#obviously those worlds being 'pimped out' and 'not fucking miserable'

[danthropologie]

Oh no… you’ve gone and made me sad… I fear you’re tragically right about him staying silent while Ferrari drains the life out of him. But my smooth brain is still thinking about how Ferrari pimps their drivers out after a shit weekend. And repeat loser daniel + thirst trap pr = 😏 (but at too much of a cost)

obviously all we need to do here is somehow convince the horny ferrari admin to leave ferrari and join the maxiel admin at red bull in creating some of the most insane, horny, deranged content we've ever had the (dis)pleasure of laying our collective eyes on. best of both worlds 🙏

[awed-frog]

This is going to be a mess - I had to erase the original post because the bots just wouldn’t stop coming, so here is how it all started -

And here are your kind requests -

So - thank you for your lovely asks and PMs - here we go. 

(Keep in mind that those moments were hugely embarrassing to me, so you shouldn’t find them funny or anything. They’re tragic stories I’m relating for your moral betterment - that is all.)

1) The ‘The Greeks Made Me Do It’ story

As a bit of background, I was eighteen and had just moved to another city to start my studies. I’d been there for a month, knew literally no one, had no idea where half my classes were and my ideals of switching to a Sophisticated Look and becoming A Lady had miserably failed, which means I was walking around wearing this insanely expensive, Managing Director of the IMF coat plus combat boots and frayed jeans plus a lopsided handmade scarf and 'Marilyn going on Morticia’ lipstick (I worried - a lot - about being the only weirdo and the only unfinished person in the entire town, because that was before I met Hamster Girl and Colour Matching Girl and I spend as much on weed as you do for rent but everything I own is see-through, threadbare or ripped Guy). Plus, I couldn’t speak or understand the local language all that well, and I’d taken to nodding and smiling whatever people said, which generally made me look like an idiot and meant I never knew what was going on. 

(And, yes, it’s tempting and it seems like the easier option, but seriously - don’t do that.) 

All of that means I was more or less living in the university library so I could pretend I had a purpose in life and, well, going from a high school library to a real academic library was like stepping into the Restricted Section - I mean, of course, I read what I was supposed to read, and I lost myself in serious books that had little to do with my actual subjects (that was my Minoan period - I’m sure every Classics student had one), but there were also the - uhm - other books, you know? All those studies about homosexuality in the Greek world, and how Mapplethorpe’s pictures were connected with frescoes of Saint Sebastian, and people having sex with statues and kings trying to trick their young wives into anal and truly lurid collections of Greek art which my high school teacher had once described as ‘Something you should probably have a look at, but if I let you borrow my copy your parents would not be happy with me’. And on that particular day, I had actually devoted my afternoon to a no-nonsense book about Eastern influences in Greek art, and well, the study of lovers and concubines on Greek amphorae was a sort of a plan B to relax a bit between chapters, because I was reading in a foreign language and it was hard work and when you don’t know anyone, it’s like you’re the only one working, right, and everyone else is off to wild parties and poetry lectures and screenings of a Guatemalan movie you never knew existed and that’s depressing af, so yay for weird art - but at around five I realized the day was done and I didn’t want to give the dirty book back because, come on, it wasn’t that dirty and I had a right to read it and it was complemented with passages by Theophrastus and Plato, plus it had come to me via the now defunct goblin-based system of tunnels underground the reading room -

~note - for younger readers, these things~

- so I didn’t want to give it back and go through the hassle of requesting it again, and I remember the fuck it moment that came over me - I was eighteen, I was studying the damn stuff, so I’d borrow the damn book and if the librarians disapproved, well, they could bite me.

(Obviously, they didn’t disapprove. The bored guy at the service desk didn’t even look at me, because nobody looks at you, ever, and your life is your own, so go live it.)

