Note: Brief F/M/M sexual content.
When Emma sees her she doesn't know her name or why she is there. She knows only two things about her: she has the most beautiful eyes, the kind of earthen brown Emma favors on her palette, and she owns a body to die for. Emma hasn't even the chance to shed her coat before she is aflame with desire.
It happens in a span of seconds, from the moment the valet takes her stifling jacket at the entrance to the last step taken into the foyer. Emma's dress shoes stomp to a halt, leaving her in perfect alignment under the tinkling chandelier. She could get impaled by one of the fixture's spear-like crystals and her eyes would still be glazed over in rapture all because this nameless woman has an effect on Emma too great to be stamped with a definition. As far as she is concerned words are mortal things unqualified to present before this goddess. Mortal and inconsequential like Emma Swan herself.
In fact, Emma might as well call it a night because for as attractive as the brunette looks, they will not be going home together – not when a $2,000 dress and an entourage is her competition. The brown-eyed beauty, smiling and laughing and mingling with people of her stature and dress, isn't batting for Emma's team nor is she even in the same league.
It's just a feeling that dawns on her in the 15 seconds she is aware of the woman's existence. Hunches are not an exact science and they don't always bode well for a single, financially struggling painter like Emma. One's perspective may have fine-tuned after their move to the big city, but their intuition didn't change with the geography.
What she is good at is judging character. She can spot a phony, a windbag, and a mollycoddler from a mile away and this brunette is only across the room (a far cry from a mile). It's a damaging criterion, but this woman fits none of the above. If Emma is to guess, she will be intelligent, intellectual, a social climber with a conscience. But the kicker? She will be uncompromising with new talent, the kind with no money or connections or even a passport. Emma planned a trip to Quebec during her final year of college and misplaced it before ever breathing Canadian air.
Honestly, Emma couldn't blame her. Destitute artists aren't the greatest company, especially if they've misplaced their muse. All in all, she actually looked like a nice person. It's just that they are two different people with two separate experiences which led one to pick a red Donna Karan and the other to prefer the black slacks and a faded silk green blouse from a clearance rack. Everyone should be with their own kind. There shouldn't be any blurred lines. Socialites and out-of-work artists make strange bedfellows.
Emma shakes her head, rolling her eyes to herself. It's a bullshit assumption. She does this sometimes, second guessing and sabotaging her chances even before the customary handshake.
With a sigh she walks straight to the makeshift wet bar stationed not far from the festivities and smiles at the man tending it. She grasps the fluke and tips it back in two long gulps. A few more of these and all those insecurities will float, fizz, and pot like the bubbles in her champagne.
She spends the first hour admiring the house with a modest eye and scouting the patrons against her will. Normally, her Friday nights were spent on the subway, moving from locale to locale in search of inspiration. Lately though, Emma had taken to staring at a blank canvas into the late hours of the night and she might rather prefer it to this gala. That, or fuck boredom away with a total stranger (not that she had a candidate in mind). Emma would have declined the invitation, but the acquaintance who afforded her this opportunity gave her a not-so-subtle reminder of which rung she resides on in the art world and a stern lecture on the importance of networking. And if there is anything Emma needs now besides a decent buzz it's a sponsor.
Emma has called herself an artist ever since she could pick up a crayon, but only in the past few years has she pursued it in a professional capacity. She isn't the greatest example of a post-graduate who gets offers left and right. She isn't a success story. She isn't the next great anything.
The remedy didn't turn out to be the soul-searching trove of creativity she expected. Living in the cultural center of metropolis doesn't mean shit if you can't sell a painting. Emma may have moved to the big city for opportunity, success, and pastrami, but what she got in return was a high-rent hole in the wall, pennies for portraits, and stale bagels with schmear at 3 o'clock in the morning. While her paintings seem to grow more vibrant in the city lights and her courage sprouting to more daring heights, she has yet to prove wrong every soul from her past who claimed she hadn't got a snowball's chance in hell of "making it."
While Emma doesn't consider herself a great painter she will call herself good. And though it irks her humble nature, she makes an effort to attend these galas and benefits. After all, it can only help get her name out there. As long as she smiles pretty and uses big words – two things in short supply to Emma.
