OUAT: Oh, oh, it's magic

“Watch it!” Emma snapped in the space immediately following the bump, before she’d even registered who had impacted her or if it was a person at all and not a rogue shopping cart.

It wasn’t a rogue shopping cart.

It was Regina.

Which made Emma regret her hasty words—hasty the way Usain Bolt was known to not walk everywhere he went.

But only some. Because while it was true that Regina was only mostly reformed at the best of times and Emma knew she had to be managed due to years of bad coping strategies and psychological trauma… only some of it self-inflicted… sometimes Emma really didn’t like living in a town with a bunch of cartoon characters.

Some of whom had body counts. A lot of them, had body counts. And they all seemed eager to cause still more disasters if Emma didn’t get everything precisely, perfectly right.

Which was right there in the name, Savior, but Jesus… most towns would not need a Savior at all, let alone this much…!

“Sorry,” Emma forced out, just to forestall a future Mary Margaret lecture on the values of Niceness and Trying Hard and Always Lowering The Toilet Seat After You Flush.

The look on Regina’s face, funny as it was—how many decades had it been since someone had treated her like a Boston native who’d done something stupid in traffic?—faded into a more neutral, even mysterious expression. Which pissed Emma off even more. Both that Regina could vogue so well and that Emma was thin-skinned enough to mind it. But what could she do? Just not be sensitive to the fact that Regina had those stupid coy sexy faces she made?

“You need to get laid,” Regina said, in precisely the arch tone she used to tell Emma that the office printer needed a new ink cartridge (‘Ms. Swan.’).

“Excuse me?” Emma squeaked, but didn’t give Regina the satisfaction of hearing her own sultry voice anymore by repeating herself. “Yeah, don’t I know it, but everyone in this town has known my sexy young parents for a hundred years, so I don’t think Tinder is going to be much help.”

Regina bobbed her eyebrows in such an insouciant way that Emma had to wonder which puppy she was thinking of kicking. “There are other ways. It isn’t the Middle Ages here, after all. You know what I mean, judging by that lightsaber I caught Henry playing with last week.”

“Okay, I own a gun and I have confiscated several magic daggers, so if the worst thing Henry finds in my room is a vibrator, that’s good parenting! And if I turned to that thing every time I caught Ruby getting banged in public, I’d wear down the motor.”

“Sorry,” Regina said.

The unexpected sympathy caught Emma by surprise. “It’s not your fault… I mean, it is in the sense that you cast a huge curse that brought everyone here and had me brought up as an orphan for decades—”

“No, I mean I’m sorry about banging Ruby in public. If I had known it bothered you so much… I still would’ve done it, but I would’ve teleported Ruby with me instead of leaving her there like a hentai character.” Regina shrugged. “Because I thought it was funny.”

Emma shut her eyes for a long moment. “That is nowhere near the top of my frustrations at the moment, but thank you for stopping anyway, I guess.”

“I didn’t say I was going to stop. Here.” Regina reached into her purse for a Post-It note, which she unhesitatingly affixed to Emma’s shoulder blade and started writing on.

Emma couldn’t say she found it an average, run-of-the-mill experience—being backed into a wall by Regina while still having the mental image of Ruby all ahegao in her head—but she supposed she owed Mills a freebie after how she’d bitten her head off about the last imposition on her personal space.

“Don’t say this word out loud,” Regina said as she finished writing, pulling the Post-It note back and flipping it to show to Emma.

On it was written “Arota—”

“Emma!” Regina snapped.

“Sorry. I was taught to sound out words I don’t know. It’s called phonics.”

“It’s a spell,” Regina said, in the snide way she had when giving out unnecessary information to lesser lifeforms who couldn’t simply share her brilliant thoughts like Sherlock and Moriarty planning brunch or something. “Wait until you’re alone, with some free time, then cast it. You’ll be completely satisfied.”

“Yeah, you really think I’m going to try this?”

Regina sucked on the inside of her lip. “I know the scales aren’t balanced between us. They most likely never will be. And I can’t imagine what you think of me after all I’ve done… but I am doing my best to at least not add to that debt. So petty tricks, like you’re some office rival and not someone I owe my life to… I can’t expect you to think of me well, but at least allow that there are some things beneath me.”

