Once Upon a Time Accidental Listener

**WARNING: Smut. Masturbation.**

_._

He's learning how to use a cell.

Henry is responsible, he says that Robin needs a way to begin communicating with the people of the town, needs to immerse himself in modern day living, if he intends to stay now that the trouble is over, and he had smirked as he drawled out the seemingly innocent words, watching Robin stare at his mother, eyes wide and his head absently nodding in answer to the question.

And of course Henry had been more than helpful on selecting a decent, simple magical talking device, Regina recalls with a soft smile, listening to the quiet hush of Robin's voice in her ear. She should be frustrated, grumpy with the desire to sleep still taking precedent in her mind, but apparently when she finds her cell vibrating against her nightstand, a quarter to two in the morning, she can't summon the urge to ignore it when she sees the number, and hears that familiar lilt.

"He is quite taken with you, my boy."

That same lilt pulls her out of her thoughts now; he is missing Roland, who is currently occupying one of her spare bedrooms, exhausted with a fever that she couldn't let break in the middle of the woods, not when she has a soft bed and warm sheets just going to waste.

"It's no trouble," she says, and Regina opens her mouth to reassure him for the fourth time that no she does not mind looking after him, yes it is still fine that he come over as soon as he wakes, yes Roland is sleeping perfectly fine, comfortable and warm and mercifully numb, with the help of the perfectly safe medicine of this world. But as she opens her mouth to say those exact things, she yawns, tries to stifle it but ultimately fails when he laughs into the receiver.

"I'm keeping you awake," Robin comments, and his voice is low, sleepy and amused, and she knows that he is smirking.

"You're worried about your son," she murmurs in reply, her fingers toying with the seam on her pillow. Her bicep aches from holding the phone against her ear for so long, but for some reason, like how she imagines a love sick teenager, she cannot end the call, "It's perfectly understandable."

"Perhaps," he hesitates, sounds like he is rolling over, possibly onto his back, "Or perhaps I simply enjoying talking to you."

She scoffs, rolls her eyes, "At..." she startles when she notices the time, and how quickly it has gone without her realizing, so swept up in his soft tone and his easy trifle conversation, "At a quarter past two in the morning?"

Robin hums, and the sound makes Regina shuffle away with a jerk, knowing it's impossible to feel the vibrations, but feeling them anyway. "We were not always so ruled by time, your majesty," His voice fades, then comes back, "Back in our realm we were free to do as we please, talk as we please, whenever we please. It takes some effort to break a lifetime of habit."

Funny, she knows better than most the effort it takes, and involuntarily recalling decades spent trying to kill Snow White, at war with the hours now spent in her somewhat pleasant company prickles the hair on the back of her neck, makes her feel vaguely unwell, and Regina bites more forcefully than intended, "Well I don't imagine being a thief requires such a strict time schedule, does it?" an awkward beat followers, and she stutters around it, sighing, "I'm…I'm sorry that was—"

"No, don't be," Robin says, and he sounds amused, "I rather enjoy your sharp tongue."

"I don't know why," she murmurs out softy as she pulls the phone away from her ear, pressing buttons until the phone brightens enough to make her squint, and Robin's laughter rings aloud through her speaker, "I despise yours."

"But you encourage it so often."

"Not intentionally, I assure you." and that is a lie of massive proportion, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him, and she smirks, settles the phone beside her, on her pillow, and it's not hard to imagine he's there—

No.

No, absolutely not.

She blinks with exaggeration, wonders why she has to dismiss so many thoughts concerning this man.

Regina hears the sound of a mouth opening, knows he is about to retort with something that matches her, he always matches her, sometimes betters her and it is as infuriating as it is arousing, but he must close it again, swallowing the words before offering, "You're yawning again," and with a blush she realizes that she is.

"How observant of you, thief," she says much more affectionately, but still a tone thick with sarcasm even as her eyes flicker across her bedroom, looking for something that might give her obliviousness away.

Sheets rustle, and does he always shift so much? She absently remembers Henry, and he would never settle properly until he was against more of her than the bed, and she almost loses herself to the memory of his sweet shampoo, always waking up to the scent of her son, but Robin snorts, pulling her free of those nostalgic memories.

"Well as you say, milady, I'm a thief. It's very important I notice things around me," He hums, one of thought and says, "You've yawned at least four times, for example, but you have yet to hang up your own talking device," He sounds satisfied, and she feels the way his lips must curl into a smirk. "I wonder why that is?"

Not rising to the bait, Regina idly thumbs a corner of the duvet, faux innocence in her tone when she says, "That would be impolite."