After an hour of observing from the sidelines she makes her move. Of the hundred or so guests tucked in this mansion only a handful are on a first name basis with her. She chats with those she's acquainted with, trusted people who couldn't give a shit how many paintings she's sold (or hasn't sold). And that's when the night turns interesting.
It is not long after ducking in on a few conversations that Emma finds out that the woman she'd been eying up is the very owner of the mansion they are in. And to make chances worse she has to be Regina Mills, host of this gala and the city's most illustrious benefactor of fine art.
"You're fucking kidding me," she mutters under her breath, hunched shoulder-to-shoulder in the gossip circle.
A 30-something stiff in an overpriced suit leans a bit too close for comfort. "Pardon?"
"You wanna pardon me," Emma frowns and gestures with her glass, "do it to my face, pal."
His eyes leave the subtle dip of her blouse and widen to an uncompromising face. A beat later his brow is arched and a leering stare down ensues.
At the same moment while she considers breaking his pretty little nose and ditching the party, Emma knocks back half her drink and turns around. "Asshole."
Her tongue is lubricated enough to overlook her inhibitions not to mention the decibels with which she speaks, but her insult is hardly noted over the din of merriment.
She won't leave though, not when it's open bar season and she has yet to rub elbows with the best of the best – namely Miss Mills. At the moment, Emma can't decide what she wants to result from a meet and greet with the wealthy benefactor. Until that time, she considers her host's credentials.
While Regina is no CEO or heiress to a royal throne she does manage a successful publication. As editor-in-chief of The Contemporary Art Review Regina prints a wide variety of contributions from well-known artists and spotlights the most anticipated exhibitions of the year. Though her friends include the famous and über-talented, her main objective as a benefactor and magazine editor is to discover new artists, and not from the ordinary pool.
There is no room to discriminate when it comes to artistic talent. If anything, Regina is interested in the highly diverse, where an individual hasn't heard of Kandinsky much less seen one, but could paint the shit out of canvas before even laying brush to it. She likes to find prodigies in unlikely neighborhoods, wunderkinds from unforgiving backgrounds. It is a purpose close to her heart and a mystery as to why. Only one person can explain her ravenous curiosity for the most undiscovered and deprived of artists and she is not talking.
Her eye for talent has become legendary in artistic circles and she is affectionately known as "The Connection" amongst those special few who drop her name in a gallery and are subsequently fast-tracked to next month's leading exhibition. Many celebrated painters and sculptors of today can owe their thanks to Regina Mills.
Emma had always hoped (in vain) to count herself among that special group. Even now as a guest in her lavish home and drinking her booze the artist has delusions of grandeur. The house may be a fraction of Emma's income and the champagne bottled in some region she can't pronounce, but she will be remiss to say she can't see herself as Regina Mills' next big "It" artist.
Careers soar because of her, but Emma is all too aware that the woman can also be ruthlessly efficient in stating an opinion. She can easily say no to a sculptor's excruciating three year rendition of the Venus de Milo than she can to a street vendor's grease fare. Wasted time is just as profitless as wasted talent. Emma has read The Contemporary Art Review. She understands the high standards its editor-and-chief embraces.
Emma weaves through the throng like a marble in a pinball machine, knocking between a group of exuberant German critics debating amongst some soft spoken yet calculated Italians and sliding past a couple of artists miles above the legal limit and wheedling the DJ to "kick this party up!"
With a bit of artful dodging she finally escapes and slips outside for some fresh air. The night is cloudless save for the haze of tobacco. It's a tad nippy, but just right to cool the sweat from her brow. The backyard is peopled by a younger, vagrant crowd Emma can let her guard down with. A smirk brightens her mood as she detects the slight whiff of good quality marijuana.
She unabashedly kicks her heels off and sighs as the blades of frosted grass tickle between her toes. She could care less about propriety when she just needs a damn break from the mansion full of brazen oglers and ass kissers. It isn't the first time she wonders why a nobody like her is doing in a someplace like this.
