Cacoathes

Disclaimer: I own nothing, period. Nothing, but the casual urge to write.

"Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out...perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure."

- A. E. Housman

-We cannot do this anymore…- she states dryly while you are sitting on the corner of her bed tying your boots. You are coincident of this so you limit yourself to nod, almost absently as you straitening your posture.

-Emma…-

-I know! - you breath out, harsher than intended because you do know.

You know the speech by heart. You know about the 'you are with Captain Guyliner', although you could care less. You know about the 'I'm with Robin now and he doesn't deserve this', although you've always thought he deserves worse after the whole Zelena fiasco. You've heard the 'this is wrong', 'this won't take us anywhere', 'this will destroy everybody's happy ending'. All the fucking remorseful lines in the book that arise afterwards, you've heard them, you've ponder them, you've commit them to memory like a mantra, and still…both of you are here…again.

-Robin proposed this morning…- she whispers so low that you are pretty sure you were not meant to hear it, that's a new one for the list.

You turn to face her as she's laying against the headboard, covered only by the deep red satin sheets. –Congratulations…- you half ask- half state. In your head you mean it as a good-will gesture, but it comes out stained with disdain. -…You're finally a vow away from your happily-ever-after! - Your words drip with sarcasm and something else, dark and putrid, jealousy?

You watch as her jaw clenches before she locks eyes with you, anger rising to the surface, evident in the way her eyes darken and her brows furrow. She lunches forward, invading your personal space in millisecond, clutching her fists tightly over the fabric covering her nakedness.

-You listen to me, he is a great man! - she states though gritted teeth, digging her index finger against your chest bone and you are absolutely certain she says this more to convince herself about it than as an actual statement. But the ire that those words spread throughout your whole being clouds your mind, because you know better.

So you shove her hand away, unable to control your temper. –Of course he is! Such a man of honor! Disappearing with your own sister just to knock her up a couple of weeks after!- you regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth, they were un-called for. Totally out of line since you are well aware that the actions fallowing the consequences were neither Robin's nor Regina's fault but, indirectly, yours.

-Get out of my house…- her voice is dangerously calm. The look on her eyes, hateful at best, and you realize she's fighting her daemons not to kill you right there and then.

But you are upset, furious, blinded jealous. He doesn't deserve her! Why is she so fucking blinded by that blasted overrated-fairy-dust-overblown bull shit? He is not her soul mate, he can't… he shouldn't be! But you don't say it out loud, never. Instead you bottle that up and let your frustration get the better of you.

You pick up your red jacket from the floor and flash a disgusted smile at her. –As you wish, Your Majesty!- you mock her former title, storming out of the bedroom door before you hear a glass shatter against it from the inside.

As you slam the front door of the house on your way out, you kick yourself mentally. How did you allow all this, how the fuck did you let it escalate to such proportions! At some point you did realize what was happening but you just couldn't back out by then.

It started the way routine does: Randomly engaging into something new, enjoying it, and having the twisted-most-brainless idea of repeating it until you allowed it to become a habit…

But habits we supposed to become tedious, that's why you don't give it much importance at first. You had always known, for a fact, that monotony was the death bed of anything and everything. That's the main reason you became a bonds-bail person some time ago; Because of the uncertainty, the schemes, the adrenaline rush that started cursing through your whole body as you found yourself running after a suspect. Everyday something new, a new case, new people, new dangers; you have always been an adrenaline junky, thus, you assumed this would have died off eventually. That you would grown uninterested once the euphoric feeling that overwhelmed your senses with the idea of controlling what could not be contained faded off once the goal was accomplished.

But her hands on your skin burned with equal intensity every time, leaving hot trails wherever they roamed… touched… held… grabbed… or rested…

Her mouth on you left the most delicious aftertaste, like some exotic tropical fruit whether it kissed… sucked… bit… claimed… or hovered…

And that voice, always alluring, ever equally intense lingering permanently in your mind as those throaty glorious sounds… sighs… moans… screams… and whimpers… would come from deep inside her.

Regina Mills, Madame Mayor, Your Majesty, My Queen. Four aliases, all the same mortal, and it didn't tire you off nor made you uninterested… and that was exactly the problem. This creature… this bitchy, sensual, petulant, sexy, manipulative, temptress, caring, lovable woman made you an addict and you have never been one to indulge on anyone. Not even Killian, not completely.

Because you don't get attach.

You don't get involve.

At least not as much…

You enter your car and start the engine as a no-so-distant memory starts to play in your head, a subconscious reminder of how it all started. And you punch the stirring wheel repeatedly, because you want to blame it on excess of alcohol, on the full moon, on the wind blowing to the west at the time. You want to blame whatever this is on anything other than the fact that you acted on instinct that night. You failed to control your urges, your darkest-hidden-most-dangerous fantasies… you dug your own grave knowingly, willingly.