He laughs, actually laughs, the noise sounding like it comes deep from his stomach. It gives her butterflies, which in turn makes her roll her eyes, feeling like a child with an infatuation, "From the mouth that spoke nothing but insults to my merry men during our forgotten year."

Her lips lift with a retort, only for a moment, before she softens, "And the same one that kissed my favorite of your merry men goodnight, not two hours ago."

"Fair enough," He whispers out, sounds adoring at once, and his son has that effect on people.

Regina has been on the other side of it for Henry many times, knows that even as a parent you're not immune to their charms. And she thinks of the little boy occupying her spare bedroom, bundled up in her covers, in hulk pajamas even though he doesn't understand why he chose those ones, only that green is like the forest and like his papa, and he wanted purple, like the color of her magic, but the hulk is green and those are the only ones she has here for him, his sweet child.

"Regina," Robin drawls, and it isn't the first time he's said her name, Regina thinks, realizing she drifted in the memory of a little boy, so much like her own. She makes a noise of acknowledgment, and Robin continues, "I fear the night is slipping away from us, and I should let you get some rest."

"Are you concerned about my beauty sleep?" she asks, because something about this man makes it so she can't resist, even as her eyes flutter.

"On the contrary, I'm worried for my boy," his tone is light, immediately soothing the tension that rises at those words, "I've heard you're only ever truly evil on the morning of a sleepless night," and he is chuckling, and Regina doesn't know if she is irritated by the sound alone or what it does to her, how she shifts at it.

"You've been sharing stories with Snow White, I see," she licks her lips and tsks, quickly sifting through memories of the princess, the squeak of her chamber doors when Snow would barge in to wake them both, without care or concern, Leopold still snoring beside her.

No wonder her mornings had started miserably, that she had been miserable for them, but she finds herself closer to feeling indifferent now at the memories than the impetuous fury she had felt, once, thinks of Snow at the diner hours earlier, baby Daniel on her hip and Regina breathes, sighs to let her listener know that she is fine, to reassure him, she realizes.

"Nothing I would not ask you yourself, Majesty," He sounds serious like he is trying to reassure her too, but quickly adds, "and nothing indecent of course."

"I should hope so," she drawls.

And his infuriating nature returns tenfold, "Although..."

Regina rolls her eyes and situates herself more comfortably on the bed, chuckling as she warns him, "Don't say another word."

"I wouldn't dream of it," and he sounds earnest, and good and sweet, and his voice lowers like he remembers saying those words two times over, as she remembers him saying them, on both occasions. A smile forms on her face without permission, and a long moment passes before he clears his throat, "I should let you go."

"I—yes," she says, her voice sounding far off, and it hits her that she cares, that she doesn't want them to end on of a beat of silence like this, and without thought she finds herself following up with, "Be here tomorrow for eight," her tone leaves no room for argument, although she is not sure he would, having already said he would be by for Roland, missing him already and eager to be reunited, "You can join us for breakfast, Roland should be much better by morning."

A slow beat, she hears his breathing, thinks she hears it hitch before he says, "Is that an order, your majesty?"

Something about his tone makes her own breath catch in her throat, a lazy smile passing over her face, "One you would do well to follow, thief," thick with impending sleep, her voice is raspy, like it's been rubbed against sandpaper and she wonders if it affects him like she hopes it does, "And as you would all my orders."

"Well in that case I look forward to it," He responds, barely a whisper, and then there is a bleep through the speaker, signaling that he has pressed something to end the call and she smiles to herself, immensely pleased as her eyelids flutter closed.

Without moving her phone from the pillow, she buries herself into the covers, finds the warmest spot on the bed and tries to manipulate her limbs to use it to its full advantage.

It's late, her stomach still whirling because of a thief, all of men.

But he is something.

He unsettles her, in the best of ways, makes her sigh and shift and the sheets rustle and— it's only then she realizes that the sheets are rustling, but not hers, because she is no longer moving at all, simply resting, feeling almost weightless in her bed.

Her eyes widen, then, comically wide as they fly up to the phone still on her pillow, the screen black. But Robin is moving in his tent, she can hear it clearly, not the absentminded shifting from earlier, but with purpose, into a position.

Regina opens her mouth to speak, already rolling a comment around on her tongue about his incompetence, unable to even remember the end call button on what she has been told is a simple phone, easy to use, and then—

She hears it, a cross between a groan and a grunt, and her stomach churns. Is he in trouble? Is something hurting him?

The scent of magic hits her nose, her own magic, slowly rising in defense, but then it all falls silent.

He's sleeping, she thinks, somewhat soothed by the knowledge that Leopold had spoken more to her in his sleep than he did in their waking hours. He's sleeping—

"_Gods..._"

Flinching backward like she's been burned, Regina stares, suddenly feeling wide awake. Her heart pounds in her chest and she waits, listening intently, too cautious of her own cell and the noise it picks up.

