#queencest

“No,” Regina agrees lowly.

“Weak,” the Queen sneers with glassy eyes. “You can’t even do us in. You can’t even do this.”

Regina bristles and wants to snap back, to grip and keep gripping until their hearts do crumble this time, just to prove she can. Like with mother, like a lifetime of kicking back and fighting until she drops. She breathes instead. “No,” she says again and steps forward. “No,” she says, and pushes her heart carefully back inside her chest.

The Queen stands and looks strangely hesitant, wobbly. Angry, with her lip curled, but eyes still wet and confused. Not attacking. Waiting.

“We’re the same. Your darkness – it’s mine, too,” Regina murmurs, and feels a little sick thinking about the crchh of their heart in her hand. Maybe suicide isn’t heroic. Maybe it’s just suicide. Murder. It’s all confusing, and god, Regina is so tired. “And my light, my love – that’s yours. It should be yours, too.”  She thinks of raising Henry, of making amends with Snow and Emma and how the Queen had been within her for all of it. Them, together.

The Queen shudders a wet breath and for once, has nothing bold to say.

“We can’t go on like this,” Regina says with a sad quirk of a smile, “I don’t want to,” and takes a manicured hand in her own neatly natural one. “I’m…so tired of hating, and I know you are too.”

A big tear rolls down one cheek, tracking through a mask of makeup, and the Queen squeezes her hand tentatively. “I want to love,” she admits roughly, quietly through the wetness. “Be loved.”

Regina nods, smiles a little bittersweet thing – I know and you are, you will be – and steps closer, taking the other hand too.

She’d come to hurt but ends up loving – pressing a tentative kiss to the Queen’s cheek and feeling her tremble beneath the touch, a kiss to those painted lips for reasons she can’t explain, feeling the surprised intake of breath against her own lips.

For all her grandeur, the Queen is uncertain, quiet, barely breathing in the face of terrifying intimacy as Regina leads her back to the bed and kisses her again with all the love she can muster. She hasn’t always known love, hasn’t always known how to love, especially herself, but maybe that’s exactly why she has to do this.

“What are you doing,” the Queen breathes as Regina kneels beside her on the soft ivory sheets and kisses her temple.

“Loving myself,” Regina answers simply. “Loving for the both of us, until you can.” When she kisses her next, the Queen remembers to respond, kisses back hesitantly at first, and then hungrily, as if she can drink in all of Regina’s strange sense of peace. It’s a yes, please, show me.

Regina undresses her other half slowly, carefully with her fingers and hands and no magic whatsoever. It’s a ritual, and by the time she eases the pins out of that tight, painful up-do, the Queen is trembling almost imperceptibly in front of the bedroom mirror, naked and strangely small with her shoulder pads gone and hair tumbling down her shoulders like Regina’s hasn’t in decades.

“We always did look good,” Regina says softly with a smirk, kneeling behind the Queen on the bed and admiring their reflection, and that seems to ease her other half’s nerves a little. Her dark lips curl up, a bit of that old familiar smug self-assuredness slipping back into place as she hums in agreement.

Regina dips to sweep dark hair to the side and kiss the nape of her neck once, and then down, down the notches of her spine. Her hands caress the woman’s shoulders, collar bones, gently, soothing and massaging. Finally, a finger trails lazily down the top of one breast, over the nipple and back again. She’s careful, barely touching, only teasing, and the Queen makes a quiet, lusty sound of impatience and squeezes Regina’s thigh hard. Her reflection bites down on her lip, and Regina hums a chuckle.

She supposes that teasing her volatile, black-hearted self into sexual frustration is probably not the brightest idea. Placing a hot, open mouth kiss to the juncture of her throat, Regina pinches a dusky nipple between two fingers and rolls, and the Queen tips her head back and lets out an obscene moan.

Apparently, there are pros to literally fucking yourself, because they know their body and responses better than anyone. Regina bets that if she moved lower, down between the Queen’s thighs, she’d find her wet already.

For now, Regina stays above waist – keeps palming her breasts and pinching the hard peaks hard enough to just about hurt until the Queen is arching and squeezing her thighs together for some friction. “Regina, stop teasing or so help me–”

Regina bites down on soft skin and suckles, and the acidic words trail off into a groan. The low groan morphs into a languid moan when finally, Regina reaches down to swipe through her slick heat and back up to her clit. She’s gentle, ghosting the sensitive nub with her thumb, circling, while her mouth still works sensual and bruising along her throat. Regina’s other hand abandons the pebbled nipple in favour of stroking soothing patterns up the Queen’s sides, her stomach, her hips. “Watch,” Regina tells her softly, embracing her from behind. Her thumb moves faster, harder, and she breathes, “Look at us.”

To her own dismay, the Queen obeys her weaker half, and opens her eyes to watch their bodies move together – the way they fit together, the curve of Regina’s arm around her waist, tender red and mauve already marring her neck and shoulders. Two slender, toned bodies identical but for newer bruises and different grooming choices, delicate fingers working between her thighs, glistening curls. “Fuck,” she gasps, bucking her hips.

Regina is inclined to agree – the Queen looks good with her long hair down and soft pink lines left from a tight corset still fading on her skin, needy and overcome with pleasure rather than evil schemes and thoughts of murder. She wonders if she looks like this too, if vulnerability looks as good on her as it does the Queen. It’s a strange thought to have, so she gives it up and crooks a finger inside tight heat instead.

One finger becomes two, finally three, and they find a comfortable rhythm of Regina willingly giving, deep and slow, and the Queen taking, arching into her ‘good’ half. “Yes, yes,” she groans, dropping her head back onto Regina’s shoulder, and the mayor kisses her temple and loves.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, thrusting a little faster. “Powerful, brave,” each word punctuated with a kiss. “Stunning,” in every way, and the Queen hears the unsaid words echo and almost sobs as she watches their reflections from under hooded lids.

“Worthy.” Regina flicks her clit, rubs faster. “Loved,” and the Queen spasms around her fingers and cries out as she falls over the edge. She shudders, trembles, and she’s no longer looking in the mirror, but Regina watches as her other half comes apart and feels a surge of emotion.