It's just then, by some odd fluke, that she gets lured into a group of innocent-looking existentialists. They're talking about music's influence on abstract art and the merits of Kandinsky. Fifteen minutes in and it's turned into a pleasantly heated argument. Emma actually finds her cheeks are sore because it's the first time she's smiled this much in ages (maybe ever) and maybe she's having fun and maybe this gala isn't a disaster after all. But as the voices escalate Emma soon realizes she's losing the debate and it's three against one. Then with no warning and seemingly from nowhere Emma's savior swoops in.
"Was it not Diego Rivera who said that Kandinsky opens a window to look inside the All?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Emma who throws her hands up in relief. "Thank you! That's –"
Her mouth is left hung open and her eyes are blown to such proportion that has everyone waiting. Regina Mills, alleged savior, has this little smirk like she knows something no one else does. In fact, for an odd space of time Emma gets the feeling like they are the only two people on the planet in possession of some epic secret.
The hostess raises her brow expectantly as Emma wets her lips.
"Uh… that's exactly what I was thinking," she finishes, her eyes more intrigued by the woman than her mumbled tone.
Regina hums an affirmative, "Yes, Rivera made such a statement at a San Francisco exhibition in –"
"1931," Emma joins in as their eyes meet and narrow again.
"And went on to assert that he organized matter as matter was organized, otherwise the Universe would not exist. He was – I quote – the best known and –"
"Best loved of men," Emma finished. By now their eyes are probing and smiles beaming.
"That's cute and all" says a spiky haired young girl, fag burning up to the butt between her thumb and forefinger, "but the source of debate here is on his work not the quantity of autographs sold."
"Are we not?" Regina's hand planted at her hip. "Let's talk about how many autographs. He galvanized a movement after all."
The girl waves a hand, dismissing, "Grandstanding."
"Kandinsky was a pioneer in abstraction. You cannot debate common knowledge."
"We are not disputing his contribution to history," settles the tall blonde man, the unofficial leader of the opposing side, "but his merit to the contemporary. No one looks inward for inspiration nowadays. It's all external sensory overload! It's all chaos and disintegration!"
Emma gives a shriek of laughter just as Regina joins in beside her. Their cheeks are rosy from debate and the cool night, yet they laugh and wheeze before the blank expressions staring their way, oblivious to the joke. Their eyes meet, sparkling and knowing. The brunette nods as if in permission.
Grinning like a fool, Emma takes the lead. "Man, you have no idea how badly you just sabotaged your argument. Kandinsky's abstracts are in fact chaos and disintegration, especially if we're talking about pre-World War I."
Desperately passionate in the issue her and her teammate were swiftly nailing, Regina leans closer into Emma. "And his chaos – or disciplined chaos, as I like to refer – is expressed through the internal, not the external, hence his use of music in representing the soul. His inner feelings were composed, if you will, through musical structure."
"So if you can show us an artist today who doesn't use music as a means to express their creativity…" Emma raises her hands and looks around at the pool of fledgling hipsters, "… You win your argument and put iPods out of business." As an afterthought she shrugs innocently and dips her head. "No pressure."
"Alright, alright," the blonde guy waves his hands for a ceasefire. "You've made your point."
"No, I mean go ahead – really. Procure a candidate. I dare ya."
"Please," he sulks good-naturedly, "rub it in some more."
"Not until you've formally surrendered."
"Yes," Regina lobs in with an indulgent grin, "please."
The guy slips the hanky from his friend's back pocket (so old school) and flourishes it in midair. "Okay? Now can you lay down your arms?"
Emma's pout is deeply serious. "The flag's not white."
At first he thinks she's serious – even the owner of the 'flag' has gone magenta to the tips of his ears – and then everyone is squawking with laughter. He emits a chuckling sigh, shakes his head, and scrubs his hands over his face as his teammates slap him on the back and knead his shoulders.
In the heat of victory Emma raises her hand to Regina who stares at it like it's sprouted a sixth digit. Her head tips awkwardly and Emma feels the odd stare boring right through her. Humiliation creeps in like an ex-lover who forgot her toothbrush. She lowers her hand a bit as it occurs to her that a high five may not be the ideal strategy in wooing a new sponsor. But just before the hand lowers out of range it is met with a jubilant mid-high five. Regina's giggle is like music to her ears.