And next, I had to go shopping because there’s only so much time you can survive on cold cereal - and suddenly there I was, in a big and foreign supermarket, a dirty book burning a hole through my old Invicta, my Queen of England coat clashing with everything else I was wearing, and I was moving from aisle to aisle without making eye contact and trying to remember what spices were called in French, and I’d almost made it - I was collecting my mismatched groceries on the other side of the till when the bloody alarm started blaring, and two uniformed guards appeared out of thin air and it was like one of those slow-motion scenes in movies, right, when the dust in the air glimmers like gold and sound is no longer a thing and someone’s talking and everybody is staring and when God pushed the ‘resume normal speed’ button the two men were gesturing and smiling smugly and there was this old lady next to me and she was taking in my luxurious coat and my frayed jeans and putting two and two together - I physically felt her horrified, gleeful gaze on me like scalding water - and Jesus, I could see the headlines in my local paper already ‘Young Promise of Sci-Fi Literature Arrested’ (I was writing fantasy back then, but most normal people don’t seem to know the difference) and there were my parents, okay, my poor parents walking with their heads down as formerly friendly neighbours threw garbage at them and someone would interview my history teacher and he was bound to say, ‘She was something of a strange girl, but I never thought she’d end up in prison’ and next, of course, came the walk of shame in front of all twelve tills, with dozens of proper adults (people with families and eggs in their baskets, women with tasteful lipstick and women with kids and doggies instead of books about dead prostitutes) staring at me in disapproval, and What has the world come to and I heard that today, young women are as likely to commit crimes as young men and Do you think she’s on drugs? and then I was forced into the Small Room of Humiliation and asked to please empty my bag, so out came the frosting I was planning to eat raw and the crown of garlic I’d bought because it looked pretty and had no intention of ever using and a giant-ass bag of rice and as I looked on, horrified, I realized nothing made sense with anything and even those burly, middle-aged men could see that just fine - but, well, every single horrifying, meaningless item was on the receipt, so they had me empty my pockets (one condom, safety pins, a Swiss knife, an IKEA pencil and a very smooth and round rock, God have mercy on me) and next we all looked at one another like, What now? and that’s when I truly gave up on rational thinking, okay, because my first instinct is always to be of service, and so I said, in my heavily accented French, ‘The library book has a barcode, maybe that’s the problem?’ and of course, they hadn’t really looked at the book yet - it was face down on the formica table, looking all prim and innocent in its unassuming dark blue cover, but when the older man picked it up with his bear paw, I suddenly realized the front of it was quite different - I sat there and saw his eyebrows disappear into his hairline as he took in the big-ass picture (a painting of a woman fellating a much younger man) and the title (something along the lines of, THE JOYLESS SEX - TALES OF THE PLEASURE WOMEN, in all capitals, because books about Greek art don’t sell all that well, so anything to do with sex is pimped up to trick the unsuspecting general audience into giving it a shot) and of course he had to open it, because that’s how humans are wired, okay, and the thing right in the middle was a goat-like creature doing unspeakable things with two women and every single cell in my body wanted to explode and disappear and shout ‘IT’S MANDATORY READING FOR THIS CLASS I’M TAKING’, which was a lie, anyway, and I couldn’t get the words out and I couldn’t look up and I couldn’t look away - after a few excruciating minutes (seconds? hours?), the guy scanned the book on his barcode machine and yep, that’s when we all learned that library books respond to the same anti-theft thingies that pick up on stolen wine and cookies and fine cheeses, and Sorry, miss, and You have a good evening, now, and he was extremely uncreepy about it, but it was still hard to find my way out because of the WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOUNG PEOPLE UP THESE DAYS bewilderment that was shining like a beacon around his entire body, so, yeah - that was pretty embarrassing.

2) The ‘A Four-Part Seduction’ story

This actually happened almost one year before my adventure with the scanning machine - I was in my last year of high school, had kissed exactly 1 (one) boy, failed to seduce 3 (three) other boys despite my fox-like cunning and my sunny disposition, and I was now ready to sacrifice everything (well: my sanity and my dignity) for The Boy - a basketball player with a long, horse-like face and zero talent in anything whom for some reason I fancied the pants off.

(Looking back, I think I liked he was quiet and kind, and the age-old problem when you’re attracted to mysteriously self-effacing people is that you’re never quite sure - is there a colourful and occasionally wild ocean behind their silent lips and far-off gaze, or are they not saying anything because an evolutionary mishap converted half their brain into a second spleen, and therefore they were left with the mental capacity of a vivacious Mexican mole lizard? The joy is in finding out.)

