The Peasant
AN: Sometimes self-realization leads to pain.
Her neck was intriguing: the slender line of it, the way her veins twitched with the quickening of her pulse, the smell of her skin and how soft it was under her fingertips as she squeezed harder. Would she taste as good as she smelled? The girl's gasping breaths fell softy on her ear, her first startled intake like music. The sweet song of a siren. The allure of the forbidden. Mother would have been so ashamed. A lady does not behave this way, and certainly not a queen.
She can't even remember her name anymore, just another peasant that crossed her path. A lowly street rat. But she remembers her eyes, the way they danced with mirth. While the rest of the village cowered at the arrival of the queen, she was unfazed. She stood tall, her smirking eyes locked on Regina, a glass of cider outstretched in her delicate hands, and a challenge in the tilt of her head. Never had a subject been so bold.
It had been months since the last sighting of Snow, months of searching with no reward, months of returning to the cold walls of her castle empty-handed. Her patience was at an all-time low. She was exhausted. She needed a distraction, so if the peasant wanted to play games, well, the queen knew she could give as good as she got.
The cider was sweet, but her tongue was sweeter - spiced with cinnamon and bourbon, laced with the poison of promise. It's been over thirty years, but she remembers the warmth of her mouth and the way her breath felt on her face. She can still remember the soft murmuring sounds of the villagers in the distance, the panic that would linger in the air until she would return to her castle, replacing panic with grief. She shouldn't have been there. She wasn't supposed to stay. But warm cider and soft curves were too enticing to resist.
She doesn't recall how it happened, when they went from drinking together to pressed against each other. She thinks the peasant moved first, ever bold and unafraid. She was rambling on about village's crops, her honeyed voice drawing Regina nearer and nearer. At some point, she must have realized her audience wasn't listening, too distracted by the way her silky curls bounced with every animated gesture. Too distracted by the dewy glow of her skin in the light of the furnace.
The room smelled of cedar and dust, of rusted hinges and bitter ale. It was not a room befitting of a queen, but the lavender smell of her skin was enough to make Regina forget her status. She was soft in a way Regina had never experienced. She still thinks of her, of the silkiness of dusty auburn locks and the sweet apple smell of her breath. She remembers her laugh in the winter, when the fireplace warms her skin and the room smells like cinnamon. She thinks of biting kisses and stinging regret, of husky words of seduction whispered in her ear.
If she closes her eyes, Regina can still hear the drumming of her pulse, the excitement she felt at the thrill of the illicit. She can still feel her soft body pressed against her, firm but pliant, and the warm, wet feel of her blood as it dripped from her fingers, long nails leaving behind deep crescent marks on perfect skin. She gasped for breath as she struggled against a vice-like grip. Regina savored the change in her eyes when she realized the queen was no longer playing her game - the cloud of lust replaced by the clarity of panic. Do you want me? She had whispered. Never ask a question you don't want answered.
She remembers her shame the most, the clawing cloying panic of realization. Who did this peasant think she was, to dare to touch the queen? It was a rouse after all, wasn't it? A way to pass the time, to chase away boredom. A game of cat and mouse with a challenging opponent. Do you want me? She asked as if a lady of Regina's station could ever stoop so low. She could have had any man she chose to warm her bed. To suggest that a queen would sully herself in such a manner was inexcusable. Her mother didn't raise a fool. The price of this indiscretion must be high.
She never told anyone about the peasant. She's never told anyone how alive she made her feel, how her kisses felt like freedom. She thought it was a fluke, a boredom-induce thrilled. She couldn't let people remember. She wanted to forget, to erase every trace of this woman from the Earth, to bury her hatred so deep inside, it would never be recovered. She can still hear the sounds: the thud of the girl's body falling to the ground, the shrieking of villagers when Regina walked out with blood on her hands, the crackling roaring fire of the village being burned to the ground. No one could ever know.
AN: As usual, the characters in this story with actual names belong to the creaters of OUAT and ABC. This is what happens when you make a joke on Twitter that if Regina killed everyone she was attracted to, there would be no survivors. And because no one hates Regina Mills like Regina Mills hates herself. Sometimes she just takes it out on others. Have some pain. Special thanks to Alexia, Sarah, and Gabi for the encouragement and the sounding board. Extra thanks to Sarah for giving this little fic a look over. It's very out of my comfort zone, but it was kind of therapeutic to write. I can definitely relate to a little self-hatred over my sexuality. I hope you love it! Go easy on me please!
Danelle