Cheeks numb from the dumb expression on her face, Emma keeps on smiling. She shifts her feet anxiously and feels the prickle of grass. The smile drops. Mortified that she's in Regina Mills' vicinity barefoot as a Barbie nymph (with bleach blonde hair no less), Emma catches herself before slapping her forehead in a Bart Simpson special, "D'oh!"
So she clears her throat and says, "Hey," (a classic) and looks between the ground and some nondescript place on Donna Karan red. "So I guess we haven't been formerly introduced. My name is –"
And before Emma can utter another syllable Regina is being dragged off by her publicist. The intruder is dolled up in a roaring 20s bob and dressed to the nines in a power suit. She's talking at a speed Emma's pretty sure can break the sound barrier and flitting her hands about like it's a matter of life, death, and money. To her chagrin, Emma can't even understand the words because they are already being discussed halfway across the yard and passing the threshold into the mansion.
Was it something I said?
Ostracized from all remaining circles due to her semi-hostile debating tactics and seemingly overlooked by a beautiful woman, Emma is left standing barefoot and mystified. Did she not speak loud enough or is this Regina the uncompromising busy body Emma pinned her as? Least important but just as essential among Emma's speculations is the magazine editor's necessity for a publicist.
A third trip to the wet bar is called for; anything to get her mind off Regina.
But the liquor only exacerbates the problem. Shots of tequila are brought out, some weed is passed around, and the music increases in volume and sexual suggestion. Emma indulges in the frivolities, unaware how radically it will alter her night.
Regina Mills' galas are notorious for their shift to the risqué. There is always room for alcohol, illegal substances (which lubricate the artistic muse in everyone), and public spectacles of intimacy between orientations of all variety.
And does Emma mind? Not one bit.
Soon, furthering her stagnant career ceases to stand as her purpose for remaining at the party. Art (at least in the tradition sense) is the last thing on her mind. With every shot of tequila her image of Regina transforms: beaming brown eyes get a shade darker, things get a little naked, limbs strain into some evocative positions, and sooner or later Emma has developed a full-blown sex fantasy.
She doesn't get a pull on the joint some moderately attractive girl offers – not that she'd take a hit from someone prettier. After having heard Regina's voice, the trill of her laugh, the sensual groan of a hum, Emma already thinks she's hallucinating the sound of that smoky, sultry…
"Shit," she curses and slaps the heat from her cheeks. "Snap out of it."
"Hey!" A man, shirt aloofly unbuttoned to display his pecks, pushes through the mosh pit. He cocks his head up and says, "You look like you could get loose."
"Not with you," Emma says and if her inhibitions were further removed she would tell him exactly who.
He squints through whatever concoction of drug administered and moves over to another woman nearby and gives her the same proposal.
Emma's starting to feel even looser; her head is bobbing to the music and there's a slight spring in her step as she moves through the house. She's feeling a little reckless at some point and in post-midnight haze there's only one thing she desires more than a hot bath. It's then that her eyes fall on the publicist with the flapper-do. Emma's eyes widen a bit at the woman's spastic dancing, but she gives her credit for ditching the snooty act. Smoothly, Emma sidles up next to her and makes casual conversation. It is in her skilled, roundabout way that information is extracted and the publicist is either too wasted or not interested enough to care.
The second floor of Mills Manor is deserted and quiet save for the jackhammering of Emma's heartbeat. She continues to hum to the music as her steps take her further from the beat. More importantly, she's moving so much further from civilization that she has no idea what she'll find at the end of the hall.
Her feet stop and she frowns. The publicist hadn't specified where Regina would be upstairs. The estate is a maze of rooms and hallways. Even the top floor is lined with nondescript shiny brass door knobs.
But which one?
Emma's eyes shift from door to door, wondering if is in her best interests to open something that is shut. She did not need to get another mark on her record as her prior 'visit' to prison tends to turn off prospective employers. Opening the metaphorical Pandora's Box will not see her through to that high profile exhibition she'd dreamed about in many a closet home her foster families set aside for her. But does breaking and entering count as a felony if one is already invited into the home?