Anyway, I have a feeling things haven’t changed all that much, but back then when you were intent on romantic hunting, you usually enlisted the help of your closest friends - people who inevitably were: 

your age 

unexperienced

not very familiar with The Boy and

generally speaking, completely unsuited to hatching a failproof seduction plan of any kind.

On this particular occasion, my advisors were: 

a girl who’d been the better half of a couple for time untold (three months, two weeks and five days) and was thus The Expert

another girl who’d done ‘not it, but almost’ with an unnamed boy she’d met over the summer

a third girl who still didn’t quite understand what ‘it’ meant and 

my only guy friend who was actually in love with me and I only found out about that twenty years later and that was one true what the fuck moment, because then I wondered what else I hadn’t seen when I was a teenager even if it was there in plain sight (like the fact my German teacher preyed on young boys, for instance,but that’s another story).

So, well - part A of The Plan - getting to know him better - had failed miserably, because what can you discuss with someone you only see once a week in French class and you have a monster crush on? I mostly pestered him about homework dates and then stared mutely at his hands as he turned the pages of his school diary and my God, he must have thought I was an anxious, forgetful idiot with absolutely zero life, ‘which means he already knows you better than most people,’ my best friend said consolingly, before trying out her married name signature (Alice DiCaprio) one more time. And as for part B - that had succeeded, but at what cost? Because through a string of sleights of hand and corruption, we’d managed to shift half our classmates around on the seating chart, so I was now sharing a desk with The Boy himself, but so far that had resulted in some awkward staring (mine), a couple of embarrassed smiles (his) and about 50 000 volt of electricity going through my entire body every time his elbow bumped into my arm by mistake (which happened a lot, because he was left-handed and I’m not and we were sitting the wrong way around). 

Now, this had been going on for weeks when the skies suddenly opened above me and the teacher, an I’m frankly disappointed in how everything turned out ‘68 hippy, assigned us a written essay on Victor Hugo and socialism, something that, as an anxious, forgetful idiot with absolutely zero life, I knew quite a lot about. Plus, I was good at French, and that’s how The Boy turned towards me and asked if I’d be willing to help him, his hazel eyes all clear and earnest, shining like stolen jewels on his horse-like face, and being a Cosmo reader, I heard myself laugh throatily and ask, ‘Sure - what will you give me in return?’ and fuck, how do these things happen and why are we not in control of our own bodies and also thank God, because he blinked at me and then said, in a slow voice I read as flirtatious, ‘I’ll buy you a drink’. And that’s how we all entered part C - there were weekly meetings with him in the library to write the essay together, and daily meetings with my girlfriends to analyse everything we’d ever said to each other and I think he was looking at you during break and I saw him blush twice now, he must be sensitive and My sister knows his cousin, I can tell her to ask him if he’s seeing anyone and also long walks by the river with my long-suffering guy friend during which I rambled on and on about how shiny The Boy’s hair was and he contributed to this mind-blowingly fascinating conversation mostly in uhms and grunts.

(Again, how could I have been so stupid? I mean, it was for the best in the end, but - ouch.)

And one windy evening of March, lo and behold, it was finally time for part D (no pun intended) - a bona fide D-A-T-E with The Boy, and possibly there’d be fireworks and he’d say, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks and some tourist would snap a candid photo of us and then marvel at it, years and years later, because Do you ever wonder what happened to this couple, Mabel? Look at how happy and in love and beautiful they are and I’m not saying cover of the National Geographic, but cover of the National Geographic. Also, movies had taught me what was supposed to happen, you know?, 

which is why I borrowed make up and rollers from one of my friends and did a clothes pre-selection with her and then a second selection with my guy friend -

(I remember him sitting cross-legged on my bed and strumming my mom’s guitar as I hid behind the closet door to try on The Makeover Outfit and how his expression barely changed when he saw me in a skirt for the first time - how he said, ‘You look - good. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t go for it,’ and how the music turned into something slow and mournful as I disappeared again to put my jeans back on, and what the hell?)

