AN: Set during the curse, before Emma comes to town. This is a short, sloppily constructed one-shot, that I wrote yesterday, just as a little break from my other story. Yes, I took a break from writing Snow Queen smutty angst, so that I could write Snow Queen smutty angst. I'm very versatile with my writing. I really just wanted to capture the frustration and lack of satisfaction that Regina felt after placing the curse, because I loved the idea of that from the episode 'Welcome to Storybrooke'. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! :)

She lets me call her Regina sometimes.

But not always, not mostly—any other time, any other moment that we pass each other with tensed pleasantries, it's always Mayor Mills. The few times I forget, because sometimes it's hard to remember, she harshly corrects me—

"It's Mayor Mills to you, Miss Blanchard." And there's such a vile disgust that crosses her face with scolding words, that it makes me cower instantly.

Sometimes though, she lets me call her Regina.

She wants me to.

She demands it.

Like it means something to her.

Like it should mean something to me.

I'm in front of her now, watching her sit at her desk, looking down at some papers, and I wonder how long it will be before she acknowledges my existence. I don't remember what excuse we even gave each other for me to be here right now, standing in her office. Maybe we don't even bother anymore, because I'm drawn to her, and in the rare times like this, I know she's drawn to me—or something close to that.

Regina looks up from her desk, soaking in the sight of me, with predatory eyes. The pen in her hand drops on the desk as she spreads her palms out on the surface, and then just sits there. She doesn't say anything for long moments, just giving a light smirk that lines her lips, and it makes me shift uncomfortably in front of her.

Finally I get the nerve,

"Mayor Mills?"

"No." She calmly interrupts, but there's a boiling fire underneath all that calm. I can practically feel it from here. "Call me Regina."

My stomach sinks at that, just as it always does.

"I only have thirty minutes for lunch."

Pearly white flashes at me as she moves up from her chair and around her desk fluidly, like a hunter as she closes in on me.

"Well, dear. We should get started then."

She doesn't like my name, I figure that much, the ways she always spits it out like it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. And when we're like this, she doesn't even bother with forcing out something that seems so foreign to her. She just calls me dear. And I call her,

"Regina…" The whisper breaks from my lips, once she's in front of me, looming in her heels and power suit. When she hears it, I literally see her eyes flutter from lust, and how the sound of her own name can cause such a reaction should make me marvel at such a concentrated form of narcissism. A part of me though, thinks that maybe it's more about me saying her name than anything. And I do say it, as often as she allows, because it's the only feeling of power that I'm allowed in this place. The power to make her want me by just a word alone.

And that word alone is all I usually say, because me talking never goes over too well. I never end up saying anything she wants to hear, so after so many times of her quieting me with harsh words, I learn that the less I talk the better. The faster it's over. And I want it over fast—most of the time.

Her hands reach up to slowly unbutton my white sweater, those brown eyes watching as more skin is exposed—my face reddens as hers darkens—as her fingers burn into my skin with its task, mine are fisted tensely at my sides, resisting the urge to pull away or cover myself in modesty.

I don't know if I like the way she touches me. I can't decide if these few moments when she makes me feel just a little less lonely is worth the shame that comes after. Either way, I know that someone stronger, someone braver, someone better would have stopped this before it ever started. I'm none of those things though, so I just let her finish opening my blouse, but she doesn't bother taking it off,

My hands collide hard against the surface of the desk when she bends me over it roughly. I try to straighten my arms, but she's pushing me down again, my breasts pressing against the cold of marble, settling over my chest and through my bra.

I don't try to fight her. I never do. Not because of fear or even desire, but more out of instinct.

Her hands roam up the back of my thighs, bunching my skirt along with its path, pushing the material up above my waist, fingers making goose bumps rise in its wake.