Not if I'm expected.
Her chuckle echoes down the hall and she has to slap a hand to her mouth. Her eye notices a door, open by a crack where a sliver of light casts onto the hallway runner. Emma squints through the darkness and creeps towards it, minding her step over timeworn flooring. It's not until her eyes adjust to the lighted setting of the room that the fog of the party dissipates. The music, the booze, the purple haze, all of it recedes for absolute clarity. Emma has never felt so clear-headed, so in tune with reality, and she has to bring a hand up to her mouth again to stifle her foul mouth.
Yeah, she's found the right room, but oh boy is her timing wrong (or pretty damn precise considering Emma's intentions).
She can't utter a sound, not because she shouldn't but because her mouth has gone sandy dry. She doesn't dare speak, or move, or blink. Her feet are rooted to where she stands which will certainly give her away if the party of three inside merely turns their heads. Half in favor of peeling out of there, half sweet on risking a night in jail for trespassing, Emma picks the second on a whim.
Observing from the shadows, Emma sees the outline of three individuals, the lamplight casting them in complete nakedness as they grind uninhibited against one another. Yet her yawning pupils are not a result of the two men, clean cut hair and the grizzly jaws they were kissing not a few hours ago next to the DJ station. No, Emma zeroes in on the woman pressed between the hunks of muscle, one penetrating her from behind and the other with his dark mouth on her breast. They move slowly, sensually, much to Emma's astonishment. It is a succulent waltz – a scandal to the eyes of the disapproving – thrusting one boundary after another into demise.
And the context is not lost on Emma. It is crystal clear.
The man at Regina's nipple grabs his companion's buttocks as it surges forth and triggers pleasing sounds from her. It is a delightful reel of push and pull, a dance of lovers so equal and consenting. Emma will swear to never having seen anything of this nature, not on screen and sure as hell not in her matchstick box of a bedroom.
The astounding thing she takes from this (besides pleasure) is the beauty in the act. Three individuals giving and receiving unselfishly… it is raw and emotional and highly octane. It is two men and one woman sharing a dynamic of power and of tenderness.
It is art at its most material. The light brings color to their flushed skin, a variant of three shades; sounds mix and combine to create music of the richest, reserved form; bodies mesh at the curves, the length of their svelte frames making contours of their three selves and melding into one.
It is much like cuisine, art, using all senses to perceive the joy of the dish (or work, if you will). And is it ever an extravagant dish, Emma thinks as she flicks her tongue out into the air to dab at her lips, a canvas drawing many warm colors from a palate. Emma can't not appreciate it. She can make attempt after attempt and never come close to painting this… this feast for the eyes
And these verdant green eyes cannot keep themselves off Regina, certainly not when the woman's head falls to the side. Their eyes meet and widen, but neither can stop. Regina keens forward and back, hands roaming through two shades of hair while Emma stares in rapt attention. Her eyes glaze over as they observe the tightening muscles of Regina's abdomen, the arch of a back, a shuddering trail through thighs and calves.
If Emma had any indication of her own body's response she would have eased away (if only for her own good). She is, in fact, in a lot of pain and not just from observing the passionate affair from the sidelines. At the risk of toppling over, Emma propped herself upright with a hand to the door jamb. Fingers flex and nails dig in as her grasp on the wood gets achingly harder. It is the only fixed point in her world – proof that this is not just a fantasy. It is her only grip on reality and she will not let go.
It is not long before Regina's mouth opens wide in a sultry moan. The man at her breast, now knelt in worship, flicks his tongue against her clit. From behind Regina his partner, with one hand on her hip, uses the other to straighten her against him with a hand at her collar bone. Head lolled back on his shoulder, she rises to her toes and arches on the slick skin of his chest. Her eyes are fixed with Emma's, still, when she utters a startling exclamation.
It is only then when Emma remembers how to breathe. She exhales long and low with Regina as they float down from their high. Just when her hand releases from the door jamb a flood of pain escalates through her arm and reminds her how long she has stood there. Emma winces against the soreness and when her eyes squint open Regina has opened the door fully. Stumbling back, Emma's mouth works up the courage but no words come out. It seems as if all sense has failed her. She can't even remember the English word for "um." Either Emma's suffering from brain damage or Regina is that drop dead gorgeous.