- and at nine pm, I was ready - I had leveled up and transformed, or so it seemed - gone was the windbreaker, and the crappy Converse, and the overlarge plaid shirt - instead, my hair was curled in the right way and my skirt was short but not too short and I’d even bought a push-up bra which was uncomfortable as hell but Who cares, uh?, who cares? And let’s pretend my make-up was still perfect after biking twenty minutes in the half rain, because when I walked into the bar, some catchy song was on and my brand-new hoop earrings were catching the light just so and I was the Goddess of French and Sex and WITNESS ME and we saw each other at once - he was sitting with his friends, the Popular Good-at-Hockey Guys, and he turned as he heard the door open, as if he’d been expecting me, and he immediately smiled and came towards me and ‘So, what can I get you?’ and of course I ordered wine, because I was Sophisticated and also A Lady and as he pushed his way towards the counter I sat down at the only table for two and subtly (I hope) adjusted my cleavage and crossed my legs and wondered whether I should whip my copy of Rimbaud’s Les Illuminations out of my (well: my mom’s) purse just to make it extra clear I meant business, or if that would be considered impolite - a kind of, ‘You took forever to get me that drink’ reproach - and as I was still trying to decide, he came right back, all perfect and tall and horsey-looking in a grey shirt, and he was carrying my wine and a pint of dark beer and some idiotic voice in my head said, ‘Yes, we’d known each other for months, but I remember the night we truly fell in love - your father used to drink these strong beers, you know, and that evening-’ and before that thought could go anywhere, The Boy was there, at my table - he handed me the wine (our fingers touched) and he said ‘Thanks again, really - I would have been dead without you’ and then - and then he walked away and fucking sat down with his friends again because apparently he was a damn sophist underneath that equine disguise and he’d promised me a drink and now I had a drink and what the fuck? and for the second time that night I considered turning to Rimbaud, but you should never turn to Rimbaud because he was an addict and a killer, so I drained my wine in one gulp, looked around desperately, my vision already fogging over, for someone I could bother - there was no one I really knew, only older people and party people and cool people who were already looking at me weirdly - I shrugged my coat on and waved joyfully at The Boy on my way out and man, it’s been twenty years but sometimes I still wonder at it - I don’t think he wanted to be rude, I’m sure he was like me, awkward and empty-headed and inexperienced, and he now works with snakes in Canada so maybe there was something interesting about him, but after I never go to the movies guy and Do you go to this school? guy and Sorry, I’m looking for someone who’ll choke me during sex guy and - mostly - the ghost music / still not sure he existed for real guy, well - that was a crushing moment and the end of my grand plans and when I started to simply tell guys ‘I like you’ and also follow them home before they could realize what was going on and, whatever, if you’re looking for dating advice, that works much, much better. 

[Thanks again for your messages - if you like my writing, please visit my AO3 page!] 

[quillerqueen]

Something “Borrowed”

Prompt 117 of @oqpromptparty: Canon divergent oneshot where Robin crashes Regina’s wedding hoping to steal some jewels and fancy plates but ends up stealing her instead.

(Here it is on ff.net for those who prefer it.)

Robin's fairly new to the trade. Granted, he's always had an affinity for stealth as well as the gift of deft fingers and light feet, performing sleights of hand from an early age--but earning a living and a reputation as a thief? That’s a different matter altogether. The more of a name he makes, the more the royal guard will be after him.

Doesn't it make sense, then, to risk one great heist at the very start of his career?

What he lacks in experience he'll make up for in daring, and cunning, and a bit of good fortune. Should Lady Luck favour him, he'll have enough riches by the end of the night to secure an entire future for himself.

And the royals, with their blasted pride under the guise of grand gestures, only have themselves to blame.

Robin pushes through crowds of peasants lining the streets all the way to the cobblestoned square. He slips past children awestruck by the spectacle soon to come; passes merchants basking in this faint reflection of royal riches and courtly ceremony; ducks surly serfs, the poor and the lowly, who've come for an escape into the world of fancy but mostly just to fill an empty belly at the lavish feast ahead. He presses forth, all the way to the podium in front of the church the newlyweds will ascend to graciously greet the commonfolk. He elbows his way to the very front, then shimmies unnoticed along the edge all the way to the back, where a palace opens onto the square.

This is where the highest nobility make the last preparations for the wedding, and where they will share meat and mead afterwards (they're not eating outdoors with the rabble after all, that would be beneath them!).