"Yes, Gods," Robin's voice is clear on the speaker phone now, and Regina lies still, frozen.

She can hear his breath, so heavy the movements sound excruciating. His sheets rustle, and she imagines that he's kicking them away, giving himself some room, and she can't, she can't think of this, she can't listen to whatever it is, but she does.

Refusing to move even a muscle, her ears strain, trying desperately to ignore the force of his breath, the shuffle of what could be clothes, kicking his bottoms down around his ankles, and then it hits her.

That one familiar sound of flesh, the dull continuous thud, and he's fucking himself, she thinks crudely, fucking his fist and he doesn't even realize that he's still on the line and he doesn't realize that she can hear him and he grunts, sounds startled and the slap of his forearm hitting what she imagines is a solid, hard muscled stomach, "Regina," And she clenches her thighs, unable to dismiss the thundering arousal she feels, the urge to slip her hand down and

No, not with his son here, still unwell in the next room, she can't, she won't.

It doesn't stop him though.

And she is panting, listening to every grunt and groan he makes, and he says, "Regina, Regina, Gods, yes," over and over and he sounds desperate. The slapping sound slows and she thinks of his thumb, moving up the length of him, running through where he's leaking from his tip, spreading it down and making himself slick before the steady, powerful thud begins again, starting slow before speeding up into an impressive rhythm and he sounds desperate, makes Regina bites her lip.

Trying and ultimately failing to resist, Regina tugs on the hem of her silken sleep shirt, and in the dark she can barely make out the flush on her olive skin, knows that it goes up past her stomach and breasts and neck, all the way up to her cheeks, they're burning, her nipples stiff through her shirt and she is wet, she's soaked as she listens to him finish, completely unaware, and she feels wrong.

She has been free of her mother for decades but it's wrong, it's not what good girls do, and it's the only thing keeping her from slipping a hand inside her panties, a finger running over her clit in hurried, desperate circles, slipping further downward until she slips a finger inside of herself and she's hot, she's wet and tight and—

"Oh Gods, Regina," Robin stutters out and keens shortly, his breath hitching, and he's coming with her name on his lips.

Regina turns her face into the pillow, trying to calm her breathing, heart hammering in her chest and she doesn't realize that she has her fist pressed between her legs, trying to alleviate some of the pressure there.

There's silence for a long while then, save Robin's heaving breath and the shuffle of fabric, and Regina squeezes her eyes shut to stop herself imagining the different ways she would clean him up if they were together.

But then again she wouldn't be aching, burning, unsatisfied, if they were.

Unsure of what to do, she waits. He probably wouldn't notice if she hung up, but if she does and he does, he's going to know she's been listening and she has his son and Roland loves her with all the sweetness and innocence in him and she doesn't want to lose that, for whatever just happened. and if she's honest, she doesn't want to lose Robin, either, can't imagine not seeing him and talking to him and she wonders, absently aware that she already knows the answer, why her chest aches at the thought.

Any decision is cut short, then, because she knows how to recognize the desperation she hears in the gasp Robin makes, immediately followed by a quick hush of movement, and she deduces that he has picked up the cell, noticed it's still on.

"Regina..." He sounds terrified, and were she not so startled, so shocked at what has transpired, she would laugh, "Regina," He tries again, slightly louder, and Regina believes her best bet is to stay silent and feign sleep, he will never know, she will never reveal, simple. "Your Majesty...Gods, I thought I'd...if you heard— Regina?"

The silence is suffocating, and she lets out a heavy breath, hoping it sounds weighted with sleep.

It must do, because Robin lets one out simultaneously, and the relief is wonderfully evident, she feels lighter for it too.

Another click, and this time the dark screen brightens up, making her squint again as she continues to look until a picture of Henry, three years old and smiling at her with such love, appears. It's a bad quality picture, a photo taken of a photo, but she loves it too much to not have it where she can look at it, any time she wants.

But tonight she does not want.

She doesn't actually know what she wants, thinks that maybe a part of her knows she wants the outlaw, and another part of her wants to wake up because this has been a dream for which she will not have to suffer the consequences of at breakfast, only a few hours away.

With an anxious sigh she turns the cell over, puts it face down, and turns onto her back.

She is not at all surprised that she stares at the ceiling until her alarm goes off.

…

**a|n: **so, there's that. i've been toying with the idea of making it a two shot of what happens afterward, if that would be something anyone is interested in?

i hope it was enjoyable, and i'm so sorry for any mistakes— thank you so much for reading.


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