“Jesus, Reggie…” One more frustration: as much as Regina pissed her off, she could just as easily flip the script and make Emma feel bad for her.

Regina stuck the Post-It to her jacket. “Try it tonight. I wouldn’t put it off too long. And wear old clothes.”

“What’s going to happen?”

Just as quickly as the sun had disappeared behind clouds, it came out again without Regina smiling in that way of hers that was wicked and good all at the same time. “If you’re curious already, Ms. Swan, then you are in for a good time.”

***

A collegiate lesbian fling slash Free Tibet movement had taught Emma that the best way to get past shameful patriarchal associations with self-pleasure was to treat an autoerotic orgasm like a trip to the spa. Henry was having a sleepover at Gerard Postlethwaite’s (she wondered what the poor kid had done to Regina in the Enchanted Forest to deserve a name like that over here). There were no evil witches or warlords or mythological monsters to worry about at the moment.

Emma put on drawstring pants (with the drawstring untied) and a cozy heather shirt with holes in it and she lit a few candles. She would’ve drawn a bath, but she didn’t know quite what the spell would entail. She didn’t want to end up drowning while she was all cross-eyed with pleasure.

Emma sat down comfortably, took the Post-It from her pocket, and scrutinized the word. She wondered if a magic spell required foreplay. Should she say the first syllable a few times, just to prove what a giving lover she was?

Hell no. Emma didn’t need a lot of massaging and breast-sucking when she was by herself (not that she could suck her own breasts; she wasn’t Regina). If she was hot enough to masturbate, she was hot enough to get right down to business. So she narrowed her eyes at the Post-It, sure she had read it right—God knew what a sex spell would do if she mistook a capital F for a capital E—and spoke:

“Arotaemos.”

Instantly her phone rang.

“Oh, come on!” She swiped her phone up and closed down the gif she had cued up for reference material, going from abs to a vibrating icon of a phone. A little word balloon attached to it said ‘Mayor Myopia.’ That still stuck her as more funny than mean; who says I’m not clever?

She answered it. “This isn’t a good time, Regina.”

“Really? Considering what you were just doing, I would’ve thought you had a lot of time on your hands. Among other things.”

Emma signed. Of course. “That it? I cast the spell, it tells you I cast it, you have a good laugh and—”

Something touched her through her panties. No, under her panties. Right along the gusset, like her panties themselves had come alive and petted the damp jungle of her pubic hair, trying to draw out more of the excited wetness that had started to animate her folds.

“Does that answer your question?” Regina chimed. “The spell is real. I just thought I’d walk you through it.”

“That really isn’t necessary, Reggie—”

“No, I insist,” Regina interrupted. “Now be quiet and tell me what’s happening.”

“And how am I supposed to do both those things? Text?”

Regina made a very Regina noise of disgust. “Talk, but try to be circumspect with your words. Like they’re precious pearls, priceless and not to be shared lightly.”

“You know, normal people actually like communicating? They do it more than they change outfits, for insta—”

Really touching her now. Nothing there, but it was definitely touching her. What’s weirder, it wasn’t bothering with her pubic thatch, wasn’t touching it, just massaging the flesh of her pubis. A snaking, coiling touch that crept closer and closer to the lips of her pussy, slowly including them in the rubdown. Not going inside, except with the warmth of arousal, the wetness that was gilding more of her folds, a lot of her folds… making every contraction down there slick and shimmery, liberated, wet flesh gliding across wet flesh.

“Jesus,” Emma breathed.

“Enjoying yourself, are we?”

“Regina, I really don’t need a stage mom for this,” Emma said, but it was by rote, automatic. Because as much as she shouldn’t want to be talking to Regina at a time like this… it did seem like an ingredient in all she was feeling, everything that was turning her on. Emma couldn’t help it. Some part of her, annoying as it was, registered Regina’s presence and took it as a signal to open the floodgates.

“I think you do,” Regina said, contrary as ever. “I don’t think you like masturbating. It makes you feel like a failure—even with all your success, all your looks, and now even your royal heritage, you still can’t find someone to fuck you. Mortifying, isn’t it?”