It's well guarded, with most restricted access, and it takes time and effort to get past the guards but Robin manages to do so unnoticed despite several close calls.

His garb is nondescript enough to blend in with the servants, though obviously not the liveried ones. No matter--he’s going to grab some fancy plates from the vast selections still being carried out of the kitchens, along with some fine cutlery polished to the point of blinding, and he’s going to nick a handful of jewels from the boudoirs scattered along the way. That should have him sorted for a life in the lap of luxury without the confines of senseless regulations and shameless impositions (it’s an empty pursuit, but a purpose nonetheless).

Robin’s satchel is half-stuffed with bounty when a commotion on the upper floor catches his ear.

He really shouldn't stick his nose where it could easily be snipped off--and his head with it. His curiosity tends to land him in all sorts of trouble, and under the circumstances humouring it is outright foolish. Succumbing to it would be utter nonsense.

Steps hurry down the staircase Robin is hunkered under, and whatever it is that sends him on his way up he'll never know, except perhaps the woman's disappearing back, straight and rigid and bejeweled, somehow exudes a cold and calculating air.

The source of the earlier noise is easily discovered when he reaches the top landing--a frustrated growl, an almost howl of a caged animal betrays it.

Except when Robin picks the lock (she's caged indeed, although he's soon to find out she's far from an animal) and slips into the chamber, nothing moves but a heap of delicate, shimmery white fabric piled haphazardly on the chaise by the window. It rises and falls rapidly, in time with the heaving breathing Robin makes out in the silence of the upper floor.

A tiara lies among broken shards of glass, flung and forgotten beneath the gaping golden frame that was once a mirror.

Bloody hell.

It's her. The queen-to-be. The bride-to-be.

And shit--she’s a sobbing mess for about the three eyeblinks it takes her to somehow sense the intruder. She freezes when she does, sits up straight-backed and tense, voice slightly hoarse with tears.

“What do you want, Mother?” she says with a mixture of resignation and defiance. “What more could you possibly want with me? Come to teach me another lesson? Well, I haven't managed to cover up the last one yet.”

Her words are dripping accusation and betrayal, but not a hint of surprise--this sort of treatment at the hands of a parent isn’t new to her. The realisation strums Robin’s heartstrings--a painful chord, for he knows the feeling, has picked the life of a runaway for a reason after all.

The woman’s half-bare shoulders tense further at the lack of response, and she turns slowly around. Robin should have been in cover a long time ago, but he’s not, and nor does he move now. He doesn’t evade her startled look, but spreads his hands palms up to indicate he’s unarmed and poses no danger to her.

She gasps at the sight of a stranger in her chambers, but recovers fast, like one used to having her privacy invaded. In fact, her whole frame seems to relax a notch at the intruder’s identity being revealed as someone other than suspected. As she tilts her head to study him with narrowed eyes, biding her time, the light hits her left cheek.

A purple bruise blooms across it, painful even to the eye.

Robin frowns.

“Your mother did that?”

She laughs humourlessly.

“And left me the tools to clean up the mess.” She gestures towards the vanity with heaps upon heaps of powders, rouge, kohl, and whatnot. “Like a good little girl.”

Robin stares from her to the vanity, then back to her again.

She’s beautiful, even with the nasty swelling under her eye. Would be beyond stunning if not for the sadness residing in her eyes.

“So she’d, what, hit you again?” he marvels, mostly for the benefit of making conversation rather than staring at her dumbly. “Even though there’s already a bruise you're failing to hide?”

“Because there is a bruise I'm failing to hide.” She shrugs, pulling her lips into a miserable shadow of a smile, and crosses her arms on her stomach. “It doesn’t really matter. She’s going to heal it before the wedding night anyway, lest the king notice. Although he might not be in a state to notice much of anything by then if he keeps drinking the way he has been since morning. Celebrating early, mother says; but the servants whisper he’s drowning his sorrows over his dead wife. It’s almost as if the king wanted this marriage as little as I. Except he actually had a choice in the matter.”

Bloody hell, that’s just fucked up. Revolting, and absolutely heart-breaking. Yet such is the world they live in--riddled with a bunch of societal norms Robin detests. For her, he knows, it’s a dead end. You don’t reject a king’s proposal and live--not much longer anyway, and not well.

