Chapter Text
Dubcon
Regina allows Emma her eyesight back once she has replaced the turmoil of her emotions with her usual mask of control. She takes a deep breath, and allows the storm to redirect towards more pleasurable forms of overstimulation. Her hunger for Emma is about the only thing as powerful as her despair over her mother's reappearance.
"Thank you, Ser Swan. Despite your flagrant disregard for the terms of your employ, I am grateful that you followed at least some of my instructions." In an undertone, she speaks for herself alone. "I am glad that you were here."
"Your majesty," Emma offers in a voice shaped like agreement, dripping with subservience.
"Still, you shall do well to remember who delivers the orders here." Regina forces the issue, washing away the blindfold into watercolour smoke, and then brandishing a small purple cloud that is nothing more than a display of her power, a threat to force Emma into compliance. She's not sure whether it's necessary, but always better to be on the safe side.
Emma nods, eyes stuttering and blinking against the morning light. When her eyelids settle open, Regina sees her unexplainable desire reflected in Emma's deep green pools.
"Your majesty," Emma chokes, eyes trained warily on the magic in her counterpart's palm. "You don't need that—"
"You do not tell me what I do and do not need, Swan," she asserts. "You will not presume to take any liberties with me. You will obey me without argument, as you have sworn to do."
She steps closer, relishing in the control that comes when Emma's eyes drop to the floor.
"Please—" Emma begs in little more than a whisper.
Regina supposes that could be a request for her to stop, but if it is, Regina wilfully misreads the signal.
"I knew it. Even after all of this, after what I could do to you— you still want me," Regina asserts. Emma swallows, seemingly afraid.
Emma's eyes say yes, even if her body language is uncertain.
"I don't." Emma's words are tense. So maybe it was a plea to stop. "I don't want you — not now." She swallows. "Not like this—"
It's a concession, but one that Regina is ready to steamroller over.
"You can do better than that," Regina goads her. If Emma is going to protest, she had better do it properly. Regina's arousal swells with the idea of putting her in her place.
"I hate you," Emma shouts angrily, picking up on Regina's game and baiting her further. It's with enough visceral dislike that Regina almost believes her.
"No, you don't," Regina reassures herself.
"I do — you took me from my home. You didn't even ask," Emma huffs wearily. There's enough truth in there that it stings, even if it's part of an ill-defined game. She's not finished. "And I've tried, I've tried to be everything my oath asks of me. But fucking hell. You're impossible. You drive me up the fucking wall with all your teasing and denial. All your unreasonable requests and demands. I can't work out what you actually want from me—"
Emma's ranting now, and it's good. It means Regina's got her right where she wants her.
Regina's anger spikes, and the magic comes to her fingertips with the swell of emotion.
"So you choose treason, then?" She asks, nonchalant. "I could have your head for any one of those things you just said to me."
"Fuck you," Emma adds one more crime to the tally, allowing her temper to get the better of her as Regina continues to grind all of her gears, one by one rendering them circular and ineffective as Emma fumes and fumes and gets less and less able to speak clearly.
Regina's anger gathers pace when Emma steps towards her and places a crushing hand on her forearm. It's clearly intended as a reminder of which of the two of them is stronger than the other. But Emma clearly suffers from short-term memory loss or is downplaying Regina's magic for sport. Because Regina hadn't been joking when she had said that she could kill Emma. With almost no effort, she could snap her fingers and snap Emma's neck.
It's a move she would probably regret for the rest of her life, but she could do it.
"No, darling," Regina eventually replies, running a single finger along Emma's exposed collarbones in a predatory manner. Her voice settles on a trained low rasp which she has used to conquer many more than just Emma before.
Emma shivers, hanging on Regina's every word.
"I'm going to fuck you," she finishes.
She feels the shudder, rippling from Emma's head to her toes.
"You wouldn't," Emma bristles.
"Oh but I would. You even want me to."
Emma doesn't deny that, and her silence speaks volumes. With a significant look in her eye, Regina lifts the tunic, fumbling with the rough-spun fabric of her breeches before vanishing them away without warning.
A moan, and Emma's anger wavers.
"See. You want me to," Regina smirks in triumph. "You're so fucking wet for your queen, aren't you?"
The question is rhetorical, but Emma is as eager to please as she ever is. She's not quite so skilled at the delivery, but it doesn't matter. Not to the woman who is currently holding her between pleasure and pain.
"I — ah, fuck," Emma curses as Regina moves her fingers in a practiced motion, designed to distract and detain without delivering a single fraction of the pleasure she knows herself capable of.
Emma squirms, and Regina stills her movements to make sure she has Emma's attention.
"Do I need to restrain you again, Ser Swan?"