“You’re not helping!” Emma gritted out, trying to ignore Regina, maybe even muster up the will to hang up on her; whatever this force was, it was grinding harder and harder on her, pressing down on her sex to the point of pain, then backing off.

And when it backed off, now it pulled on her pubic hair, stinging her with meddlesome little pain. And then pushing on her again, pressuring her lips into an agitated awareness, an aliveness of pleasure, which became anticipation for the next time the teasing became pain, became the relief of the suffering ending… the flood of pleasure as ecstasy twined with anticipation… and she had no lover to distract her, no other caresses, nothing else affecting her body. Only Regina, like a metronome, pulling her out of the water when she got too deep.

“I think I am,” she said, still contrary, which was to say still Regina. “I think the best sex of your life was when you were nothing but a dirty, filthy little whore. You loved it, you embraced it, and you think that’s below you now that you’re Sheriff Princess Emma Swan. But it’s still part of you. And you’re going to let it out, even if it’s just with me, because you don’t give a shit about me and yet we’re just good enough friends that you’ll spread your legs and let me do this to you. Won’t you. Slut.”

Hearing Regina say distinctly un-Regina things like that in her very Regina voice was a lot. Too much. And not quite enough.

Emma pulled her shirt up until she got it over her swelling breasts and cool air replaced the wet humidity of her sweaty clothes. She needed to do her pants next—get off her stifling panties—but she didn’t want to give Regina the satisfaction of surrendering so fast.

“What about you?” she challenged.

“Me?” Regina’s voice was whiskey-rich with amusement. “I suppose I would think about me if I were you… in your present state… are your panties still on, by any chance?”

“This ‘we’re not so different, you and I’ crap… that’s where you’re going with this, right?” Emma panted, hands fisted in her waistband but refusing to pull her pants down, not yet. She felt like she was in a contest of wills, because the magic fingers were holding back on entering her and she really wanted to feel what they could do inside her.

“Maybe,” Regina allowed.

“That your way of putting a wall up between us? Saying you’re just doing your usual Regina shtick? Because you’re not. You’re fucking me.”

At her own words, she couldn’t resist anymore. Emma shoved her pants and her panties down and thrust her hips up, only to be shoved back down by the force, pinned to the chair. Christ. It wasn’t inside her, but it would be—it was taking its time about it. She was starting to spread, wet slickness inside her twitching, knowing how it would have to open up to take how much this thing wanted to fuck her, how much she wanted to be fucked.

Regina crowed in triumph. “Yes! And what if I am fucking you?” Her words came in a rush. “What if I know that deep down, you’re a dirty little cunt… just like Ruby… you’ll even let the town pariah have a taste. And you’ll come for me. Won’t you. Because I know you want to be held down and—”

Emma lost the rest of what she said; blood pounding in her ears. Because then Regina was in her, somehow it was Regina, and something of her that was fisted and forcible and oh-so-good was inside her, completing a circuit, letting electricity flow through her and all Emma could do with that power was moan.

“Ah! Ahh! Regina!”

“Good girl. Good whore,” Regina purred in her ear.

Emma knew she should just close her eyes, grit her teeth, and enjoy it. Regina teasing her only made it better. But somehow she sensed Regina didn’t want that from her and she was a giving lover—at least when someone was taking the time to fuck her as well as Madame Mayor was.

“Town pariah,” she chuckled. “Regina, you spaz. Everyone loves you. Everyone wants you. Or at least a lot more than don’t. You could probably have anyone you wanted, if you made an effort. You barely had to make an effort with me, remember? You just had to write on a Post-It note.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Regina snapped.

“Don’t be such a martyr,” Emma snapped back. “You think I didn’t know it would go something like this? You gave me a magic vibrator and a jar of lube, Reggie, what the fuck message were you trying to send?”

“You’re a slut,” Regina husked, thrusting into her until Emma’s mouth could only gape open, transmitting dead air.

The pounding pulse she felt would’ve been one killer headache, only it wasn’t at her temples, it was in her cunt, in her clit, and Regina alternated tending it and making it worse. Shifting around her psychic fist—Emma was more comfortably thinking of it as that than something more… masculine—showing Emma how much she could be made to take it, then giving her a little less, a little less, so she could catch her breath and not drop dead of a heart attack from being fucked too much.