But King Leopold is beloved of his people, has always enjoyed the reputation of a kind, goodly, just ruler.

Codswallop.

Here the king is, forcing himself upon a young woman (she looks so bloody young, the more so the closer Robin looks, even though clearly her appearance has been styled in a way that makes her look less alarmingly so in comparison to the greybeard thrice her age she’s to take to the altar with) without the power to exercise her will without repercussions. Granted, her mother’s cruel hand might be in it, and this might be more of the norm rather than an isolated incident by Enchanted Forest custom, but that doesn’t make it right. Nor does it absolve the king of responsibility. If Leopold wants to be remembered and revered as a force for good, he should ruddy well roll up his gold-trimmed sleeves and change the outdated, inhumane system, not perpetuate and benefit from it. No, the man is a coward, and a wretch, and possibly a drunkard.

Unfortunately, despicably, his drinking problem will most likely not stop him from bedding his new bride at the wedding night her heartless mother is pimping her for.

Robin must have given voice to that last thought, because her face falls at that, and she seems to shrink and collapse in on herself, sinking back onto the chaise she’d only recently vacated.

“Yes, she’s--she’s warned me not to have high hopes in that area.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He didn’t mean to be so blunt and vulgar, or to add to her troubles with his ill-advised statements.

“Yes, you did,” she returns simply, looking up from her hands, her gaze clear and direct again. Her face is hard, and her voice. Her heart may fare the same if forced too often to steel itself, the way it has to now. “I’m not stupid, you know, or some--or some naive princess daydreaming about knights in shiny armour or courtly romances. I know what’s expected of me--and every other girl sold by her parents to the highest bidder. And your language doesn’t bother me. Sugarcoating things doesn’t change the facts.”

Robin blinks, then nods. Despite everything, or because of it, she won’t be coddled. He respects that.

“That it doesn’t. Actions do indeed speak louder.”

“Spoken like someone who knows about that.”

Robin gives her a crooked grin that’s bitter at the edges.

“I may have been a noble once, unhappy with my lot and the world at large.”

Her eyes widen as his words sink in.

“So you ran,” she says, bewildered and perhaps a touch envious. It makes him wonder how many times she’s considered doing the same, or if she’s attempted the feat and failed. “You--you actually got away?”

He nods, tacking on a self-deprecating and now I’m a thief in an attempt to chase away the wistfulness clearly creeping upon her.

She only shakes her head, a flicker of a soft, dreamy smile on her lips as she corrects him: “You are free.”

Robin doesn’t stop to think on it really, doesn’t plan his response or even consciously pick the words; it quite simply feels like the logical, natural thing to do as he uncoils the rope across his chest and tells her without ceremony:

“This will hold us both.”

She blinks, smoothing the glittery, cumbersome skirt of her gown.

Truth be told, Robin’s no clue what to expect. He’s a stranger, making an offer clearly attractive to her in a situation that is clearly complicated, probably more so than he even suspects. She’s been dealt a cruel hand before, and kindness, even genuine, brews suspicion in her. This could go either way.

He does, however, realise one thing--he very much wants her to accept.

“I don’t need your charity,” she says at long last, worrying her lip. “What do you want in exchange for smuggling me out of here?”

“Other than a sense of accomplishment from stealing the king’s bride from right under the whole court’s nose?” he ventures to joke, but she only raises an expectant eyebrow at him, so he amends: “My satchel’s half full. Fill the other half, and we’re even. That monster of a necklace alone is worth more than a wagonful of these trinkets.”

Slowly, she turns to her vanity, and holds out the sparkling necklace picked out to complement her wedding gown. She shoves it into the enamelled jewellery box, snaps the lid shut and grabs it along with two more trinkets from her nightstand, then slips it into the waiting satchel.

“The earrings,” she winks, “can feed several villages. A good thief wouldn’t leave them behind.”

Feeding villages isn’t really something he’d considered before...but he has just condemned a broken system as well as a person in power for not re-enacting change, hasn’t he?

She’s grinning at him now, a teasing glint in her eye, and suddenly he’s suckerpunched by this--this feeling.