"If only you could see yourself…" The mayor gently kicks my legs farther open, using her nails to slowly pull my underwear down around my knees. "See how much you want this…" Her hand comes down hard and unexpected against my backside, the sound of the smack echoing loudly in the room. Though, even louder still seemed to be the moan that breaks out of my lungs at the feeling. I bite my lip harshly at the sound of her dark laugh. Then there's fingers pressing against me, making me momentarily forget my shame and push back against her hand. "See how wet you are for me…" Her fingers are moving slow and gentle through my folds, just brushing lightly against my clit, making me squirm against her movements. It takes me a moment, but I realize that she's teasing me—and when she teases—god it can last for hours—I let out a pained whimper as I try to push my hips back against her hand. "I don't make you want me." She whispers, making me pause my movements for a moment. Her voice suddenly sounds so far away, as if she's a different person, talking to someone else. But her fingers don't stop their exploring between my legs, so it's hard to keep focus on her words—even though I try. "That was never written in the plan." She pushes against me just a little harder, but only enough to remind me how much I need more. "No, you just want me all on your own—you want this." The mayor leans over me then, her words a dark whisper, fingers slipping and sliding between my legs, not gaining any kind of real purchase. It's killing me. "So desperate for me to love you, you don't even care how."

Something about the way she says that breaks me apart.

"Regina," I whisper, desperately, because I need her to fill me, to finish me, to hurt me and destroy me with everything she has, because she's right. I need this attention—I thrive on it, and I need it from her. And I have no idea why.

She growls at the plea, pulling hard on the sweater wrapped around my arms, bringing me up off the desk and standing again. Then my arms are let go as I get turned around to face her, and just as quickly she's pushing me back against her desk, lifting me to sit on the edge. Her eyes are on me then, and I only barely recognize her hand that's finding its way back between my legs. She doesn't like to look at me, not once we start. When she looks at me, she never sees what she wants to see, so she tends not to. Now her eyes are cutting right into me, searching my face and it's slightly breathtaking to see her so enraptured by watching me.

Two fingers push inside me and I clench around her, gasping and gripping tightly at the edge of her desk.

"You do want me, though, don't you?"

Regina's moving fast and deep, making my breath catch as she waits for my response, her face gripped with such a sudden and unexpected vulnerability.

"Yes. Yes, I want you." I try to put everything I have behind those words—try to make her understand that I do—as much as I can want anyone in this life of never wanting for anything. I put all the passion and emotion that I have behind those words, but it's not good enough. I'm not good enough. I never am. So she crushes me in a kiss, closing her eyes against who I am for the fantasy of someone else. I try not to let it hurt too badly, because it's nothing new. It's what happens every time, and nothing changes that. I try to keep focused on the skilled movements of her hand pushing against the intimate places on my body, try to enjoy the feeling of her kissing me. When Regina breaks away to breath, she turns her face towards my neck, dipping down and sucking at the skin.

It doesn't take long after that—her breath against my skin as my hips start moving against her hand, and arms draped around her neck—fingers wrapped in her hair—she smells so good—this feels—this feels amazing and I can't hold it back any longer as I tense and crash against her.

I yell out her name whimpering and moaning, but through the noise and ringing in my ears, something she says causes everything to mute—everything but that one word, even though it's whispered, and not meant for my ears—I hear it—

She calls me Snow.

And I don't know why, but it confuses me more than it should, it sinks into my skin and makes my mind wrap around it, and I know that it'll keep me up at night. It should be tossed away and forgotten, like so many other things in this place.

But it means something to her.

It should mean something to me.

I keep my eyes down, when she looks at me suddenly, not wanting her to know that I heard something I know I wasn't meant to hear. There's a hidden danger in that, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why.

Her fingers inside me are stilled in the aftermath of my climax, and after a moment of watching me, she twists them sharply before pulling them out. I gasp and my hips twitch at the movement, before I look up at her, just in time to see the fingers disappear into her mouth. A feeling a shame starts to creep up my neck.

A part of me doesn't expect her to let me leave, because sometimes she doesn't, not until she's satisfied in her own right, coming apart at my hands or my mouth. But with a quick glance at the wall clock, she's pushing away from me, walking back around her desk, causing me to stand up and follow her movements with my eyes.

I'm buttoning my blouse back up, shaking and fumbling hands, and Regina has already found forgotten reports on her desk to occupy her attention. Apparently I'm taking too long fixing my crumpled appearance, hearing her let out a frustrated sigh.

"Your lunch break is over, Miss Blanchard." She spits out, shooting a glare at me, and disgusted with me once again. Whoever she wants me to be, isn't who I am, and it's obvious that my name is what makes her so aware of that fact. It means nothing to her, and it shouldn't mean anything to me—but I know better, because soon enough, she'll forget the sound of it, giving way for this insanity between us. Just like always.

So I leave and wait until she forgets who I am enough to want me again.

end.