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” Emma choked out. “But you like fucking sluts, so I guess we’re even.”

It wasn’t much of an argument and Emma didn’t know what argument you even could make when someone was inside you, with or without magic, but she could hear a kind of grit when Regina spoke next.

Frustration, that was familiar, and something else. Arousal. Which was only half-familiar, because Emma was sure she recognized it from when she’d chainsawed Regina’s apple tree and a dozen times after that.

“Shut up and come,” Regina gasped. “God, you’re such a—a—”

“Say it!” Emma panted, and she wasn’t asking, she was begging.

“You’re a whore.” And whatever Regina was doing to her went into overdrive. Licking her one moment, pounding her the next, then stroking her. What Regina had in her, it was all things, every sexual sensation Emma had ever felt, and Regina was putting her through her paces, making her feel all of them as fast as one could become another. “Yes, you’re my whore, you’re my fucking whore, and you’ll keep those legs fucking spread and that pussy nice and wet for me and you’ll come, oh yes, don’t you dare even think you won’t come for me when I fuck you, Emma, Emma—”

“Ms. Swan,” Emma corrected her, though with what breath she didn’t know. She felt like she had panted out every molecule of oxygen that could possibly reside in her body. “Call me Ms. Swan.”

“Yes, shit, Ms. Swan.” Regina’s voice set at a low register, an orgasmic register. “Ms. Swan—right now, Ms. Swan!”

The little bit of Regina inside her became feathers and Emma had never felt them there before, but she loved it, loved this, needed more—

“Just like that, like that, Regina!”

“Madame Mayor!”

Emma crackled with laughter before giving in. “Madame Mayor, please, please!”

The feathers kept going, more and more, and though it was the last thing Emma should’ve expected from Regina, they gave her exactly what she needed. She burned up, the tangled remnants of clothing on her shoulders and thighs becoming ineffectual and unwanted cups of water poured onto an inferno.

Emma didn’t know how long she spent, trying to catch her breath. The magic had stopped, but her orgasm had been like an explosion, still echoing, taking up her bodily energy with plenty left to be felt. It wasn’t over too soon, that was for sure. It lingered for so long that Emma wondered if she’d attend Henry’s next birthday party still in the afterglow.

That cut her off. She was still plenty drunk on what had happened: not just the sex, but what she’d managed to get out of Regina. It was still like pulling teeth with her, but what could Emma say—she’d gotten a tooth. Roots and all.

“Are you still there, Reggie?” she asked the phone.

Regina’s breathing was so… unmannered. God, Emma wished she was there with her. How did she look? All sweaty, hair mussed up, face red? And was this just how the spell worked or had Regina been doing something else to join in on Emma’s fun?

“I hate when you call me Reggie.”

“How do you feel when I call you Madame Mayor?” Emma cackled—just a little.

“It’s my proper title. I figured that only at a time like this would you give me my proper due.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe I like you now. Maybe we’re best friends. Should I call you that in front of my parents, Madame Mayor?”

Regina sharply took in her next breath. “You can save that address for… special circumstances.”

“Maybe you could call me Princess the next time there are ‘special circumstances’?”

“’Ms. Swan’ doesn’t do it for you?”

“Oh, it does, it always does, but maybe for certain occasions…”

“Goodnight… you,” Regina told her: deftly avoiding anything that could possibly turn Emma on except for that damned husky voice of hers.

And she hung up before Emma could figure out whether to call her Regina, Madame Mayor, or Reggie.

Emma stared at the phone. Her gut told her that pushing a little too far, suggesting a little game for next time, had been too much for Regina’s fragile ego. She’d needed to call it quits for the night to keep the upper hand and avoid admitting how much she felt.

So the smart thing to do would be to give Regina her space, let her collect herself, and maybe make a tacit gesture like asking her out for coffee the next time they saw each other or maybe sending a bouquet of flowers to Regina with some coy message on them, like ‘from your not-so-secret admirer.’

That was what someone in one of Mary-Margaret’s many, many romance novels would do.

Emma picked up the Post-It note again and read, once more, “Arotaemos.”

Her phone rang immediately.