The echo of steps has them springing apart.

“Quick, hide!” she hisses, absolutely frenetic, and shoves Robin into the wardrobe, slamming the door behind him just as that of the chamber flies open, and the woman Robin knows must be her mother barges in.

“Regina, why aren’t you presentable yet?”

Robin’s fists clench in the stuffy wardrobe, the lavender smell doing precious little to quell his rising anger. How dare she treat her child like that? How dare any parent?

Regina’s response is quiet enough that he has trouble making it out, muffled as all sound is by capes and dresses, but it is firm nevertheless.

“I’m not marrying the king, Mother.”

“Oh, Regina, we’ve been through this. Now stop being ridiculous and get on with it. Can’t you see? The king is an old, frail man. He’s not going to be around forever--and then you’re going to wield all the power. You’re going to be queen. You’re finally going to achieve what you were born to do.”

“I was born to be a tool in your hands?” Regina claps back, voice hitching before it gains volume and conviction. “I don’t think so. I want a life of my own--and I’m taking it.”

Robin isn’t sure what Regina tries to do; he only hears her gasp in defeat. Her mother goads and lectures, and thinks she’s won, and why isn’t Regina saying anything? How does he know if she’s all right?

There’s more speech still, none of the words Regina’s, and Robin’s mind is reeling, adrenaline rising, and he only makes out an ever so smug you’re stuck with me forever, darling, a thinly veiled threat, before someone screams--a frustrated, enraged aaaargh that makes his blood freeze.

He bursts out of the wardrobe, and there’s Regina now, her face contorted in anger and shock as tendrils of energy sizzle at her fingertips and fizzle out just as her mother loses her grip on the frame of a floor-length looking glass and disappears in its unfathomable depths.

Robin knows magic when he sees it; it’s Regina who can’t seem to believe her own eyes as she stares at her hands, then looks wildly around before glancing his way and then down at her feet.

“Still want to rescue the damsel?” she asks in a way that leaves no doubt in his mind as to what answer she expects.

Well, she’s in for a surprise. He doesn’t hate magic. Doesn’t feel any particular way about it, really. But this woman, Regina? He has a whole lot of feelings about her already--more than he’s ever thought himself capable of.

Wherever her path may lead, she deserves the chance to set her own course.

“The only woman I see,” he says, “is no damsel, and she’s just rescued herself from one evil.” A tentative smile pulls at her lips, and Robin chances a sweeping look down her body and a playful:

“Lose the gown--wouldn’t want to attract unwanted attention.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, her cheeks tinged a light pink.

“Turn around,” she commands, giving him an appraising look of her own before throwing him a teasing, “thief.”

“Robin,” he grins and offers his hand even though protocol dictates he wait for hers. “Robin of Locksley, at your service.”

Regina grabs the rope instead with a smirk, and races to the window.

###

She climbs with surprising skill, runs with more stamina than most would expect from a woman of her station, and keeps throwing him challenging looks full of amusement when she notices his admiration.

Oh, he likes her.

He’ll be sorry to see her go when it’s time to part ways.

That time comes soon enough--too soon--when they’re deep enough in the woods after a swift and heavy rainfall that they won’t be easily tracked by hound or man.

She turns to him then, shifting a bit as she speaks and closing her eyes briefly when she catches herself fidgeting.

“I know every noble in the land,” she says, then rolls her eyes. “Especially eligible bachelors. Useful if you’re looking for places to rob.”

Robin’s stomach somersaults.

“And what would you ask for in return?” He sounds eager even to himself and hopes she won’t notice, or at least be put off by his very obvious interest.

She shrugs, sheepish all of a sudden.

“Teach me how to not get caught.”

Robin chuckles before he can think twice, pausing when she frowns--and no, he’s not mocking her for her lack of survival skills when until recently he’d had precious little of mastery of those himself.

“Very well, milady,” he easily agrees, raising his hands in defense when she tilts her head to question his choice of address. “Well, Your Majesty hardly applies now.”

Her laughter rings out loud, and clear, and unfettered.

It’s music to his ears.

“Good riddance,” she grins. “I prefer Regina anyway.”

“Well, Regina,” Robin smirks back at her, “it seems we’ve each got ourselves a partner.”