"N-n-n-no—"
Regina thrills with the evidence of Emma's capitulation to her desires. A power unlike that she has felt even with her magic surging to her fingers covers her at once. To be in charge of Emma in such an intimate setting, to feel the strong knight buckling under her fingertips, she almost forgets the ashes of her mother's letter in the heat of it all.
Emma becomes a lot more pliant once Regina relents and touches her properly. She starts with slow, rough movements. The intention, well received as it is, is to remind Emma of her place in this, completely at Regina's mercy and desperate with it.
"Don't—" Emma gasps as Regina's fingers circle her opening. "I don't want you to—"
"Oh but you do. I can feel how much you want me. And I don't take well to liars, Ser Swan."
Emma whimpers as Regina's fingertip breaches just slightly inside her.
Regina chuckles deeply at the evidence of just how sensitive Emma is for her.
"So fucking wet for me, darling. And so sensitive," she encourages.
Emma cries out as Regina's finger slides through her slickness and up to her second knuckle.
"Stop—"
Oh Lord. Regina's not sure she can. Her emotions are so taut, and selfishness takes the seat. She needs the power, the control, of seeing Emma fall apart at her bidding. After the heightened emotions of the afternoon, she can't not take it from her.
"You don't want me to stop," Regina argues, stilling her fingers in some kind of sick compromise. Held in the in-between, she traces the outline of Emma's face with her other hand, attempting to offer some comfort in the hopes Emma relents and understands how much Regina needs this — needs her. "I can feel how aroused you are. And I can make all that go away. I can make you feel better."
Her persuasion seems to have more success than her previous attempts to take without kindness. Emma nods, exhales a shaky breath, and allows herself to grind down onto Regina's fingers. Fuck, yeah.
"I don't want you to stop," Emma echoes.
It lights something feral in the queen, who removes her finger far enough to add two more together, and then she sets a brutal pace with all three in a tight triangle pushing in and out and spilling forth a delicious symphony from Emma's lips. The girl is more moan than woman, and Regina's possessiveness, her insatiable need to be in control, roars with the vision writing and begging beneath her.
Emma is poetry, her body a verse which refuses to rhyme as Regina works her into the shape of her bidding.
"I don't— oh, God— I don't want you to stop," Emma echoes her earlier words.
Still too coherent for Regina's liking, the hand that had come to rest on Emma's face migrates to her neck.
Emma's words fail her as she releases a strangled moan.
"You don't want me to stop, hmm?"
She slows her movements, releases her grip on Emma's throat to allow herself to speak.
"N-n-no," Emma responds. "Please—"
That's more like it.
Regina increases her pace again. Soon she can tell Emma's release is imminent, and she backs off just slightly. Emma writhes, and whimpers, and all of it condenses white hot power in the seat of Regina's undergarments. And God, is Regina looking forward to Emma throwing boiling water on that flame.
"Please. Let me—"
And Regina may be selfish, but perhaps there is a way in that moment that they can both win. Her hands move again, with a renewed sense of urgency that Emma screams at.
Emma collapses at Regina's side when she is spent, expounding a soft cry of "my queen" as she comes.
Regina's own arousal will surely become a problem soon, if not attended to. But Emma is so delightfully boneless with her thin tunic hitched aside and her hair in a sweaty halo around her head. Regina eyes the colour in Emma's cheeks with pride, satisfied beyond belief with the knowledge that her hands put the watercolour pinkness there.
The taboo lifted, Regina runs her fingers languorously through Emma's aftermath, smiling at the gentle hum.
"See, I told you you wanted me like that," Regina teases her.
"I have been told not to disrespect you— not to dissent, your majesty," Emma avows, a cheeky undertone speaking of her lack of real displeasure at how their first tryst had unfolded.
"That's my girl," Regina replies, unable to help herself.
Emma's eyebrows shoot up at that, but she smiles, and grinds into Regina's palm.
"Now," Emma begins. She swallows. "Tell me how I can best serve you, your majesty."
Regina chuckles at Emma's impatience, but her laughter morphs into a moan as Emma brings her hand to hover expectantly above her chest. Regina can feel the heat through her day dress, and she feels an unfamiliar kind of thirst bubble underneath her skin, as though the mere idea of Emma's touch could boil her very blood.
"I only want to please you. So please— Teach me."
And it's a compelling offer. Regina doesn't have to consider it for more than a few moments, before she grabs Emma's wrist in a firm hand, pulling her astride her skirts and demonstrating.
And as much as Regina's mother had interrupted her original plans for the morning, she finds that they are more than able to conjure a fitting alternative.
And so a tentative truce is born, an agreement that gives Regina a new sense of hope against the despair of her mother's return. As she feels the aftermath of her second orgasm penetrate across her skin, she knows that at least some part of this day will be remembered fondly.
~.~