles her up, and Regina has the vague thought that she really should do more for him than the occasional scrape of her nails along his scalp (it makes him shiver and flare up with goosebumps). But it’s been weeks since they’ve done this, weeks since she’s had her nipples licked and sucked, and she wants to take the time to enjoy it. There are many bedroom-related cravings she can take care of herself, but this, God, this isn’t one of them, and it just feels so good.

She’s making these noises now, soft little mewling moans in the back of her throat as he switches to her other breast and treats the nipple to the same delightful attention. She wants more, needs more, wants his tongue on her clit and his cock inside her (quick, deep thrusts just like the ones that got her all hot and bothered in the first place), but she also doesn’t want this to end.

She moans his name, and “God,” and “That feels so… unh!”, her desperation making Robin chuckle. He does it with her nipple sucked tantalizingly into his mouth, though, and the vibration of it makes her clench.

Regina threads her fingers through his hair and grips, tugging him away from her breast and ducking her head down for a heated, tongue-filled kiss. When it breaks, she steals another grin from him by whispering, “Eat me out.”

A quick peck and he surges forward and sideways, jostling her off him and back toward her former position on the sofa. She collapses back with an eager snicker, wriggling when he grasps the waistband of her leggings and gives them a tug.

“Why is it,” she wonders as she helps him rid her of the snug material, “that I am entirely naked, and you’re fully dressed?”

“I don’t know that I’d call sleep pants and a t-shirt fully dressed,” he argues, but he yanks his shirt up and off regardless. “But I see no reason not to even the playing field a bit.”

Her vision is fuzzy with him this far away, so she shuts her eyes and smiles as his hands find her knees, parting her legs wider to accommodate him as he shifts to kneel on the floor beside the sofa and moans appreciatively at the sight of her.

His thumb swipes down over her clit, down to her opening and back up, and he tells her, “I love how wet you are right now. Can’t wait to taste you.”

And then he does.

Regina’s head tips back on a breathy sound of pleasure as his tongue finds her clit and licks and licks, finding a sort of swift, flickering pattern that makes her fingers fist in the cushions and her back arch.

“God, just like that… just… Mmm, just like that and then—oh…”

He stops, just for a moment, and asks, “And then what?”

Regina glances down at him, glad for a moment that he’s a little blurry, because it means she doesn’t truly have to look him in the eye as she says, “Then suck my clit until I come. Please. I can’t do that myself and I’ve missed it.”

“I’d be very impressed if you could,” he smirks as he bends back to his task, on a mission now. His tongue flicks and flutters against her clit, quick barely-there sucks interspersed every few moments to tease her.

When she’s moaning and grasping restlessly at his hair and rocking her hips up into his attention, growing closer and closer, he finally draws her clit in for a good, proper suck. Regina cries out, one hand dropping to find the one of his gripped at her hip, their fingers weaving as he sucks at her again, again, then holds it out and starts to give her these little pulsing sucks that make her thighs shake.

“Oh, God, Robin!” she cries out, her belly clenching, her fingers tightening against his. He releases her, then drags his tongue down, fucking her with it for a few seconds before he runs it back up and captures her clit again, treating it to more of those pulsing sucks.

With all the build-up she’s had, it doesn’t take much longer, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her gut until it releases in a spring of long-overdue bliss. It’s the first orgasm she hasn’t had to give herself in a month, and Regina revels in it, lets him draw it out until her hips are trembling in his grasp, her toes curled tight, moans far too loud for a house with a sleeping child down the hall, but she’s not thinking, she doesn’t care.

When he finally eases off, she goes boneless, melting into the couch with a satisfied sigh and a pleased little chuckle.

Robin sucks warm, damp kisses over her inner thighs, his beard tickling there as he murmurs, “Was it everything you hoped, darling?”

“Mm, definitely,” she praises, still trying to catch her breath.

“Do you want more?” he wonders, planting a kiss right at the join of her hip and thigh. “Or did that satisfy your desire?”

Regina squints down at him, a little frown on her face and reminds, “I said I wanted to have sex, and I meant it. If I’d just wanted foreplay, I’d have made that clear.”

She hears him mutter, “Thank God,” and giggles a little, still feeling relaxed and giddy. “But you know you can always change your—”

“I know,” Regina interrupts, sitting up and pulling him into a kiss that tastes like her. “And thank you.”

He nods, their foreheads bumping, his fingers tangling into her hair as he leans in for another kiss.

When it breaks she bites her lip, nudges her nose against his, and breathes, “Take me to bed, Robin.”

#whiv

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#whiv