"We have a visitor, boys."
Emma blinks, realizing the words came from the naked goddess inviting her in. She can only raise her brows in response. Her feet propel her forth and she is guided into the warm colors by her hostess. Emma feels like putty in Regina's hands, and that is simply a-okay by her.
"What do you think?" her smudged red lips ask and, at first, Emma thinks it is directed to her. "Shall we invite her to play?"
The "boys" nod in affirmation. Their smiles are indulgent and kind, making Emma feel more welcome here than anywhere before. It is not until this sign of trust that she releases the death grip on Regina's hands. Her poor victim had taken it like a trooper and still her eyes smiled and her lips quirked up in delight. In fact, if Emma had control of her powers of observation, she looked downright anxious.
Emma is a bundle of nerves and excitement. Her skin thrums with the anticipation of brushing against naked, olive flesh just as her brain ices over into a solid cube of half-thoughts and obscure logic. It is not until Regina's hands are on her face and her mouth against hers that a thousand and one neurons fire off inside her head. It's like those lips sparked a frenzy of snap, crackle and pop within as well as without.
Emma shivers from head toe. They kiss tentatively like the first brushstrokes whispering on potential work of art before delving further. With a sigh, Emma allows the tongue to explore about her depths. Kissing Regina is unlike anything she has ever experienced, much less imagined. She feels light as a dove and if she had a starry-eyed sense of humor she'd say her very body was levitating off the floor.
She can sense the men taking their positions behind them. Emma doesn't falter when she feels the large, calloused hands of a sculptor on her sides, but she doesn't really feel them. All she feels are soft lips on hers, a curious tongue dipping in, and hands combing through her hair like it is the first stroke of autumn. Regina feels like a promise of change, of brilliant color to her life. It is quite a bit to pack all in one kiss, and Emma wonders if this woman realizes the affect she has on her – in this moment as well as when she first saw her.
But will sharing her diminish this effect?
Emma can't shake the possibility that having Regina to herself will be more breathtaking than otherwise. It's a doubt that festers underneath the skin and causes well-founded ambition to falter.
Suddenly, mouth and hands draw away. Regina lingers enough for her scent to flood Emma's senses, but far enough to bring a pout to kiss-stained lips. In post-make out haze, Emma detects that same odd look harkening back to a cautious high-five.
"Let us leave these two to their own devices," Regina says. She caresses the cheek of the man behind her before slipping on a robe and leading Emma from the room by a tug on her hand.
Emma has but to look over her shoulder to know the men they are leaving behind will not mourn the loss of two beautiful women. In fact, they are content as can be in cupping each of their scruffy cheeks, lips on lips above a pair of stiff cocks.
Wrapped in finely spun silk depicting an assortment of cherry blossoms, Regina weaves her fingers through the clammy ones of her admirer. At this point, Emma can't really deny her. Now that she has this beautiful stranger all to herself she will not trade anything for a solitary night alone with her.
They walk to the door at the far end of the hallway. The whole time Emma's eyes behold the fluttering robe just where the edge meets the backs of Regina's knees. Her fingers twitch in anticipation of drawing artful circles in that hollow. She is so enraptured that her feet forget how to walk and send her stumbling into the wall.
"Are you alright?" Regina asks, a chuckle in conflict with her frown.
Emma is frantically righting a picture frame knocked by her humbling footwork. She shakes her addled blonde head before responding with a "Yep."
The master bedroom is larger and more lavishly decorated than the previous. Actually, it is not so much lavish as it is homey. It has a lived-in quality, unlike the sparse room Emma peeked in on. This bedroom is decked with the necessary furniture needed for daily living and demonstrates its ownership in the picture frames posed on the dresser, the vanity's essentials dispersed in organized form, a modest walk-in closet which sparks a curiosity in Emma's fashionista, and an immense ceiling-high bookshelf packed with worn and glossy spines alike.
This glimpse into the wealthy benefactor's life is interrupted when Regina gently shoves her against the door. Emma hears the click behind her and knows that there is no turning back.